Introduction Novelist "Marsha Mehran" and Pomegranate Soup

The Story Behind the Story:
Marsha Mehran and Pomegranate Soup



I was born in Tehran, Iran, on the eve of the Islamic Revolution. Though my parents had no ideological ties to the upheaval, and were not religious, they came from old Bahai families and were considered infidels by orthodox Muslims. Bahais had often been treated as second-class citizens in Iran. During and after the revolution, living situations for Bahais worsened; several community leaders, including my great-uncle, were assassinated. Amidst such chaos, and with their own academic ambitions in mind, my parents decided to emigrate to America. They were luckier than most, with a modest nest egg and letters of acceptance from the University of Arizona. But in order to move to the US, they would need visas.
On November 4, 1979, the day my father planned to file their visa applications with the American Embassy, a band of revolutionary students bombarded the consulate's Tehran headquarters and took the employees hostage. This momentous turn of events, known to all Iranians as ?'The Revolution', launched my family into a peripatetic existence that crossed five continents, numerous cultures, and equipped me with a trunk full of adventures, both public and personal.
With the embassy under siege, my parents were not able to obtain their visas and were forced to abandon their dreams of American academia. Following a friend's advice, they moved to Buenos Aires and opened a Middle Eastern café, El Pollo Loco (The Crazy Chicken), where the heady smells of dolmehs and spicy beef kabobs were an instant hit with Argentinean locals. I attended St. Anthony's, a Scottish private academy where students spoke English exclusively and where pledges to the British monarchy were a morning prerequisite. Bagpipe ceremonies and kilted school uniforms instilled in me a lifetime love for all things Celtic. Meanwhile, at four years old, I was learning three languages simultaneously (Farsi at home, English at school, and Spanish in the streets). Every night before going to bed, I was required to say goodnight in all three languages: "Shab-e kher, Buenas Noches, and Goodnight!"
Amid threats of military coups and a teetering Argentinean economy, my parents were forced to sell their beloved café. In the summer of 1984, we left again for Miami, Florida, where softball, florescent Now and Later candies, and Madonna were the order of the day. My father found work as a sous chef in a vegan restaurant, and my mother, swathed in powder pink, sold Mary Kay cosmetics door-to-door. Adjusting to the rhythms of American life, I immersed myself in dodgeball, Saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal. At home, the sofreh, an embroidered picnic cloth, was still covered by platters of buttery lima bean rice, delicate herb stews and pistachio cake, but in the shopping mall across from our tenement apartment, I indulged in corn dogs, cherry Slurpies, and peanut M&Ms.
Revolutions come in all varieties. The biggest one to rock my childhood occurred at age fourteen, when my parents announced their divorce. Somewhere along the line, between chopping root vegetables and learning to pronounce ?'Let Mary Kay Make Your Day', their marriage had lost ground. I went to live with my mother in Australia, where my grandparents had migrated after the Revolution. Australia struck me as barren, with its fried egg barbies and flat VB beer; but the colorful vocabulary --?'mate', ?'g'day', ?'too right' -- and the warmth of my new schoolmates helped ease the pain of my parents' separation. Although my father eventually migrated to Australia as well, my teenage years were a bewildering mélange of happy school days, custody battles and tears.
By the age of nineteen, my familial wanderlust had become personal. Feeling hemmed in on such a distant continent, I left Australia for the bright lights of New York City with only two hundred dollars in my pocket. I took on a variety of bizarre jobs in Manhattan -- a Broadway poster girl, personal assistant on film sets, hostess in a restaurant owned by Russian mobsters, and the odd, humiliating waitressing gig -- while I pursued my newest venture: writing. Manhattan was also where I met my future husband. He was Irish and worked as a bartender in Ryan's Irish Pub on Second Avenue, and, according to my father, was an Iranian once-removed. "Ireland," my father joked, when I notified him on my impending nuptials, "Ireland is really Iran-Land." Mad, perhaps, but my father's joviality was heartening.
My husband Christopher and I spent the next two years in Ireland, living in a small cottage in the West that boasted an awesome view of Croagh Patrick, the country's holiest mountain. I came to love the smell of peat fires, the spirited fiddle sesiuns, and the cracking humor of the Irish, all of which inspired my first novel, Pomegranate Soup. There was something fatalistic about my marrying an Irishman, I felt. As though my Celtic schooling had somehow pre-destined such a meeting.
My husband and I now divide our time between Ireland and Brooklyn, where my next novel is set. I often muse on the strange, circuitous journey my young life has taken: the melding of Persian, South American, American, Australian and Irish cultures. Ultimately I am a mixture of all of these. All I know is that my soul is Persian, and I write and dream in English. Linguistically, the Celtic language, like Farsi, derives from the Indo-European family of tongues. Eire, the Irish word for Ireland, is named after the Gaelic goddess Ériu - not far off Arya, meaning noble, from which Iran, "realm of the Aryas," takes its direction. But all these are semantics, as they say. After a childhood of traveling and rootlessness, I have finally found a home.