My Name Is Mahtob Read online

  © 2015 by Mahtob Mahmoody

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  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

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  Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  Scripture quotation from Proverbs in chapter 21 is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  ISBN 978-0-7180-2211-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mahmoody, Mahtob.

  My name is Mahtob : a daring escape, a life of fear, and the forgiveness that set me free / Mahtob Mahmoody.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-7180-2210-5

  1. Mahmoody, Mahtob. 2. Mahmoody, Betty. 3. Parental kidnapping--Iran. 4. Children of abused wives--Iran. 5. Mothers and daughters--United States. 6. Christian life--United States. I. Title.

  HV6604.I7M34 2015

  362.88--dc23

  [B]

  2015010665

  15 16 17 18 19 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  To my mom,

  who never stopped fighting for me

  and

  to Anja, my guardian angel,

  whose dream for me is now a reality

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE WEAVER

  My life is but a weaving

  Between my Lord and me.

  I cannot choose the colors

  He weaves so skillfully.

  Sometimes He weaveth sorrow

  And I in foolish pride

  Forget He sees the upper

  And I the underside.

  Not ’til the loom is silent

  And the shuttles cease to fly

  Will God unroll the canvas

  And explain the reasons why

  The dark threads are as needful,

  In The Weaver’s skillful hands

  As the threads of gold and silver

  In the pattern He has planned.

  B.M. FRANKLIN (1882–1965)

  PROLOGUE

  Darkness surrounded me, deep in the heart of the forest, as I ran for my life. The scraggy earthen path beneath my feet was serpentine and uneven. Even the trees conspired against me, their limbs assaulting my body as I aimed for the sanctuary of the cave that was just beyond sight. All the while the phantom, pursuing me from the shadows, was gaining ground . . . its gallop, its panting signaling that it was closing in on its prey.

  My lungs ached and my legs burned from exertion. Looking over my shoulder, I glimpsed the moon glaring in his feral eyes. I would have recognized those eyes anywhere. I was being hunted by a fox.

  I looked ahead just in time to spot a crooked root that had grown into the path, as if the tree were ever so slyly sticking its foot out to trip me. Stumbling, I lost precious fractions of a second. I could almost feel the sticky, hot breath of the fox on my neck. Regaining my footing, I charged for the cave. I could see it now. The safety it promised was almost within my reach.

  Heart pounding, sprinting faster than my legs could carry me, I glanced back once more, giving an opportunistic tree just the break it needed. I didn’t even see it coming—the root that triggered my demise. It ensnared my foot and I crashed to the ground, landing on my back just as the fox lunged for me.

  Suddenly everything moved in slow motion. I lay helplessly mere steps from the unreachable cave. Unable to flee, I shielded my face with my arms. The fox was in midair, paws outstretched, on the verge of tearing my body to shreds. Drool dripped from its fangs.

  I awoke with a gasp, trembling, eyes open wide. My heart was racing. My forehead was dewy with perspiration. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream, I assured myself, yet I fought with all my might against the heaviness of my eyelids, knowing that as soon as they closed the fox would continue his hunt. For now, at least, I had escaped.

  I took a deep breath, drinking in the smell of home—the wonderful aroma of caramelized onions, basmati rice, and freshly chopped mint mingled with Earl Grey tea, cinnamon, and the fruit of the season.

  Most nights were the same. Sleep would beckon me. I knew it was inevitable. No matter how desperately I willed my eyes to stay open, eventually they would close, and the ever-prowling fox would be lurking in the darkness, eager to devour me.

  Predawn light filtered through the curtains, casting shadows that danced on the walls. I hugged my Cabbage Patch doll close to my chest. How I wished we hadn’t had to leave Mr. Bunny in Iran with my dad. I missed my bunny.

  Sluggishly my eyes blinked closed. I could feel myself drifting in that heavy space between sleep and waking. I forced them open and took a breath. Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake!

  I turned my attention to my memory work. I was six years old, a first grader at a Lutheran elementary school where each week we learned Bible passages and hymns about God’s love for us, his children. Mrs. Hatzung, my teacher, said if we committed something to memory, no one could ever take it away from us. Even if my dad found me and took me back to Iran, I could carry God’s Word with me invisibly. My dad wouldn’t even know.

  “Jesus loves me, this I know,” I hummed, touching the fingers of my right hand to my left palm and vice versa, then crossing my arms over my heart before pointing at my chest. “For the Bible tells me so.” I held my hands flat in front of me like a book. “Little ones to him belong,” I continued, swinging my cradled arms at my waist. “They are weak but he is strong.” This was my favorite part. I raised my bent arms to shoulder level and flexed, showing off muscles I didn’t have.

  It was working. I was staying awake.

  Done with the song, I moved on to a prayer we were learning, the one about bread. How did that go? It was something about being given bread every day, like when God gave the Israelites manna to eat while they traveled in the desert. My eyelids sagged. I blinked in a futile attempt to wake them. “Daily bread”—that was it. What was the rest? My eyes yearned for sleep. Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay aw—

  It was dark. I was running. There were trees and roots, and my path wa
s dotted with pebbles that rolled my ankles, threatening my balance. The fox snarled as he hurtled toward me. The wind rustled ominously through the dense leaves. The cave—where was the cave? I had to find it. Alone and frightened, I ran in the only direction I could—away from the fox. Frantic, I looked over my shoulder, only to discover that the fox was getting closer. I hurdled a root and pushed on. There, at last, I caught a glimpse of the black opening that was ready to transport me beyond the fox’s grasp. I looked back, tripped over the root, and landed on my back. In slow motion the fox flew through the air, baring its jagged teeth, and I shielded my face with my arms in anticipation of being crushed.

  I awoke in a cold sweat, trembling and choking for air. I was in my bedroom. I’m safe. It’s just a dream. This time, instead of the familiar smells of home, I was struck by the stench of urine. I had wet the bed.

  Furtively I peeled back the covers and sat on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees to my chin. I knew the fox wasn’t in the room, and yet I was afraid to put my feet on the floor. I had visions of him crouching beneath my bed, ready to sink his teeth into my ankle the instant my toes touched the carpet. Garnering my courage, I bounded as far from my bed as I could and tiptoed toward the door, my damp Care Bear nighty chilly against my thighs. Silently I opened the door and examined the hallway for any sign of the fox. Convincing myself the coast was clear, I inched my way along the corridor toward Mom’s room. The reassuring rhythm of her snoring met me as I burst into her room. I jumped onto her bed and buried myself in the warmth of the covers. Only there, safe in my cave, could I at last give myself over to sleep.

  Mom and I had escaped.

  But we were not free.

  CHAPTER 1

  Thirty-two moves in as many years. This last transition has been perhaps my most joyful. For the first time I am a homeowner. I have put down roots and resolved to stay put a little longer than usual—I hope. I sit in my sunroom basking in the rays of light that stream in through the windows. A mug of my favorite Berres Brothers coffee, creamy with milk, warms my hands and I think, How is it that I should be so blessed?

  Outside the birds sing their thanks for newly hung feeders brimming with seeds. Spring in Michigan is magnificent. The snow has receded, laying bare a blanket of matted brown earth tinged with wisps of yellowish-green. Beside me stands an end table resplendent with the illustrative trinkets of No-ruz, the Persian New Year celebration. Known as the haft sin—literally the “seven s’s,”—this symbolic table setting serves as a map of ancient wisdom intended to guide the transition from one year to the next. Chief among the tasks of No-ruz is cleansing: cleansing one’s mind of negativity, cleansing one’s body, and even cleansing one’s home.

  I sip my coffee and feel a surge of ambition. I don’t know if it’s all the chatter of spring cleaning or the sight of my haft sin, but today, I decide, will be the day I tackle the last few boxes thrown in the basement marked “misc.” Three months is long enough to ignore them.

  I make my way down to the basement, feeling more than a little delighted that these softly carpeted steps actually belong to me. Lingering at the sliding glass door in the empty room that will one day be a den, I inspect the nearly vacant strip of dirt along the perimeter of my patio. Just the first hints of tulips and daffodils poke through the semifrozen soil. The lilac bushes are still bare. I look forward to filling this space with flowers and herbs, maybe even some tomato plants. That however, is a task for another day.

  At the back end of the basement is an unfinished section, a perfect hiding place for clutter. Even before I open the door, a sigh escapes. There aren’t that many boxes to unpack, I tell myself walking in. I’ll feel better once this is done.

  My workstation is ready for me. There’s even a box waiting at the end of the folding table begging to be opened. Digging in, I find letters, newspaper clippings, photos, ticket stubs, the red keychain I won at my high school talent competition—random items of little or no worth other than their sentimental value. That is why these boxes are so difficult to unpack. They’re filled with relics of my past that don’t quite fit into my present, yet I can’t let them go.

  I sift through the layers, spotting memories that span the length of my life, and realize this is not going to be a quick task. It will require a comfortable chair and another cup of coffee. Balancing the box on my hip, I turn off the light, close the door, and head upstairs to the sunroom.

  The first thing that captures my attention there is a photo album. Its cover is dark blue with a smattering of stars and a yellow crescent moon, because “Mahtob means moonlight.” I smile as I think of my friends teasing me with that movie line. As I lift the book from the box, an envelope slips out, and my mind wanders back several years earlier to the last time I tried to finish filling it.

  I was working then as the community relations liaison for a mental health organization in Michigan. I loved my job, my coworkers, my town, my quirky and eclectic group of friends. Life was good but just incredibly busy. When the opportunity came to get away for a long weekend, I jumped at it, and on a whim, as I packed, I threw in this album and the envelope of photographs. As the plane took off, I started loading the stack of pictures into the album and contemplated why I just couldn’t find time for these little chores at home. Does life really need to be so busy, I wondered amid the roar of the plane’s engine.

  As soon as I had a place of my own, my sentimental mother had begun filling my house with carloads of treasures from all aspects of my heritage, including boxes filled with a lifetime of loose photographs. Brazenly bounding across the backs of the photos that marked the first months of my life was the stamp of a fox—the same fox that haunted my dreams in the years following our escape. It was just his outline printed in red ink, but the likeness was unmistakable. He lunged through the air with paws outstretched, ears back, tail extended behind him. Beneath him in block letters were the words Fox Photo.

  The pictures I had with me on the plane were more recent. They hadn’t been developed at Fox Photo. I knew there would be no predator on their backs and yet, without giving it a thought, I checked anyway. It was an unconscious habit born of a lifetime of hypervigilance. It is no coincidence this was the image my mind captured in childhood as a symbol of my father. He was, after all, the photographer of the family, and I was his favorite subject. My life very easily could have turned out differently. I wonder who I would have become if things had gone according to my father’s plan.

  I was lost in my memories when the glamorous woman seated beside me began to chat. I had noticed her immediately as she boarded the plane. She had a striking presence, dressed all in black except for her leopard-print stilettos. She carried an oversized satchel and a trendy straw hat. Her short blonde hair was held back with a pair of giant designer sunglasses. As often happens with me, the conversation quickly turned to literature, and before long I was scribbling her reading recommendations into the margin of the book of New York Times crossword puzzles I had brought with me for the trip: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, The Help, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

  It didn’t take me long to give up on finishing my album. I slipped the rest of the photos back into the envelope and tucked them inside the back cover.

  Complete strangers have a habit of pouring their hearts out to me. It’s been a part of who I am at least as far back as second grade. My classmates would wait in line for their turn to swing beside me and, as we say in the mental health world, “process their feelings.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a thought bubble floating above my head that read, “Psychiatric Help 5¢” or a placard hanging from my neck that proclaimed, “The Doctor Is In,” in the style of Lucy in the Peanuts cartoon.

  My seatmate and I talked nonstop for the rest of the flight and by the time we landed, we had covered The Glass Castle, Water for Elephants, and The Secret Life of Bees like long-lost friends.

  “So how long’s your layover?” she asked as we waited our tu
rn to join the stampede toward the exit.

  “About two hours.”

  “Then you have time for lunch.” It wasn’t a question.

  I protested, but she was insistent. We made our way to a restaurant, where our conversation continued over wine and seafood. One topic led to the next, and soon this beautiful woman found herself telling me about a heartrending experience from her past. For years she had carried the emotional burden of her experience in silence, not sharing her pain with even her closest friends.

  As her eyes filled with tears, I couldn’t help but think of the tattered black picture frame that sat on the corner of my desk at work. On a sheet of ivory linen stationary, I had printed the words of “The Weaver’s Poem.” They were inscribed exactly as my friend Hannah taught them to me on the day of our high school graduation. I had been eighteen then, and it had been one of the saddest days of my life.

  These certainly were dark threads that my new friend described. And like all threads, I was convinced, there was a blessing in them somewhere, whether we could see it or not.

  “I can’t believe I’m telling you these things,” she sniffled. “I feel like I’ve known you for years, and I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is Mahtob,” I said with a smile, reaching across the table to shake her hand with feigned formality.

  “Mahtob. What a beautiful name. What’s its origin?”

  “It’s Persian.”

  “Persian, like Iranian?”

  “M-hm,” I answered, sipping my Riesling. “My dad was from Iran.”

  “I read an interesting book several years ago,” she began, dabbing her eyes with her cloth napkin. I knew instantly where this was heading. “It was about a woman from Michigan actually. She married a man from Iran. He took her and their young daughter back to visit his family and held them hostage. There was a war going on, and there were bombings. This really happened. Can you even imagine? The mother and daughter finally escaped. It was an amazing story—they even made a movie. What was it called?”