Gazing at the fragile baby girl in the hospital brought forth a wave of anguish. Tears streamed down my face as I wrestled with anger towards God, grappling with the injustice of an innocent infant enduring such suffering. The baby’s painful cries and her small hand tugging at her own hair created an overwhelming sense of helplessness that permeated every fiber of my being.
I was around 10 to 12 years old at the time, visiting Atoosha, my maternal aunt’s daughter. A complex web of emotions engulfed me, a mix of confusion and sorrow, as I tried to fathom why this baby seemed destined to have such a brief existence filled with hardship. My maternal aunt Ashi, had been one of the few figures in my life who instilled in me a glimmer of hope for empowerment. Just a few years older than my mother, she possessed a charisma that endeared her to everyone around her. But my heart ached as I observed Atoosha’s pain, her uncertain fate casting a shadow over her brief life.
Ashi’s story had always captivated me. Amidst a family marked by tragedy – losing their father when the eldest child was merely 12, leaving the firstborn son to shoulder the responsibilities of the household at a tender age – Ashi stood out as a beacon of strength. This young boy was dispatched to military school to cultivate obedience, but his experience there turned him into a bully, deterring anyone from crossing his path.
As the absolute authority within the family, Ashi’s older brother wielded immense power. Yet, she was able to choose a spouse within the relatives among many suitors around her. They had the civil ceremony, intended to have their reception and commence their life together after a couple of years. In a culture where tradition held women accountable to enter their husband’s home clad in white bridal attire and leave in white burial shrouds, her divorce initiated by her, was an audacious act that defied societal norms.
Undeterred by the societal stigma she faced, she stood up against her family’s attempts to force her into an arranged marriage. The pivotal moment came when her brother confronted her, gun in hand, threatening her compliance. Unfazed, she held her ground, her unwavering determination illuminating a path for future generations of women. What inner strength fueled her defiance in a culture that routinely subjected young girls to marriages with much older, often wealthy men?
As she matured, her political activism intensified. She fearlessly distributed flyers advocating for humanity, equality, and human rights, often placing herself in highrisk situations. Even her concerned mother could not sway her, her dedication to noble ideals unwavering, even as societal expectations pressured her to conform.
Engaging in high-class theater, she chose roles that championed messages of humanity and resistance against oppressive regimes. Her performances aimed to awaken the people’s consciousness to the pressing issues of the time. Amidst the suitors asking for her hand in marriage, a young, attractive officer who discreetly distributed forbidden flyers caught her attention. Although my mother was married off in sixth grade, my aunt was charting her own path.
Ultimately, she married and the family hoped that her motherhood would quell her political activities. Her husband, a doctor in the army, and she had two remarkable sons. Following a stint in France for her husband’s specialization, she embarked on the arduous journey back to Iran with her older sister with a broken hand in tow, herself five months pregnant with her third child.
For me, seeing her with child was a joyous occasion. I envisioned myself caring for the baby after school, and my delight soared when she gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Atoosha. Among middle-class families, it was customary to enlist young girls from rural areas to aid with child-rearing. I vividly recall the younger girl who was brought in to assist with Atoosha’s care.
Alas, concerns arose during Atoosha’s initial pediatric check-up. The doctor’s words reverberated with worry: “The eyes of this baby concern me.” Puzzled, my aunt sought clarification. “I don’t know yet; we’ll see,” was the physician’s response. Soon after, Atoosha was diagnosed with Down Syndrome. Her heart was enlarged, yet the cause of her pain remained elusive. She was in and out of the hospital, her parents grappling with her heartbreaking condition. An image that endures is that of Atoosha, her delicate arms marked by numerous IV lines.
The weight of their child’s condition strained my aunt and uncle’s relationship, their stress manifesting in mutual accusations. The uncle pointed to his family history of Down Syndrome, hinting at a genetic link. In contrast, my aunt questioned whether her age, over 40, played a role. As an observer, the tension was palpable, seeping into my very soul.
Ultimately, Atoosha’s fragile body gave up, her brief life extinguished. The haunting sound of my aunt’s anguished cry still echoes in my memory. She turned to the young domestic help, her voice trembling, “What have you done to my baby?” Atoosha’s absence left an ache that defied expression.
Recollections of a funeral or memorial service are hazy, the pain seemingly suppressed, unspoken. It’s as if silence were a balm, a futile attempt to numb the grief that clung relentlessly. Opioids helped to dull the feelings of loss, sadness, and sorrow that plagued the women in my mother’s family, a testament to the collective pain they endured.
As a young child, the depth of pain was beyond my comprehension, but tears became my outlet. In my youthful quest to fathom the inexplicable, searching for solace amidst my anger towards a higher power.
Now, at the age of 75, Atoosha’s existence remains a lesson of profound depth. In her fleeting months on this earth, she embodied lessons that transcended her years. Atoosha’s legacy persists as a reminder, and I penned a tribute to honor her short but impactful life. Years later, my husband shared the story with my aunt, and she welcomed the opportunity to hear it.
On the day of her passing, my aunt Ashi calmly shared her departure plans with her caregiver, asserting that her brother would be there to guide her home. With a serene smile, she expressed a sense of assurance as if she knew she was reuniting with her beloved Atoosha.
EK, with love 