My mother Shirin Bakhtiar has died. She was
living alone in Calpe, a small town in Spain.
I took a nap this afternoon. The phone's
ringer was off, as it usually is. When I woke up, I saw
this on my computer screen:
It was from my sister, Iran. I knew it was
something bad. Something had happened. Mom had been ill
for the past week. Chest pains. When I spoke to her last
week, she sounded upbeat. She had seen a doctor and was
taking her
medication and was feeling much better. She was excited
about publishing a book of her short stories. The only
thing she complaiend about was that she could not get
the BBC channel. "I HATE
CNN," she said.
There's so much to say about my mother. I
don't know how people usually react when their parents
pass away. I guess everyone is different. But when my father
died, there was a delayed reaction. At 14, I was too young
to
comprehend
death. Now
at 41, I'm still not sure what it all means. I just know
something huge has happened. And I'm just trying to contain
myself.
There's a lot for me to think about and remember
and comprehend and accept and appreciate. But here's something
for you to know: iranian.com would not have been without
her. Literally.
My
mother liked to change her name every once in a while.
Her last was
Kristopher
Kolumbus. You can also read her work under Burntoast, Bakhtiari
Rose, Rose Ghajar and White Cloud. One of my favorites
is "Paris
heartbeats in an orange glow". But I will remember
her most by her paintings. These are some
examples.
I can still see myself hiding behind the
bushes in the back of our house in Abadan, watching her
paint.
-- Jahanshah Javid
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