PTSD? All In A Day’s Work

Was I suffering from PTSD? I have no idea. It was a different lifestyle, in Iran. After a while I realized someone was always stalking me. Life was literally about going to sleep not knowing if you might die that night, because in order to fall asleep, I had to let my guard down for a few hours. That’s a different kind of sleep. I never let go completely, even then. I was always ready to snap awake in an instant.
It’s when you’re driving to work; you’re looking for someone who might want to shoot you. Everywhere you go – like the Bourne Identity, constantly in danger, same idea –In the book we’re not talking about fatalism, we’re not talking about the danger. We’re talking about loss of control.
I’m good at what I do. I’m used to getting things done, training people, At Alamut I realized I no longer had any control over the situation. I had to get out of there. I was living in a country where some people are willing to kill you to get what you have. It drains you, after a while. I was making great money, fulfilling my goal to support my family and do something that really helped people. But I was running on empty, and the dangers were overwhelming. I knew I was in danger, but I kept going, for years, until I had to stop. Self preservation finally kicked in. It was time to leave.

Criminals, Terrorists and Vietnam

When we first moved to Iran in 1967, we were warned about encountering bandits in deserted places. But it turned out we seldom traveled off the beaten path, as a family. We did take frequent trips to the FAA resort at Chalus on the Caspian Sea, but that was a busy route with lots of traffic.

We didn’t see a lot of criminal activity in Iran. Occasionally we heard of someone being shot or hung for a serious crime. Women were hung for running illegal brothels. Once a woman’s husband left her, she didn’t have a lot of options when it came to making a living. She could move in with family or become a prostitute. There were legal, government-run brothels where women were inspected for STDs on a regular basis.

After a few years, around 1970, we started hearing of terrorists going after Americans in Iran. The Vietnam war was at its height and many of our friends were transferred there. Sadly, we lost quite a few friends in Vietnam. A lot of our attention was focused on daily activities with school and getting the girls to their swim lessons so we didn’t realize terrorist activity was picking up until fall 1972 when Lloyd Jones’ car was blown up in the MAAG parking lot.

People have asked us many times why we stayed in Iran for ten years. I guess the simplest explanation was, it was home. You can get used to anything, they say. As long as we were able to maintain a fairly normal life, we just kept on going.

Slovakia, Pennsylvania, Iran: From One Generation To The Next

As a young child, I learned some Slovak from my Aunt Nana. Her parents had moved to the Lehigh Valley from Slovakia and handed that spirit of adventure on to me. I loved to be out on my own, exploring unknown territory. The oldest of four girls, I was a top student and spent my summers at Camp Moseywood. I always wanted to be a nurse; I became a good one.
At 27, I moved with Mike and our four little girls to Iran, eager for a new adventure. I learned some Farsi; we rented a house in north Teheran. Everything bought at the market had to be washed and soaked in bleach and water. Vendors walked through the alleys, crying their wares. The children clamored for camel rides. I took them to the Officer’s Club for swimming lessons and a host of activities. Our family enjoyed vacationing at the Caspian Sea.
Now I was moving in high society as a queen bee. Mike and I had two boys and another girl. I began teaching English to officers at Doshen Toppeh. For a mom with seven children, busy wiping noses and bottoms, it was nice to put on a clean outfit, work with grown-ups and be treated with respect.
In 1972 I began taking classes, long distance, through the University of Maryland. It was fun to take a class on “Politics of the USSR,” then go to a cocktail party and talk with ambassadors’ wives about politics and international relations. I was delighted to find I could hold my own; that really boosted my confidence.
Aunt Nana died while we were in Iran. One night, I woke up, elated, from a dream about her. One thing was clear; the lessons she’d learned from her family would be passed on to my children.

What Happens After The Book Is Published: Zehbel, The Clever One

I thought, once I published the book, that was it. I’d send it out there and let it find its own way in the world. Then I found out books need attention, just like children. So I told my friends about it, and many rushed out to buy this masterpiece on Amazon and Kindle. That was encouraging. Friends told others, especially in military circles, and more copies of Zehbel The Clever One were sold. That was wonderful. I gave a talk at our local library and more books sold. 

I was delighted to find so many people enjoyed Zehbel The Clever One. Many emailed or called me with glowing reviews on the extraordinary experiences I shared in Zehbel. But as the book’s author, I felt dissatisfied. The book didn’t fully capture the unremitting stress I’d been under for all those years. Back then, I was always looking around to gauge the level of danger in each situation. I looked at people — what was their agenda? Were they a danger to me, to my men, to my family? Each day I had to summon up the determination to face whatever lay ahead. There was constant danger, wearing me down, like water dripping on a rock. 

Corruption throughout Iran was so pervasive in the sixties and seventies (I doubt this has changed much, given the restrictions Iranians operate under the current regime.) . People did what they could, to provide for their families. Greed was borne out of desperation and centuries of repression. 

These were some of the elements missing from Zehbel The Clever One. But I didn’t have the time, or the energy to write another book. Instead, I had my editor write a screenplay for me, based on Zehbel, but with a more dynamic approach. We called it Mercenary To The Shah. And another project was underway. Now we had to pitch the screenplay to producers, managers, agents in Hollywood. This is ongoing: people like the project, but I don’t know how long it will take to get the screenplay sold. One industry professional is providing coverage to ensure the script has all the elements needed to attract the right buyer. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we flew out to LA and pitched the script to a slew of producers with many favorable responses. My editor followed up with additional pitches to a few more producers. Two asked to read the script, so we’re waiting to see what will happen next. 

Fortunately, my editor handles that for me. She compares the project to lighting a fire. You strike a match, the flame catches, but getting the big logs to ignite takes a bit of patience and tact. So, no overnight success, but through persistence and following a well-organized protocol, my editor feels we will succeed. 

One thing hasn’t changed over the years. I’ll still do everything I can to help my family. Zehbel, The Clever One is just one aspect of that story. 

Beaufort and Back to Business

Lucretia and I down in Beaufort last fall.

I’m enjoying a well-deserved vacation with my extended family down in Beaufort, South Carolina. We got to see some incredible fireworks at Port Royal (the Marines cancelled theirs due to the sequestration, citing limited funds), and I’ve been spending time fixing up my boat, taking the grand-kids here and there, eating great food, swimming and just relaxing in the sun.
Three of my daughters just came back from their much-anticipated Teheran American School Reunion in Las Vegas, so I got to hear how amazing it was to reconnect with all their friends from forty years ago. The girls and everyone who lived in Iran for a time carries the memories of living in a foreign land and falling in love with the place and the people.
Really getting to know the Iranian people involves letting go of past misconceptions.
They are a warm and wonderful people — aside from a few bad guys.
But the memories grab on to you and won’t let go.

We get so insulated in this country. America is big and our borders are open to all kinds of people from around the world. Many of them speak English, so we never really get into the rich knowledge of another person’s culture. The best way to do that is to go there and live among them for a time.
Once you do, you are forever changed.
That’s what my book, Zehbel The Clever One is about: accepting change, and learning a new culture. Keeping true to who you are and what you stand for, even in the face of rampant corruption and the death of people you love.
We are more connected than we know, to everyone on the planet.
My story is a part of theirs too, and I have changed their lives as well.
Read Zehbel. It may shatter a few illusions, but the message is a good one.
Know who you are and what matters to you.
Stand by that, and pass it on to your family.

Muslims, Catholics and a Mission in Iran

There was a small Catholic church on Shemeron Road in north Teheran when we arrived there in 1967. We called it the Catholic Mission and went there every Friday. The Muslim day of rest began on Thursday evening, when one could no longer distinguish colors because it was too dark. It lasted until Friday evening. When I was away, installing equipment in other parts of Iran, I did my best to get home by Friday morning to attend Mass with Lucretia and the children. There weren’t many places where the Catholic Mass was celebrated in Iran. Most Catholic churches there celebrated Mass on Friday, so you could work or go to school the rest of the week.
Our pastor was Fr. Williams. He’d been a missionary in China, was arrested, tortured and imprisoned there for many years. He was very thin, aesthetic , with a gentle smile that lit up his lined face. We weren’t sure of his age and no one asked. He might have been in his 70s at that point. Fr. Williams offered Mass every Friday morning at the tiny church on Shemeron Road. The Second Vatican Council had concluded two years earlier and Fr. Williams celebrated Mass in the new style, facing the people. He used to say, “The Mass is the meal. The meal is Christ. ”
We knew he was poor; he didn’t seem to have anything to live on, and looked like he really needed a good meal himself. Naturally, Lucretia invited him to our house for dinner many times. Fr. Williams never talked about himself. We didn’t know where he was from, only that his order had sent him to Iran after he was released from prison in China. He was there at the Catholic Mission the whole time we lived in Iran. Most Americans were in the military. They came and went, putting in their 2 year overseas assignments, but Fr. Williams stayed. He was a holy man, a saintly man.
It was different when we first got to Iran, in 1967. Catholics were tolerated. Teheran was being westernized by Reza Shah Pahlavi. The Ayatollah Khomeini had been kicked out of Iran and the religious leaders, the mullahs, seemed to be afraid of the Shah. Nobody could attack a woman for wearing western clothes, under the Shah. The Iranian officers’ wives all wore western clothes; they wanted to look modern and up to date.
The Shah favored Zoroastrians; they had a free visa. Anyone of the Zoroastrian faith could enter the country without restriction. I don’t believe the Shah liked the Muslims at all. He’d have his picture taken kneeling in prayer, covered with a shawl. But he never made himself out to be a religious Muslim.
Poorer women out in the villages wore the traditional chadors. They seemed to be more religious, following Muslim customs. Wealthier people did not adhere to the Muslim faith at all. Some even mocked it, laughing at the poor villagers. The wealthy Iranians never talked about Christians; they ignored the faith. Maybe it was safer not to talk about it. We saw the contrasts between rich and poor, secular and religious Iranians, but in those days, our rights were respected. We were allowed to build up our church and practice our faith without restriction.
The hierarchy in Teheran was a French bishop who traveled around in a big limousine. He demanded money from the Catholic Mission. Fr. Williams encouraged people not to give “You can give what you want; I wouldn’t give anything,” he told us with a twinkle in his eye. He was at our house for dinner and Lucretia was heaping his plate with mashed potatoes. He was so thin. Naturally, as a nurse, Lucretia worried he wasn’t taking care of himself.
One of our American friends was a high-ranking officer. He was a Protestant, but married to a devout Catholic woman. Anyway, this officer got Fr. Williams a job as an auxiliary chaplain attached to the US military in Teheran. That guaranteed him a decent salary; it was a nice thing to do. It was the right thing.
The Americans in Iran were relatively young; there weren’t many old people. Fr. Williams would go around visiting sick people. Then we Americans built a school, a whole complex of buildings so the kids could attend religious education classes. And we took better care of Fr. Williams. He had a wonderful rapport with all the people; he loved them .
After Mass, while the kids went to CCD, we’d walk around the beautiful gardens with paved walks which surrounded the little church. It was a good time to catch up on the news, talking to other parents. That’s how we met our friend, sweet Livvy. She wasn’t a very knowledgeable Catholic, but she sent her kids to CCD. Her husband Ray wasn’t a Catholic. There was a bowling alley down the road, on another block. Sometimes the kids would sneak out of CCD and go bowling. I don’t think they did it very often. They told us about it, years later.
Out in the country, most villages were isolated. People were excited to meet Americans; they smiled and said hello. They were extremely friendly. The women wore their chadors because the mullahs came around to check on that. I think the mullahs had a lot more influence among poorer people and in the villages. But the people went out of their way to do things for you, in spite of what the mullahs ordered. They were told to stay away from Christians, but they liked me.
I worked with so many Iranians, every day. They thought I was special. We were working together on projects to help their country. They looked up to me because I seemed to have all the answers, all the time. I got very close to several people. When people get close to you they trust you and share all kinds of stories about their lives. That was when I really started to learn about the Iranian people, their warmth and generosity. They are an amazing people.

Carolyn’s First Holy Communion,
Catholic Mission,
Teheran, Iran 1968

What Really Happened In Teheran That Day

I went to see the movie Argo a few months ago. It was pretty boring, I thought. I mean, it was well-directed and edited; I know it won a lot of awards and all that. If you didn’t know the facts, you would have thought the movie was exciting. But all that really happened was, half a dozen US government employees sneaked out the back of the American Embassy on Takteh Jamshid Avenue and walked down the street to the Canadian Embassy. A few months later, an American agent got them out of the country. There was no shoot-out. It was disconcerting, too, seeing the scenes at the Embassy. I know it was really shot in Istanbul, but I was expecting to see the Hotel Caspian and other landmarks nearby. Naturally, since they couldn’t get permission to shoot in Iran itself, the exterior location shots weren’t that accurate.
Lucretia noted, the woman taking pictures as they walked through the bazaar — well, yeah, that was a real no-no. People wouldn’t like that. And it was true that they wouldn’t serve drinks on the plane until they were no longer over Iranian airspace. But everything else in the movie was over-dramatized.
Still, that’s what makes a good picture.
Barbara has started putting together the screenplay for Zehbel. Actually, I think she’s about halfway done. We have to get together and go over the scenes, to make sure everything is exactly right. The difference between Argo and Zehbel is, I’m a whole lot closer to the truth. And the truth, what I lived through during those ten years in Iran, is much more exciting than Argo.
I still miss all my wonderful friends back in Iran, but I have a good life here in Pennsylvania. And I’m grateful for that.

Dove of Truth

One morning I was standing by the big, six-foot windows in my living room, facing out over the meadow. It’s a beautiful scene: the wide open meadow surrounded by tall trees, a slight rise in the background. I had bought eleven acres and situated the house fairly close to the road, so we had all this open land behind the house for hunting and recreation.
Something caught my eye; there on the grass, close to the house, was a pure white dove. He was just standing there, looking at me. I think he was trying to tell me something. I watched him for about twenty minutes, standing there, steadily looking back at me, or at least facing in my direction.
I had been thinking about my book on Iran. There was a particular chapter I’d been mulling over, wondering if I should take out a certain phrase. You see, in the military, the language gets kind of rough sometimes. Guys act tough and come up with descriptive phrases to describe other guys. So, some military men would think this phrase was funny, but I didn’t think ordinary civilians would approve or understand. They might think it was a dirty word.
Then, this particular chapter described a certain lifestyle that was very common in Iran at that time. Should I tell the truth, or change it, so people wouldn’t be offended? Some people wouldn’t be happy, either way. What should I do?
That’s what was running through my mind as I stood there, drinking my tea and admiring the beautiful white dove. I wondered what he was trying to tell me. He certainly couldn’t talk; this wasn’t a Disney movie, after all. What could he mean, showing up in my meadow and staring at me so fixedly? A beautiful white dove, symbol of purity, like the Holy Spirit.
Purity and holiness, attributes of God, the Blessed Trinity, and the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Hmmm. I suddenly realized what the dove meant. I took out the phrase; it didn’t really need to be there after all. But then, I left the rest of the chapter alone. I let the truth remain.

Charshanbe Souri

It is almost Spring and Nowruz is just around the corner. I left Iran more than thirty years ago, but Iran has never left me.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing. –Omar Khayyam

I remember the Nowruz celebrations: a few days before, on Red Wednesday, people would light fires in courtyards and on the flat roofs of their houses. The fires were meant to be seen by others. People would jump over the fires saying “out with the old, in with the new.” There were all kinds of traditions, like hiding money around the house for the kids to find, giving away candy to anyone who visited, and all the family members would go to each others’ houses. The younger ones had to visit first, then the older relatives would return the visit. On the last day, people would have picnics everywhere,all over the country. You even saw them spreading a cloth and setting out food along the highways, wherever there was a bit of grass. As Nowruz ended, the kids learned at school to sprinkle greens on the roof of our car; others did this too. You would see the greens flying off the cars as they moved down the street. I think it meant leaving your troubles behind.

Nowruz was a time of joy and celebration. Families had fun together. I miss those times!

Eid-i shoma mobarak! (May you have an auspicious New Year!)

Sacred Heart Nursing School, Allentown, PA

In 1912 the Missionary Sisters of the Most Sacred Heart came to Allentown, PA . They moved into a working class neighborhood and started caring for the poor. Allentown, at the time, was suffering from a serious outbreak of diphtheria. The nuns nursed people back to health. Slovak immigrants began flooding into the area, working in the coal mines. Some of the nuns began teaching the Slovak children.
I was accepted into Sacred Heart Nursing School in Allentown right after graduating from Central Catholic High School. I always knew I wanted to be a nurse; this was my dream. I had just turned 18, so my parents were able to cash in an insurance policy they’d purchased for me as a baby.Some of that helped towards the $300 I needed for my first year. We apparently weren’t eligible for a scholarship from Sacred Heart. The school only gave out one scholarship for the year, and another student got it. She had more brothers and sisters than I did. Anyway, I got through that first year.
Sr. Antoinette Martinko was a Franciscan nun, German, very strict, and very smart. She was tall, well-built but not heavy, maybe 5’9.” She wore black rimmed glasses; I would guess she was in her mid 50s when I attended Sacred Heart Nursing School in 1957-1960. Sr. Antoinette was head of the whole hospital, and the nursing school. She was the last word.
I know everyone was scared of her. She just instilled that feeling of being unapproachable. But one day, I had to see her. She called me into her office and questioned me about working at Camp Moseywood. I had been helping out the camp nurse that past summer, and Sr. Antoinette felt that violated some code. Sacred Heart nursing students weren’t supposed to work in nursing until they graduated. I didn’t think helping out at the camp was really nursing. I made myself speak up to Sr. Antoinette; I felt I had to put myself on the line. I think she respected that. I didn’t tell anyone except my mom, but I was so relieved when she decided to let me stay on in the nursing program. She really cared about her nurses. The Sacred Heart nurse was THE nurse, to her. She was very proud of her nurses; any misbehavior was unacceptable.
She policed our dorms. We were housed in a red brick building right next to the hospital. We had to live there; we could not go home. There was an underground entrance into the hospital itself. We ate at the hospital and our classes were there. Some doctors taught us, and some German nurses. They were all very strict. I think they were recruited right from Germany. The one who taught microbiology had a very thick accent but she knew her stuff. She was like a super-nun, really way ahead of her time. There is so much she taught us that I still remember and I put it all into practice. She talked about cancer and how cells grew. Wow, what an education.
We wore a blue, long-sleeved dress, then a big, pale blue starchy apron down to our ankles. There was a bib buttoned onto the skirt, very starchy. It tied to our waist. The collars were separate. Then, there was a white cap too. Your shoes had to be polished. If you did not present yourself like you were supposed to, Sr. Antoinette would take you down. Hair had to be a certain length or pulled back into a bun. We had a white Sacred Heart cap. We were capped the first year, after six months, then we got a beautiful dark navy blue cape with a red lining. We didn’t go out on the floor until six months; before that we were in the classroom.
The next summer, before my second year, again I needed money to pay for school. What could I do? I was determined to finish nursing school; nothing was going to stand in my way. So I found the local military recruiting station and applied to go into the Army, like Mike. The recruiter said “yes you can join. Finish nursing school and then you’ll be a second lieutenant.”
Sr. Antoinette heard about my plans. To this day, I have no idea how she found out. Again, she called me into her office. She said “no Sacred Heart nurse is going to join the military. I will give you the money and you will pay me back.”
In 1960, 60 nurses graduated from Sacred Heart School of Nursing in Allentown PA. I was one of them.
I would pay Sr. Antoinette $20 dollars or so from every paycheck. When I got married I still owed her $150. I paid that off. I had a guaranteed job with Sacred Heart Hospital and it was worth every penny. My dream had come true.