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.

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.

Funny Hats and Beautiful Women, New Year’s Eve 1967

Along with the hazards of living in the Middle East, Lucretia and I soon discovered the many delights of working and living abroad — including free tuition for our children, a Dangerous Living Allowance, wonderfully low prices at the PX Commissary (imagine paying just $3 for a bottle of premium-label Scotch like Johnny Walker), and a whole new circle of friends. My FAA assignment included all the perks accorded to a major in the USAF, including membership in the Officer’s Club.

We enjoyed getting acquainted with new faces, some of whom became lifelong friends. Sure, it meant occasionally wearing funny hats and dressing up in ridiculous outfits (I’m hoping none of my friends have a picture of me in those skin-tight lederhosen from one memorable evening!), but I’d say it was worth it. A true friend is a treasure beyond price. Here’s a picture of a few of them from New Year’s Eve, 1967. Lorie Hartquist is next to me. Her husband, Fred is across the table from me, next to Laurie Hemp.

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

Paperback Zehbel, Amazon

Lucretia and I down in Beaufort last fall.

Zehbel: The Clever One is now available in paperback on Amazon.com. You may also order the book directly from Amazon’s Create Space site. #4024581

Lucretia and I enjoyed a sunny vacation in Beaufort, South Carolina last fall and updated the author photo on Zehbel’s back cover, using a photo from that trip. Zehbel is still available as an e-book on Kindle, but now our friends and fans will be able to order the paperback version directly from Amazon. It makes a great gift for friends in the military and anyone interested in the world beyond their front door. Books on the Middle East are always popular. Please let us know how you like it; comments are always appreciated!

A Wife Abroad

Mike started working for the FAA  in 1961, shortly after we got married. That was a government job, with excellent insurance. I did get tired of all the moving around we did, but the benefits were very good.  Then, a few years later, when he was in Pakistan, the children and I stayed in West Virginia. Fortunately, he was only gone for a few months. I was so happy when he told me he’d completed the project ahead of schedule; that meant he could come home after just three months. That was long enough, I thought.

There was so much planning involved in our move to Iran. I guess military families had more help with housing. Mike was with the FAA, but he had the equivalency of a U.S. Air Force Major, and we did get some help from the U.S. Consulate. We had commissary privileges in Iran; really, I had all the privileges of a military wife. We could order things from JC Penney and Sears, and just pay U.S. postage because we had APO (Army Post Office) privileges.

We had to stay in a hotel at first. It was close by the American Embassy, and the Embassy had a very nice restaurant with familiar American foods the kids liked, so we went there often. My initial focus was on feeding and caring for my children and my husband, while I looked for a house in Teheran.  We had brought $500 with us, but the money ran out so quickly! It was gone in a week or so. We were assigned an Iranian driver, since I didn’t have a car at that point.  N. would come and get us at the Hotel Caspian. He was our driver while we stayed at the Hotel, and we were there for two months, in one room, with our four little girls, and another child on the way. Later, after we moved into our own house, we hired him as a bartender for parties. He liked Scotch, so I would keep him happy with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. It only cost me about $3 a bottle, because I shopped at the Commissary. In a regular store, the best liquor would cost $30 a bottle.  When Mike started with the IIAF (Imperial Iranian Air Force),  he discovered that N.  was a snoop. Mike saw him in a room with a bunch of guys with submachine guns. We knew then, he was a snoop for the Iranian government. We hired him as a bartender, anyway, figuring we had nothing to hide.

Carolyn started kindergarten while we were still living at the Hotel Caspian. The bus would pick her up and drop her off in front of the Hotel.  It was such a relief when we finally found a house. The U.S. Consulate helped  by loaning us furniture  until we could arrange for our own things to be shipped over. Finally, our furniture arrived from the States, then our car, which made me very happy.

The children attended Teheran American School and their tuition was paid as part of our military benefits .  This was one thing I hadn’t considered before moving to a foreign country.  Five years later, when Mike went to work for the IIAF, the children’s tuition was also paid, over and above his salary. Some people didn’t have school tuition included in their contracts; their kids would end up in a regular public school like the Iran Zamin. That was considered a good school too, but we liked TAS. Children could attend TAS as long as one parent was an American citizen. They had excellent teachers; remember, most children attended there for just two years. Teachers had to be flexible and thorough in assessing each child. All our children did well at TAS.  They formed close, enduring friendships with fellow students, teachers and staff that has lasted for many years.

Teachers in TAS had good values, good morals. They were really concerned that the kids adhere to standards of good behavior. Recently, my oldest daughter, Carolyn, told the story of how she deliberately skipped a week of swim practice one time. She was the best swimmer on the team; they’d usually win when she was there. But then her coach wouldn’t let her swim at the next meet, because she’d missed practice. He knew they’d lose, but he put her on the bench anyway. She sat there and watched her team lose. Carolyn learned a valuable lesson that day; she never forgot it.

We look forward to re-connecting with all our TAS friends at the bi-annual reunions of Teheran American School, held here in the States.  Growing up in a foreign country, we all stay close and treasure the memories we share.

 

Tough Guys, 1960

I

After that motorcycle accident in the desert, I came home to recuperate for 30 days. I was in the hospital for three weeks; then I came home to rest.

One night, I was home with nothing to do, so I went up to the hospital to visit some people. There was a recreation room there, with a good pool table. I was drinking beer. These two guys set me up. It was my break. We were playing for money. They were letting me win at first, but I didn’t realize that.

Abruptly, the guys said, “Its double or nothing.” I just nodded. That was fine with me. I broke and cleaned up the whole table. Then they got mad.

“You set us up,” they accused me. But I hadn’t.  I wasn’t that good at pool, really. When I won that time, these two guys were so pissed off, they decided to fix me good . They pulled out these straight edge razor blades.  I was wearing a leather jacket with my P38 inside.

I saw the razor blades and got so angry. I pulled out my P38 and said, “Now I’m going to blow your heads off.”

“No, no,” they cried.

“How about I just blow your b___s  off?”

“No, no,” they repeated, backing away.

I ordered, “give me those frickin razor blades.”

They threw them down at my feet.

“Now give me my money. “

A pile of cash was before me.

“Next time you try to pull off a trick like that, pull it on some dummy.”

I got the money and took off on my motorcycle. Now I had two highs, from the beer and from beating these two  guys.

I was tough. People used to go to me to buy protection. I could threaten people, warn them to stay away from the ones who paid me. I would beat them up or threaten to blow their asses off. Some Air Force guys came to see me. They were from Biggs AFB, from Strategic Air Command, where the big bombers were. They said they wanted to buy protection too.  I needed the extra money, so I did it.

Tommy was a friend from Army days who was good at betting on the horses. You didn’t make much money in the Army, so we were always looking for schemes to get more dough. Tommy was a jockey and also a druggie. He knew the horses. His mother was a bookie in Maryland. He was at Fort Bliss with me, and at MacGregor. Somebody would have to go to El Paso every day, a long ride. They’d pick out the horses and send bets to Tommy’s mother. He made us money by winning on the horses. We’d bet on it and split the winnings. Tommy’s mother would send us a money order. The set-up didn’t last long. Tommy was a good guy, but he was living a wild life. He died soon after, from drugs. He was only 23, too many drugs, always on something.