Thanksgiving Memories of the Iranian Revolution

Dodie Cross, The Desert Sun:

The acrid smell of burning rubber and smoking fire bombs mingled with odors from our sumptuous dinner table, but we were determined to celebrate Thanksgiving Day with our friends, regardless of the turmoil in our city streets.

It was November 1978, post-Shah, Iran. Three weeks earlier, in the capital city of Tehran, establishments that Americans visited for recreation were being fire-bombed by radicals; any place that served liquor and provided dancing were targeted as "… against the holy book." Living in Esfahan, only 300 miles from Tehran, we feared for our lives. READ MORE

My husband's job had brought us to Iran two years earlier, and for the most part we had lived a quiet, comfortable life. We had many Iranian friends and neighbors who looked out for us if we needed anything. Men from my husband's job shared dinners and great stories of their culture with us. There was a mutual respect among us.

However, after the Shah was deposed, our Iranian friends no longer came for dinner. They warned us of dangers to Americans, and told us the students were planning demonstrations that could get ugly. They told us to "Keep a low profile."

Freedom for granted

As most Americans do, we took our freedom for granted. We assumed because we were U.S. citizens that everything would go smoothly for us. And it did - while the Shah was in his palace. Now he was gone, forcefully ejected from the country and the people he loved. Now, radical college students ran the streets of Tehran with the sole intent of killing the "evil imperialists" and purging them from their country.

On that day of Thanksgiving in 1978, each expatriate had made up a dish to represent his or her homeland: curried lamb from India, spicy beef from South America, a chili-chicken dish from Indonesia and beef Wellington from England. I cooked the standard turkey, dressing and yams from my beloved country.

It was sometimes difficult to separate the invading smells of smoke in the streets-from the aromas of the delectable dishes, however, the countries of origin came alive with each bite. We bowed our heads as each one asked a blessing from their own deity. We prayed for our safety as well as for the people being terrorized in Tehran.

As the day wore on, we all struggled to maintain a normal Thanksgiving gaiety but couldn't avoid a somber resolve. Conversations would start and then trail off as we listened to the whistle of fire bombs. These were being set off by groups of fanatic Iranian boys running the streets, emulating their heroes in Tehran. We tried to take solace in the fact that our governments would get us out safely.

As soon as the conversation took this turn, we mothers quickly herded the children from the dinner table into another room for video games. As parents, we couldn't bear for them to know that the people they looked up to as their protectors were looking somewhere else for protection. We tried to hold our fear inside, to keep it from the children, but children learn things by watching adults and we could only answer their fears with prayers and hugs.

The children were scheduled to return to school in one week, and we knew that would not happen now. Through the expat grapevine we learned that the government of Iran buses, scheduled to transport our children to the American expat schools, were now being fire-bombed by extremists. Blood-like paint was scrawled across the scorched busses: "Death to Amrikins" and "Yanke go home."

Smoke and fire

At the end of the day, we embraced our friends a little longer, a little harder, not knowing if we'd meet again. After the children were asleep, we turned on the television. We wanted to see if the rumors we'd heard were true. Had it escalated any further? Was there any hope of a compromise between the radicals and the U.S. government?

The streets of Tehran flowed into our living room, filled with hundreds of screaming radicals. Some held burning American flags; others held pictures of Jimmy Carter hanging from a noose and "Death to Amrikins" signs. I turned it off after five minutes of pure disbelief and pain. We headed for our bedroom, harboring our own fears and terrors as we closed our eyes on Thanksgiving night 1978.

Our orders to leave came the next week. To leave, we had to sneak out in the dead of night with just the clothes on our backs; we met up with a van that transported us to the airport and on to safety.

As our plane ascended and flew over Tehran, we could see hotels and restaurants that we'd visited not two months earlier, engulfed in fire, with flames shooting skyward, while blocks of the city were blanketed by heavy grey smoke.

Looking back

The following Thanksgiving, 1979, from our comfortable home in the United States, we watched in horror as the American Embassy in Tehran was overtaken, and American Marines and embassy officials were held hostage. We realized how lucky we'd been to leave Iran when we did, but we couldn't forget the Iranian people who had been so good to us while we lived there. Where were they now, and had they been punished for associating with the "evil imperialists"?

As each successive Thanksgiving has come and gone in the ensuing 27 years, my thoughts still trail back to that year where my status as an American was no longer an asset, but a terrifying liability. We know we're fortunate to be living in America, and we begin and end our day with prayers for the many soldiers who cannot be home on this Thanksgiving Day; who are across the world to ensure that we can sit down to our table while feeling safe. We pray that this time next year, they will be sitting down with their family and loved ones.

Reach Dodie Cross (Norwood), a Palm Desert resident and writer: dodiecross@dc.rr.com