Jalaal and I
By Isaac Yomtovian
“Jalaal and I” is an excerpt from Isaac Yomtovian’s autobiography ‘My Iran: Memories, Mysteries, & Myths.’
It was my fifth birthday, and I was playing happily with my friend Amir on Sheikh Hadi Street, oblivious to the shouting and commotion around us. We paid no attention as a huge crowd marching from Darvazeh Ghazvin Square came closer and closer. The mob of protesters pushed eastward along Ghazvin Street and then turned north on Pahlavi Street towards the Shah’s Marble Palace. The angry horde, waving Iranian flags and pictures of the Shah, screamed “Long Live the Shah!” and “Down With Prime Minister Mosaddegh!”
Amir and I did not know then that such unsavory individuals, such as Shaban Jafary (known to the locals as Shaban Bemokh, brainless Shaban), were leading the enraged throng. There were even some women in the crowd, many of them prostitutes, wearing colorful chadors and riding in the back of open trucks. How could Amir and I have known that the participants of the march had been recruited in Shahreh Nou, the sector of the city where hoodlums, thugs, drug addicts, opium dealers, pimps, and prostitutes lived? How could we have known that those people had been paid off to march for the Shah?
Amir and I were much too young to understand that Ayatollah Khomeini — and possibly the CIA and the United Kingdom — were behind the anti-Mosaddegh protest that resulted in his removal from office. As we continued to play, ignoring the noise, a jeep heading to the demonstration suddenly careened around the corner and knocked Amir into the gutter. Amir, bruised and bloodied, lay sprawled out in the street. I was shocked and frightened and didn’t know what to do. Luckily, Amir was taken to a clinic and survived his injuries.
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My friend Jalaal and I were about five years old when we began to play together in the koocheh in front of my house. We loved to play marbles. Other times we took dirt from the street, added murky water that flowed in the gutter down the center of the koocheh, and built little structures from the mud. Jalaal hated to lose when we played soccer or other competitive games, and would often ruin our fun by throwing a tantrum.
Jalaal was from a very poor Muslim family that had moved from Sedeh’ Esfahan, a small town known for its terrible anti-Jewish hate crimes. His father was a Seyad, a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad and, therefore, was authorized to wear a green sash over his long vest, which he proudly wore all the time. Seyad was a tall, heavy, muscular man who always had a sad look on his unshaven face. Jalaal’s mother was a Sadaat, a title bestowed on her because both parents were also supposedly descendents of the Prophet Muhammad.
I was never sure exactly how many siblings Jalaal had; there were several older and several younger than him. His mother always seemed to be nursing a new baby, while his father spent most of the time sleeping. Jalaal’s family lived in the back of their small store. They sold fresh vegetables in the summer, and winter fruits in the cold months. Ali, my next-door neighbor, often joined us when we played. Hassan Khan, Ali’s father and the local police chief, required his children to stand in a line and salute him in a loud voice saying, “Salam, Hassan Khan!” whenever he returned home from work.
Ali’s father had two wives, Touran and Fachry. Touran, the first wife, was tall and plump, with a lovely presence, but she could not have children. Fachry was younger and very skinny. She spoke in a very quiet voice and would only talk if asked a question. Often, after Ali and I spent a morning playing together, Touran prepared a sandwich for Ali, and my mother prepared a sandwich for me. Even though Touran and my mother liked each other, and even though I was good friends with Ali and Jalaal, we were not allowed to share food with one another. I did not understand why that was so— our mothers never explained the reason.
One summer afternoon, I innocently offered Jalaal my half-finished ice cream cone. He happily accepted it. A few minutes later, while he and I were playing marbles in the street, his father came outside to watch our game. Jalaal informed his father that I had given him some of my delicious ice cream. “Allah, help me!” Seyad screamed, roughly grabbing Jalaal. “You ate food that was first eaten by a Jew?” Jalaal’s eyes opened wide with terror. “Yes, but he is my friend!”
“He’s a dirty Johood! Najes! Unclean! Dirty!” yelled Seyad. He held his son in a headlock and forced his fingers down the boy’s throat. Jalaal vomited. “Never eat food that a Jew gives you! If a Jew touches food, it is contaminated! Don’t you know that all Jews are najes?”
Jalaal and I got the message. But what about Ali? Did he know about najes? The next day, when Ali came out to play with me, I told him what Jalaal’s father had said. “Ali, you must go ask your mother if it’s alright for you to play with Jewish boys,” I advised him. He took my hand and we rushed off to see Touran Khanom. After thinking for a moment she said, “Since you boys are just children, and no one sees you touching each other, I think it’s alright for you to continue playing together. But when you grow up, it will be recognized that Ali is Muslim and you, Es’hagh, are a Johood.”
She put her hand on my head with affection and pushed back my hair with a maternal gesture.
“Es’hagh, you are the same to me as Ali, but we have to be careful of the neighbors. You can continue to play with Ali, and even eat in our house, but the Muslim neighbors must not find out.”
How could we remain friends when Muslims claimed to be pure and clean, and I was labeled a dirty Jew? It all made no sense to me because I knew that my family was more hygienic than either Jalaal’s or Ali’s. My mother demanded that we wash ourselves daily, wear only clean clothes and shoes, and keep our rooms clean.
On the other hand, Jalaal lived in the cramped, dirty room in the back of a store with his entire family. His family always wore the same unwashed clothes day after day. They ate the rotten food that their father could not sell. There was no bathroom in the store and Jalaal’s poor mother had to take the younger children to the mosque across the street to use the toilets. She had to wash the children in the green, foul-smelling water in the pool located in the mosque’s courtyard.
Once, I watched Jalaal’s father preparing to pray one of his five daily prayers. He took an aftabeh, a pitcher, which the family used in the toilet to clean themselves after bowel movements, and dipped it in the fetid water of the mosque’s pool, intending to cleanse himself before prayers. The same pitcher would be used to collect water to use in their daily cooking. I didn’t understand why I was considered unclean just for being a Jew; none of it made any sense to me.
A few days after Jalaal’s father cursed me in the street, I refused to allow Jalaal to ride my beautiful green tricycle. Jalaal became very upset, as he usually did when denied something he wanted. He began to curse me and call me names. I hit him several times, until his face was bloodied. When Jalaal’s father found out what happened, he was furious that a Jew had beaten his son. He summoned his wife and all his other children to find me and beat me.
They found me at the Nouryelians’ house, my next-door Jewish neighbors. Seyad kicked in the door! Jalaal’s entire family rushed into the house yelling my name. I ran toward a ladder that led to the rooftop and began to climb as fast as I could. Jalaal’s mother reached the ladder and screamed curses at me as she tried to shake me off. Fortunately, I made it to the roof. By running along the city’s rooftops I made it home, breathless, to the protection of my family. For several months, I avoided walking close to Jalaal’s family store.
By the time Jalaal and I were seven years old, he was no longer allowed to play with me.
Isaac Yomtovian was born to a Jewish family in a Muslim neighborhood in Iran. Growing up in pre-revolution Iran, he has a unique perspective on the relationship between Jews and Muslims. He is the author of the book “My Iran: Memories, Mysteries, & Myths”.
Around the World: 1953
The Korean War ended.
Prime Minister Georgi Malenkov announced the Soviet Union has a hydrogen bomb.
The United States and the United Kingdom helped overthrow Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh in Iran.