The Death of a Hero
In her book, “Persepolis,” Marjane Satrapi writes of various events during her childhood. Events ranging from an internal revolution, a war with Iraq; or her rebellious beginnings, to her leaving Iran to live with her mother’s best friend in Austria. And in the book we learn of the various relatives and friends that are instrumental in her development as a person, and as a storyteller. Of these individuals, one stands above all others, her uncle Anoosh. His influence is felt throughout the book. Even after his execution (70), his role in shaping Marjane had only just begun.
There are many instances in their relationship that can be analyzed, yet there is one in particular that I found very relevant in my own life, which was when Anoosh is killed, and Marjane loses her relationship with God. The reason I want to write about this, simply put, I have experienced the same reaction to the death of some one very dear to me, when I was young. This person had a huge impact on my life growing up, and his death affected me for decades. The man was, is, my grandfather.
Marjane’s uncle filled her head and imagination, with romantic stories of revolution and personal struggle. One in which he spent years in prison, and another about the time his own uncle was executed for attempting to free Iran from oppression (55). She was smitten by his actions, the actions of a hero for the people of Iran. And now she had someone to compare to all others who come into her life.
When I turned sixteen, my younger brother and I went to live with our grandparents, on my mother’s side, for a year or so. At this time, my grandfather had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was dying. They lived on a farm in the central valley and it was my mother’s idea that we go live with them so we could help my grandmother out with running the farm. Which was a good idea during the summer, but not so much when it turned autumn and my brother and I had to go to school. In fact I believe we became more of a burden than help.
It had been over a year since I last saw my granddad. In his prime he was a tall, robust man, full of pride and a passion for work. I remember just being in awe of him. When I was younger, around twelve, my brother and usually some of my cousins, would all come out to the farm for the summer. And I remember my grandparents would wake up early, maybe four or five in the morning, to start the day’s chores. And I loved to wake up with them. It was usually the smell of the breakfast my grandma was cooking that would stir me from my sleep. I can still smell the coffee and bacon. The scent of an early morning breakfast out on a farm in the early morning hours, mixed in with the morning breeze from the alfalfa crops, the moisture in the air from the irrigation ditches. The ditches divided my grandparent’s property from their neighbors. With the muddy waters gurgling in the distance, I would hear a car’s engine drone down a highway that was a mile away. The land was so flat that sounds would travel great lengths to arrive in your ear. But above all else, I would hear the scrapping of a spatula on an iron griddle, announcing the birth of a homemade pancake. I would be dressed and downstairs in a flash. After eating, he would take me with him to tend to the chores. He was big and strong, and never once did I see him act weak or unsure of himself. He always seemed to know what he was doing or what it was he needed to do, always so confident, so sure. I remember just being so in love with him. This man, my ideal father figure, was who I would try to measure up to over the years since, failing miserably, yet I would try.
This summer was different. He was but a shell of the man I once knew. His body ravaged from the cancer and the radiation treatments. His once tall frame, full of life, was now skeletal, skin hanging weakly onto his bones. He was bed ridden, he could not walk. It was as if all of his muscles had disappeared, along with his hair. I would have to help my grandmother get him up to bath him, or to help place him on his mobile toilet. He slept on a hospital bed downstairs, and my grandmother would sleep on the couch near him.
When we first arrived for this summer I recall being very positive and always spending time with him. I would sit next to the bed and he would read one of his Louis L’Amour books to me. I would read the newspaper to him, and I acted out the comic strips, he loved that. I could make him laugh, and that was nice, that would make my grandmother happy. That summer was full of hope and possibilities. I fully believed that he would beat his cancer and that he would again someday wake up at five in the morning to go and let the cattle out to their feeding range. He and I would make the walk to the ditch and turn the crank to allow his allotted water to rush over the burgeoning crops. He would live to see me become a man and I would make him proud.
Then school started. And I soon started to despise waking up so early to tend to the farm on my own. I hated to pick him up for my grandmother to clean him from his latest accidental bowel movement. I started to avoid looking into his dying eyes anymore. I was unable to find life in them, as if he as if he was already dead, a zombie, lifeless yet moving. Always mumbling it seemed. And he always needed something. I don’t know why I changed. I think about that to this day and can’t find an answer as to why I just found him, repulsive. For his birthday one morning before school, my grandmother, brother and I were to sing happy birthday to him, and all I could do was mouth the words, and look away from him. I could not bring myself to look into his eyes.
One Friday after school, I was heading out to the bus, and I saw my mother waiting in her car with my brother. I stopped short of her car, knowing full well why she was there. I hadn’t seen her since the beginning of summer. As I slid into the back seat, she reached back to me coldly and told me that he had died on his way to his appointment that morning. When we got back to the farm, I walked into the living room where he had been living for these last months. It was cold and dark. His bed was still in there. It started to rain outside. I ran out the door and into the down pour. I ran out to the fields and started to yell and cry at God. Swearing and denouncing his existence. How could he be dead? Why was he made to suffer so? From that moment on, I swore I would never pray or believe in God again. Because there could be no God, if he let my granddad suffer and then die. Taking him away from me, thereby leaving me alone. The one man, hell, the one person that I could truly say that had loved me without conditions, was gone. Dead for some unknown purpose.
