Content warning for references to suicide
The woman enters through the door and puts her black purse on the chair beside her. She shifts her gaze back to the far distance, without focusing on anything, and then turns and stares at the glass door of the entrance. After seeing a young man with a cap, her expression changes, and a smile blossoms on her lips. The man approaches her with much warmth, sits beside her and greets her.
The woman suddenly asks:
“Are you here to admit yourself again?”
The young man replies with certain pride and glee:
“No! I actually come here for group therapy but I’m a bit early today. Are you here to see a doctor?”
The woman looks around nervously and replies with just another question not necessarily aimed at the man:
“They don’t have coffee? It’s so busy too!”
She then turns to the man, as if trying to make excuses for needing coffee, and says:
“Last night I slept horrendously. I barely even dozed off. I took a pill, but it didn’t really help. There was so much hubbub, I’m telling you! The cops were raiding our next-door neighbors. They’re Iranian too. They searched their whole house until 2am, piling up all their belongings in the living room.
“They live on the ground floor. They have a lovely little garden. I wish their garden was mine. When they first moved in the lady planted many flowers and some mint and basil at one side. She even brought us a few bunches of them one time. Their mint tasted like the mint back in Iran, with the same soft leaves. The basil had both green and purple leaves, I think…”
The man, who is bored at this point, says:
“Well, why did the cops search their house?”
The woman who prefers to talk about the mint and basil, and hasn’t really liked the man’s question, turns her head away and shifts back on the chair, her legs slightly swinging in the air as the man stares on.
“There were lots of police officers. Y’know, like, the ones who wear black. They were wearing strange helmets; they weren’t regular police officers. The poor lady was sitting with us until 4 am, weeping and talking. The way its going she’ll stop caring for the garden. It would’ve been the perfect time to plant herbs right now but…”
The man has given up on hearing the details of the police raid at this point and knows that the woman always relays her stories this way. He thinks that maybe she begins all her stories with a somewhat implausible event just so she can attract attention to herself.
The young man gets up, says goodbye to the woman, and goes inside the room at the end of the hallway. He opens up the windows for ventilation and sets the chairs in anticipation for group therapy.
When he is done, he sits on one of the chairs facing the window and stares at the flowers in the garden, suddenly focusing on the chair that Mr. Imami used to sit on.
When Darya enters, she isn’t surprised by seeing the young man. She greets him warmly, puts her bag and paperwork on the side table and reaches for the window as if she intends to close it, but when she sees the flowers in the garden she stops. The room slowly cools down and Darya feels a slight chill and she is unable to discern whether it’s because of the breeze or the anxiety of beginning today’s session.
Although she has prepared herself for today’s session and has even spent a few hours speaking to Reza Sa’adat on the phone, still, with what had happened to Mr. Imami, she knows that today’s session is going to be a heavy one. She doesn’t know what peoples’ reactions are going be. The ethnic diversity of the participants might also influence their reactions today. Perhaps because Mr. Imami was Iranian, his death will inspire more sadness and solidarity within the Iranians of the group.
Anna-Mari is the next to arrive and even though she still has much time, she comes in panting and with much haste. She is wearing a long magenta dress that comes down to her ankles, one that perfectly accentuates her beautiful body. She has straightened her dazzling curly hair and pinned it to one side. She is wearing lipstick the same color as the dress and her charming eyes are sorrowful. She goes straight to the window, closes it, and then plops herself down on a chair, putting down her heavy bag near her feet on the ground.
“Why is no one here?”
She asks this rhetorically, from force of habit, and then occupies herself with her smartphone.
Poori arrives, looking neat and spiffy. She is wearing a black pantsuit with matching shoes and stockings. Darya is thinking that she is perhaps wearing black to honor Mr. Imami. She has cut her hair but hasn’t combed it. As soon as she sits down, she takes off her glasses, wipes off her tears and says to the young man:
“May he rest in peace. He always arrived early to steep some tea. What a world, eh? We had only just begun bonding with one another.”
Poori sighs and as she tries to continue speaking Amila arrives, exhausted, distracted, and depressed. Her clothes are sparkling, however. She puts her bag down on her chair and with a single gesture to her hands signals that she is leaving to wash up.
Atefe arrives when everyone else is sitting and Darya is ready to begin the session. She is wearing a warm jacket that is overkill for this time of year, yet she is still rubbing her hands together forcefully as if she is still cold. As soon as Atefe glances at Poori, her eyes fill up with tears.
Parvin is the next to arrive, somber and in a mood. She holds her bag against her chest and sits just like that, still wearing her sweater. She is staring at the floor and her mind seems to be elsewhere.
Darya closes the door and says:
“Alright, we can begin.”
She sits down with her paperwork on her lap and asks the group what they’d like to discuss today.
There is a knock at the door. Mr. Zandi enters in a good mood, stylish as if he’s attending a friendly celebration. He is holding a paper cup filled with coffee. He shakes Poori’s hand and sits next to her. He is about to greet everyone else in the group and strike up conversations when Poori says:
“Death. Let’s discuss dying. It’s relevant, after all.”
Darya is confused. She had not expected such a blunt response. She had expected that the session would be affected by Mr. Imami’s death, but not this directly. However, she responds confidently:
“Let’s see what the others think. Afterall we should make sure the others have the wherewithal to speak about it as well.”
“I agree. Death has been an issue that has often weighed heavy on my mind. My mother’s death had a significant effect on my life.”
It is Atefe who has said this. She is wiping away her tears as she continues:
“Everyone thinks death is such a terrible thing, they can never even conceive of the notion that some people welcome it willingly. Can life actually be this hard? I’ve been ruminating on this concept for years, without ever finding an answer.”
It is uncertain who she is addressing, or whether the addressee is even present in this room. The others say nothing. Silence takes over the room. A few moments later Darya says:
“Do you want to elaborate? The death of your mother, I mean.”
Poori stares at Atefe with surprise. She has never spoken about the death of her mother. She thinks to herself that perhaps there’s a connection between her mother’s death and her statement about choosing to die.
Anna-Mari asks:
“Did your mother take her own life?”
Poori considers her reply blunt. Such issues are quite delicate. She may not want to elaborate.
“Yes. When I was little she took her own life. She was dissatisfied with her life, and her love for me was not great enough to tether her to this life.”
Darya shifts on her chair, swallows her saliva and says:
“Don’t think of it like that. You were not responsible for her life, and she must have had great love for you. We’re not here to judge past events or ruminate on their cause; but what we can speak about is your emotions and it has clearly been incredibly difficult.”
“Oh yes it has been. I used to think it was my fault that she took her own life, which brought about the guilt of not being able to save her life. Other than myself I also began thinking ill of my father. I considered him guilty too. When I think back, I had lost two people in total. I wasn’t on good terms with my father, but mainly on the inside. I thought that since he couldn’t look after my mother he couldn’t look after me either.
“For years I was furious at my mother for killing herself. My feelings towards her were twofold: on the one hand, I missed her often. I’d even overhear others saying that she was unfair to her child, a statement that enraged me further. So I never wanted anyone to speak ill of her but on the other hand, I myself was so furious at her most of the time.
“I think suicide is different than any other form of death. A certain guilt remains with all those who are left behind, with a heap of unanswered questions. A certain feeling that you’re at fault. After my mother’s death, my father’s life was finished. I mean he was alive, but he wasn’t necessarily living. Being the religious person that he was I think he was worried that the sin of my mother’s suicide would haunt him as well.”
Atefe draws a long breath, as if a weight has been taken off her chest. She sits back on her chair and pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the room. She then scans everyone’s faces, as if waiting for them to ask a question or show a certain reaction.
The young man takes of his hat, shifts on his chair, directs his gaze downward and speaks with a shaking voice:
“I can understand your mother. I have considered killing myself many times. I still think about it sometimes. Back when I was very ill, I often thought that the best thing that can happen is for me to die. I saw that I can fully sever my relationship to the people around, not only in external relationships but also, I can escape them from the inside and become untethered. I was only partially bound to myself, meaning I had yet to become totally estranged from myself, I had not unravelled yet. Perhaps I just didn’t have the courage to kill myself…”
Mr. Zandi interrupts forcefully:
“Suicide doesn’t need courage. Life does. To battle all adversity that comes your way and not bat an eye…”
Darya thinks she is beginning to lose control over the session. She remembers Reza Sa’adat. How she wishes he was here. She wants to know what he would’ve done under such circumstances. When he said love can diminish one’s fears or even obliterate them whole, did he mean that people are only afraid of living due to a general lack of love? Like for example, the lack of maternal love that could not prevent a fear of living?
Anna-Mari is staring downwards, rubbing her calves through her skirt:
“If one’s life has no meaning, then one is bound to think of death.”
As her sentence ends, she begins to realize it wasn’t really her own words, that she has perhaps read them in a book. She is searching for the book and the remainder of the quote when Amila begins aggressively gesturing with her hand toward her face a few times and then says:
“You shut up. All you think about is a single guy. You’re still waiting for him to come back and rescue you from your life. Have you forgotten how he left you in hard times and as you say so yourself, it’s unclear ‘where the hell’ he’s even gone?…”
“Wait now! That is none of your business. We are talking about death, about the fear of death. If I’m waiting for him to come back it’s because I’m scared of loneliness. He is the only one who rescues me from my own loneliness. He understands me and that’s why I love him so.”
Mr. Zandi chimes in with his happy expression:
“Fearing loneliness is the same as fearing death. Death is the only thing that the human is forced to do alone, the only journey he treads all alone. No one knows what’s going on on the other side. No one has ever brought back any news.
From the long line-up of this long road’s departed
Who has returned to share with us, its little secret?”
He then turns to Poori and says:
“Isn’t that true?”
Poori has never quite liked Mr. Zandi from the very beginning, and she doesn’t even know why; but today his good mood is quite unseemly. As if Mr. Zandi had read her mind he replies:
“You are mistaken. I’m not in a good mood, the opposite, in fact. I’m deathly afraid—not of Death itself—but that there is so little time to live, to take pleasure. For me death is but a dream. The dream of awakening. As the poem goes:
Why are you afraid of death?
Why do you turn away from this sweet, life-tranquilizing dream?”
Mr. Zandi swallows his saliva to read the rest of the poem, but Parvin, who seems to have only just become present in the group, takes a look around and says:
“Y’know people just live for the sake of their kids. As long as you have kids you need to keep on going.”
Parvin speaks so softly that everyone thinks she is perhaps muttering something to herself. Being soft-spoken and scattered means that everyone often thinks she is forced to come and is always impatiently waiting for each session to end.
Mr. Zandi has finished his coffee, and, even though he is bothered that he couldn’t finish the poem, says:
“What a strange thing to say! Kids feel no responsibility. They go after their own lives. We must think of our own lives.”
Poori, who has taken Mr. Zandi’s words personally, says:
“It takes such a long time for people to get to this point, and unfortunately most of the time you get there too late. I mean, when you get there there’s not much time left. When you realize how horribly you’ve lived your life, and then the fear beings: fear of dying, without having ever achieved what you wanted to do, y’know. It’s so horrible to only learn how to live close to death, to live in a perpetual state of regret, about all that has, and hasn’t been done.
“At least religious people have it easy. They at least have another world in mind where they can live better. They have something to help them battle the fear of death. But those who have only this world which they’ve destroyed, their situation is dire towards the end of their lives. I had a German friend who said a person’s relationship with life is like their relationship to everything else: if the relationship is good, its easy to separate, but if not, you can sink so deep into its problems that you can no longer let go.
“I said all this, but death will forever be a great shock, even if you expect it, or even if it is a chance to escape suffering. I took care of my husband for years, knowing that he is suffering. I knew that I was dying just like him but when he died, I was still shocked.”
Amila gets up and exits the room. When she returns her hands are moist, but with a certain aggression in her voice she says:
“None of you understands when one wants to die. It’s when you hate your own existence too. When no matter how much you wash yourself, you can never become clean. Then you hate your body. You want to separate yourself from your body but can’t, so then all that is left is to get rid of it. Are you saying people aren’t allowed to kill themselves? Who says that? It’s every single human’s right. If you hate yourself, what use are you to your children? My disturbed body and mind are of no use to my kids. When you don’t have control over anything the least you can do is to decide about your own death. I wasn’t the one who decided for my life to turn out like this. I didn’t wish for a single incident to destroy my family, my life. I didn’t decide for a man to rape my body and my mind, to turn my entire life into a graveyard, for his death wish to become my only peace of mind.”
Darya feels that Amila is not behaving like she always does. She seems enraged. She wasn’t used to speaking much, but today her perspective has changed.
Darya is uncomfortable. Controlling the group doesn’t seem to be easy. She keeps thinking of Reza Sa’adat, and their last phone call where he said fear of death is perpetually with us, that sometimes we acknowledge it consciously and other times, hide it until it manifests in other things. The fear of loneliness and fear of death are similar. Perhaps if we can overcome the fear of solitude, we can overcome the fear of death as well.
Darya knows that sometimes there are other fears that aren’t necessarily inferior to the fear of death either, like the fear of realization and coming face to face with the truth, for example. The fear that, well, if you know the truth, what are you supposed to do with it then? A fear that has entered the conscious layer of the mind, but you still don’t know what to do about it. Fear of a truth that can even be quite desirable, but the reality is that you must change in the face of a new truth and then not know what to do with your new, changed self. With a self that is no longer complaining, a self that is fully content.
Darya realizes that her mind is elsewhere, seeking what’s been eating away at her soul for a while. Parvin has sunken into herself, so Darya asks her:
“You said that people must live for the sake of their children no matter at what cost. Would you like to elaborate? What did you mean by that?”
Parvin stares at Darya, shakes her head and remains silent. Darya regrets not asking for her to elaborate right after her statement. It’ll be hard to make her speak now.
Anna-Mari faces Amila and says:
“Yes, it’s very hard. It is truly the worst thing that can happen to a woman, but me and Mr. Zandi have spent years in waiting. This very waiting, with its obstacles, drives us to continue, it has become our motivation to keep on living. For me it is waiting for someone to rescue me from my loneliness. Someone to…”
Amila interrupts:
“Why are you saying this to me? I don’t know how someone can wait for a man…”
Darya knows she must choose her words carefully here. She knows that Anna-Mari awaits love. She knows that love is not an easy concept to discuss. She knows that one can only discuss the morphing of love from one form to another. She only knows that one day she’ll get out of this rut somehow, but she also knows that knowing so can’t do any good to Anna-Mari. So she amplifies the very tail end of her chain of thoughts and says:
“Well, love is a great cure in itself. But one must be careful if it morphs from one thing into another, or if at its very height, it is abandoned by the other. Just so one doesn’t fall apart entirely.”
Mr. Zandi’s expression changes:
“What are you talking about? That’s not called love anymore. Love can’t be planned. It can’t be experienced without grief either. There’s no point advising a lover, He is steeped in pleasure today, why should he think about the future?…”
The sound of Parvin’s weeping interrupts Mr. Zandi’s speech, attracting attention:
“The death of a young one is a horrible thing. It really breaks your heart. When Franci died, it brought me to my knees. Even though I found my daughter on the day of her funeral, her death stayed with me. Now I am afraid of losing my daughter. If—god forbid—one day she is gone, what will I do?”
Her shoulders are shaking. Everyone is shocked, as if death’s shadow has enveloped the entire room. No one is speaking.
Darya lowers her head to make her eyes level with Parvin’s and says:
“Why do you think about your daughter’s death so much? You two have a good relationship now and you are seeing each other often…”
“Our relationship is quite fragile. The fear of losing her has made a true coward out of me. A cowardice that chases her away. Fear has enveloped our entire house and she hates this.”
Poori addresses Parvin softly as if to console her:
“We all have the same issues. Don’t you see how all of us are somehow ensnared by the concept of death? Someone is thinking about suicide, someone else is struggling with her mother taking her own life while someone else has made another’s death wish central to her life. Everyone is struggling with death. Death is a part of life. It’s perhaps the only thing we are truly forced to do and perhaps the only thing we fundamentally share, like the fear of loneliness.”
Parvin is staring at the floor. Everyone is silent. Darya’s mind is dragged once again toward thoughts of Reza Sa’adat. They are walking together on a tessellated sidewalk in Paris. As he is pointing out an antique shop to Darya he says:
“Irvin Yalom says in one of his books that life is the distance between two voids. A black dot before birth which we are unaware of, and then another darkness after death where once again we lack knowledge. Life is the distance between these two dots…”
The door opens, making everyone alert to their surroundings once again. The woman from the lobby addresses the young man without any introduction and says:
“I’m done and I’m leaving. They have brought new coffee with biscuits. Go and eat some.”
Then she closes the door and leaves. Eyes turn to the young man in search of an explanation, but he says nothing. He considers his relationship to the woman to have always been circumstantial, and one rooted in mental delusions.
When Anna-Mari picks up her bag, Darya knows that time is up. She announces that the session is done, then gets up, opening a window to let fresh air fill the room.
Nahid Keshavarz is a writer and Psychoanalyst. She has been working in Germany as an immigration councillor for more than thirty years. She manages the centre for refugees in the city of köln. She has published dozens of papers on womens‘ issues and immigration. She has published three short story collections and two novels. Her book „Refugee Café“ has also been translated into German. Her short story collection „Perhaps with Another Flight“ is forthcoming.
Khashayar “Kess” Mohammadi (They/Them) is a queer, Iranian born, Toronto-based Poet, Writer and Translator. They were shortlisted for the 2021 Austin Clarke poetry prize, 2022’s Arc Poem of the year award, Prism magazine’s 2023 Open Season awards for poetry and they are the winner of the 2021 Vallum Poetry Prize. They are the author of four poetry chapbooks and three translated poetry chapbooks. They have released two full-length collections of poetry with Gordon Hill Press. Their full-length collaborative poetry manuscript “G” is forthcoming with Palimpsest press Fall 2023, and their full-length collection of experimental dream-poems “Daffod*ls” is forthcoming from Pamenar Press Fall 2023.