The Saffron Kitchen

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SaffronI seem to be on a roll lately with novels set in Afghanistan and Iran. There always seems to be a character named Maryam and she’s always returning to her homeland — in her mind, or for real, to deal with the skeletons in her closet and the ever so dark dreams that have haunted her since childhood.

The latest of these is The Saffron Kitchen by Yasmin Crowther. The author’s tale switches back and forth between England where she lives with her family as an adult and a small Iranian village with very few modern comfortable amenities, where her life began.

Like the theme unraveled in every other novel I’ve touched lately, there are a series of tragic consequences related to being a woman, related to war, related to cultural protocols that destroy rather than build, related to obedience and the guilt that hits years later once freedom becomes a reality.

The Saffron Kitchen is about the connection between mothers and daughters, roots and exile and the power of family bonds. It’s also about our earliest of loves, when we are shaped by nothing but innocent dreams, most of which become shattered once childhood has been left behind.

When Maryam rejoins her first love in that small Iranian after years of living with her English husband, she is filled with guilt and doubt, and yet, there is that youthful bond none of us can ever deny.

Add to her youthful experiences, the painful memories of a father who disowned her and beat him for doing nothing more than protecting her when the streets were unsafe. When they meet again, she says, “I’ve been imagining you for so long.” She heard the smile in his voice. “I’ve been speaking with you my entire life, in my head.”

Of course its also a political story, full of grief, turmoil and miles upon miles of misunderstandings between continents. Enter England. Enter the U.S. Her extended family talks among themselves in their village about the west; their perceived views of the west.

“Sometimes it seems that America will not be content until it has pulled out all our teeth and nails and we are weak as a beggar,” says one. Maryam responds with her own insight from living in England for all those years. “I think that its because they’re a terrified people.” Terrified and powerful at the same time, like a street bully.” Yes, she agrees. “They want to keep their homes safe.”

All of its true. The terrified, the power, the wanting to keep our homes safe. During my own travels, the former perception was truer than the latter. How could it not be? And now, its only worse.

Yet, through all of their early tragic memories of what had gone before, they held hope close.

“If only this long road has an end, And in the track of a hundred thousand years, Out of the heart of dust, Hope sprang again like greenness.” — Omar Khayyam

And my favorite is this one by W.H. Auden, since it not only so clearly applies to Iran and to Afghanistan, but to every emigrant who had fled for a better way of life — for themselves and the generations that followed.

“A Solitude ten thousand fathom deep, Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear; Although I love you, you will have to leap; Our dream of safety has to disappear.”  —W.H. Auden

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