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The Neighborhood

A family trip at age 11 had me on another continent and far away from anything remotely familiar. There was no MTV or cable, no golden arches, no Faygo, no Funyuns, no nothing I actually wanted to comfort me.

By far the best thing that can ever happen to a spoiled American kid is to spend more than 2 months in a different country. I know this now. At the time, I longed for those little things I had been accustomed to. Luckily, I brought with me two VHS tapes with 12 hrs. of MTV recorded. This definitely helped towards the end of that first month when I started to become homesick.

There’s a section of Detroit that’s not well known to those outside the City. It’s called “Southwest,” also commonly referred to as “The Neighborhood.” Here you can find a diverse community, with a large Latino population. It’s a fairly small area with people who have big families. I am one of 26 grandkids.

Whether it’s the park, the local market, Duly’s, or even just driving down Vernor, seeing someone I know or who knows my family is an everyday occurrence here. It’s comforting to visit the same places over the years and to see those same faces. I believe it’s what brings a lot of people back to visit as often as they do. For me, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt the presence of a community.

While the City has progressively improved over the decades since my trip, it is most apparent to me here. The word ‘positive’ comes to mind as a quick way to convey the change to someone else. This is a different Southwest that I once knew. The efforts towards progress and uplifting the area come from within.

It’s human nature to want to leave the area where you grew up. Then there’s those who choose to stay and make something of it. Southwest has many proud, hardworking, giving, intelligent, talented, artistic, business savvy people who’ve made the decision to stay, grow their family, and help maintain, and build this community.

The Neighborhood is diversifying and evolving with every year that goes by. The feeling of home is constant.

+ Read Peyman's Story

My father didn’t repair the windows anymore. He just taped them shut. It’s not worth it, he thought. He knew that a cluster bomb could hit somewhere nearby at any time. For a long time, windows exploding was one of the few images from Iran, my parent’s Heimat, that I held onto. I wasn’t sure if it was real or just a dream­—until I learned that our house stood 200 meters from the anti-aircraft battery and the munition depot.

When the sirens started one thing was clear: the bombs were soon to follow. We ran into the basement. It was full of tools that belonged to my grandfather. He showed every single one of them to us in those long hours that we spent there together. My mother acted like it was all a fun game. I know this from my sister, who is two years older than me. She remembers the smell of the damp old rooms much better than I do.

When the bombardment of Teheran became more aggressive, my family sought refuge in northern Iran—again and again. It was a central part of the first three and a half years of my life. One day in 1987, my father bought a new license plate. One that you could drive abroad with. Then he started preparing the family to flee.

After the 1979 Iranian Revolution, the rules for leaving the country changed constantly. Who was allowed to travel abroad or not became a matter of arbitrary chance: some could only leave at particular times, others had to first wait for days. My family and I set out after my father got a hot tip from an acquaintance. My mother put a blanket on the family room floor and threw everything into it that she could. My big brother would tell me about this later. With the bombs growing ever louder, we didn’t have much time to escape. Everyone wanted to save themselves, to get out. Where were grandma and grandpa? We didn’t know. But we had to leave. And leave them behind.

When we arrived at the border to Turkey, we lined up in the row of cars. Passengers had to go through a different checkpoint than vehicles and their owners: Without a clue as to what might happen, my father took our large suitcases in hand and got into a different line than my mother, sister, brother, and me. That made my mother angry. She complained that it was unfair, and that landed us in a detention cell. I remember looking out through the bars.

And just like that we were political adversaries. Luckily for us, my father had good connections: After three days we were allowed to travel to Turkey for a short-term stay. But my mother got a red stamp in her passport, with a note summoning her to court as soon as she returned to Iran. And so our return was blocked. Seven months later, on October 11, 1988, we fled to Germany. The first Gulf War ended on August 20, 1988. But we could no longer return to my parent’s Heimat.

~ translated from German by Kristin Dickinson

+ Read Peyman's Story in German

Mein Vater reparierte die Fenster nicht. Er klebte sie nur noch. Es lohne sich nicht, dachte er. Denn er wusste, dass jederzeit wieder eine Streubombe in der Nähe einschlagen konnte. Wie unsere Fenster explodierten, ist lange eins der wenigen Bilder aus der Heimat meiner Eltern gewesen, das mir im Kopf blieb. Aber ich war nicht sicher, ob es ein Traum oder wirklich gewesen war. Bis ich erfuhr, dass unser Haus 200 Meter entfernt von der iranischen Luftabwehrbatterie und dem Munitionsdepot gelegen hatte.

Wenn die Sirenen heulten, was uns klar: Gleich fallen die Bomben. Wir rannten in den Keller. Der war voller Werkzeug von meinem Opa. Er erklärte uns jedes einzelne in den vielen Stunden, die wir da verbrachten. Meine Mutter tat, als sei das ein lustiges Spiel. Ich weiß das von meiner Schwester, die zwei Jahre älter ist als ich. Sie erinnert sich noch viel besser an den feuchten Geruch der alten Räume.

Wenn der Beschuss auf Teheran aggressiver wurde, suchte unsere Familie Zuflucht bei Verwandten im Nordiran—wieder und wieder. Es war Teil der ersten dreieinhalb Jahre meines Lebens. Eines Tages, 1987, kaufte mein Vater eine Autoplakette. Eine, mit der man ins Ausland fahren durfte. Er bereitete uns auf die Flucht vor.

Nach der iranischen Revolution 1979 waren die Ausreisebestimmungen immer wieder geändert worden. Er beruhte auf Willkür, wer außer Landes durfte und wer nicht: einige nur an besonderen Tagen, andere erst nach tagelangem Warten. Meine Familie und ich machten uns auf den Weg, nachdem mein Vater einen heißen Tipp von einem Bekannten bekommen hatte. Meine Mutter legte eine Decke auf den Wohnzimmerboden und warf hinein, was ging. Mein großer Bruder hat mir später davon erzählt. Wenn die Bomben immer lauter werden, bleibt einem nicht viel Zeit, um wegzukommen. Alle wollen sich retten, raus. Wo waren Oma und Opa? Wir wussten es nicht. Aber wir mussten los. Und sie zurücklassen.

Als wir an der Grenze zur Türkei ankamen, ordneten wir uns in die Schlange von Autos ein. Passagiere und Fahrzeug mit Halter mussten durch je separate Kontrollen: Mein Vater stand in einer anderen Reihe als meine Mutter, Schwester, mein Bruder und ich. Angehörige von Regime-Anhängern drängten sich an uns vorbei. Mit großen Koffern und ganz ohne Check. Meine Mutter machte das sauer. Sie beschwerte sich, das sei ungerecht. Es brachte uns in eine Arrestzelle. Ich erinnere mich, wie ich durch ihre Gitterstäbe gucke.

Jetzt waren wir politische Gegner. So schnell ging das. Zu unserem Glück hatte mein Großvater gut Kontakte: Nach drei Tagen erlaubte man uns, vorübergehend in die Türkei zu einzureisen. Meine Mutter bekam einen roten Stempel in ihren Pass, mit dem Hinweis, dass sie bei Gericht vorsprechen muss, sobald sie in den Iran zurückkehrt. Damit war unser Rückweg blockiert. Am 11. Oktober 1988, sieben Monate später, flogen wir nach Deutschland. Am 20. August 1988 war der Erste Golfkrieg vorbei. Aber wir konnten nicht mehr zurück in die Heimat meiner Eltern.