Red-rimmed central plateau, and settled in the then-walled capital city of Tehran. When Pargol was a girl she and her family had left their village in the south, journeyed a hundred miles across Iran's dusty, Midwife took in a single sharp breath, bit her lip, and then resumed her task of dusting my great-grandmother's loins with The scent of cinnamon and cardamom rose from the kitchen and threaded its way through the house. Even the newborn-a tiny raging bundle with a shock of black hair-was "Kobra," Pargol said again, her voice softer but still sure. In a room that had grown warm and damp with her exertions, she met the midwife's gaze with a heavy stare. Pargol Amini had black eyes and cheeks so fair and flushed they were like snow blotted with blood, as was said back then. "Kobra," she announced to the midwife, and smiled from the bloodstainedĪt this, the midwife looked up and considered her face. W HEN SHE NAMED HER ninth child, Pargol Amini indulged her own fancies at last. Because we couldn't just do what you do here-forget your name and who "If you want to know my story," my mother Lili began, "you have to know about Avenue Moniriyeh, about your grandmother KobraĪnd your grandfather Sohrab, and what Iran was then. The result is an enchanting and unforgettable story of secrets, betrayal, and the unbreakable mother-daughter bond. In this sweeping, poignant, and beautifully written memoir, Jasmin weaves the stories of three generations of Iranian women into a unique tale of one family’s struggle for freedom and understanding.
The final tape revealed that Jasmin’s sister, Sara – The Good Daughter – was still living in Iran. But a few months later, she received from her mother the first of ten cassette tapes that would bring to light the wrenching hidden story of her family’s true origins in Iran: Lili’s marriage at thirteen, her troubled history of abuse and neglect, and a daughter she was forced to abandon in order to escape that life. She was wearing a wedding veil, and at her side stood a man whom Jasmin had never seen before.Īt first, Jasmin’s mother, Lili, refused to speak about the photograph, and Jasmin returned to her own home frustrated and confused. When she was in her early twenties, on a day shortly following her father’s death, Jasmin was helping her mother move a photograph fell from a stack of old letters.
Jasmin Darznik came to America from Iran when she was only three years old, and she grew up knowing very little about her family’s history.
That’s when she began telling me about The Good Daughter. We were a world of two, my mother and I, until I started turning into an American girl.
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