A Representative Of The Axis Of Evil (‘ROTAOE’) approached me in the hospital one year ago. 

I was at the hospital to have some blood drawn for fertility tests, and we were number 75 or something equally horrific in terms of waiting time. I was trying to watch the number board  with one eye while keeping the other fixed on Little J, who was fascinated with the glass doors that kept opening and shutting  whenever he walked or ran towards them.  Little J had been momentarily lured over to me by the prospect of a baby cookie when a dark-haired child with large brown eyes toddled over to see if he could have one, too.  I’m hesitant to give food to other people’s children without their approval, so I looked up to find the parent of the ROTAOE.  And I met the father of the little boy.  ROTAOE Sr. had no problems with ROTAOE Jr. eating the cookie, so I unwrapped one for him.  He scampered off.

Fifteen minutes later, still going google-eyed from looking simultaneously at the number board and the running Little J, Mrs. ROTAOE came over to me. She asked me if I knew where I could find an English-speaking babysitter or creche. I gave her some details. She came back over to ask about another English-language something or other. I gave her details. When she came back a third time, she confessed that she was looking for an English-speaking friend and would I be interested in meeting up?

I said I would be interested, and as we exchanged details,  I asked Mrs. ROTAOE where she was from: Iran. Wow!  I never thought I would meet someone from Iran.  The enmity between our two governments is obvious; especially after ex-President Bush named Iran as one of the three countries in his ‘axis of evil’.  But Persian culture is so old and interesting; I’ve always enjoyed looking at Persian artefacts in museums. She asked me where I came from. “The US”, I replied. A look of horror passed over her face for a few seconds, then was replaced by her previous, polite expression.

I know that the US is not well-liked by many other countries. And quite frankly, for good reasons. I remember one telephone call that I had with a middle-aged sales representative in Sarajevo during the war. We were discussing pricing for a customer, and the US was dropping bombs at the time. I was speaking to D and asking him how he was. ‘Not so good’, he answered. My heart sank. ‘My grandmother’s house was hit by an American rocket last night.”‘ Oh my God. Oh my God. My country has just killed his grandmother. D with the bright blue eyes and the old-fashioned manners. ‘However, the rocket went into the basement and didn’t explode. No one was hurt, but there is a big hole in the house.’ Phew. Ok–the great news is that no one was killed. My heart still didn’t stop racing for a few minutes. The bad news is that my country does kill people, sometimes accidentally (like the rocket in the grandmother’s basement). This (understandably) makes people angry and can lead to dislike or hatred for the US. I know this, but I’ve never actually experienced it myself, despite living overseas for 11 years.

Anyway, Mrs. ROTAOE had a name: Mahvash. Her son, Little M, was two months older than Little J. We set up a play date.  Mahvash came to my apartment, first, and she brought a present for Little J and a present for me. I went to Mahvash’s apartment for the second playdate and brought her and Little M presents. In the Netherlands, it isn’t customary to bring presents for playdates, so this must be an Iranian custom.  On the third playdate, Mahvash came to our apartment and brought more presents. Her generosity is both very genuine and  amazing, but I didn’t want to visit the toy store before every playdate.  I don’t mind buying presents–it’s the effort of getting there with two small children. We don’t have Toys R Us with wide, stroller-friendly isles. We have boutiques with isles hardly wide enough for one person, let alone three. This restricts the number of playdates possible. But I don’t want to insult Mahvash, and there hasn’t (yet) been a good time to discuss this.

A few months ago, just after the birth of Little K, Mahvash came to visit with her sister, Mahta. Mahta didn’t speak a lot of English, and I speak NO Farsi, so Mahvash translated. It was a pleasant visit, even though Little J didn’t want to share his toys with Little M, and we had to keep breaking up squabbles. As I was setting out the lunch, Mahvash asked me if I had any bacardi. I thought I had misunderstood, so asked her to repeat what she was asking.

‘Bacardi,  it comes in bottles with tropical colors. My sister was wondering if you had any.’

I had to think what this bacardi might be. Surely it couldn’t be rum, because Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol (or so I understand). But I couldn’t think of anything else.

‘Bacardi breezers?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that’s the one! Do you have any?’  Well, not since I was 23. I explained that, sadly, there were no bacardi breezers on the premises.

‘But I do have an open bottle of wine. Would Mahta like that?’

The sisters conferred, then Mahvash asked me if the wine ‘ was medicinal and good for coughs’. Ah hah! That’s how alcohol and Islam get along: when alcohol is medicine!  Still, Mahta didn’t drink any wine:  we all settled for juice.

At the end of the visit, Mahta told me that she would like me to come and see Iran, and that I could stay with her. It was a very genuine and kind offer, and one I would like to take up at some point in the future.

So, I’ve met part of the axis of evil. The youngest member is a charming little boy who squeals with laughter and has the darkest brown eyes and longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. He is a kind child who shares his toys much more readily than does my son.  Mrs. ROTAOE is an interesting young woman with a very kind heart, a blunt tongue, a ready laugh, and a generous spirit. I’m so glad that fortune sent her my way, and that I am making friends with the ‘axis of evil’.