Nowruz, Tehran, 1988

I sat in the middle of the living room, undressing my newest Barbie, when the sirens erupted. The lights went out, everywhere. Tehran, the city of ten million, was extinguished like a candle. In a sudden rush I was hoisted into the air, into my father's arms, flown out the door, jolted down eleven flights of steps. My mother carried the kerosene lamp, whose flame flickered in time to my fluttering heart amid the tumult of passing playmates bobbing baffled downward in other parents' arms. The brown mosaic floor tiles shown murky beneath the basement's jaundiced lights, fueled by backup generators, caged in steel. Our neighbors inhaled the damp musty air amid a symphonic alternation of pants and gasps. I climbed out of my father's arms and listened in awe as he explained how Saddam Hussein, that monstrously mustached maniac, had used a scud missile to interrupt my search for what lay beneath Barbie's dress.

A scud missile, my father told me, was taller than three floors of our building. My own toy collection contained many far smaller missiles, and I was contemplating the impressive dimensions of Saddam's toys when the building manager began to calm the crowd.

"Don't worry, don't worry everyone," he said, hushing the chatter of anxious chador-clad women hurriedly working one another into a panic. "We are safe. This basement is safe. Our building is built of one meter thick concrete reinforced with iron rebar and we are two stories underground. The missiles cannot harm us."

The manager had a healthy paunch and a handlebar mustache in the style of Mozzafar ad-Din Shah, so I naturally trusted him.

"And what if a missile hits the building?" asked an enraged neighbor, her two young daughters clutching at her chador. "It will collapse on us and crush all of us. What do you mean we are safe?"

"The building will not collapse," the manager reassured us, sending a warm knowing smile and a subtle wink to the children, as if to say that he knew a thing or two about physics that our neighbor did not. "This building is solid. The walls are one-meter thick concrete! If a scud missile enters the building at any angle, the missile will remain lodged there and the building will stand. Everyone can continue going about their lives."

I imagined a three-story tall missile sticking out the top of our building. I imagined the missile entering from the side. It might ruin someone's bedroom, but the family could still have tea and dates in the living room. No problem. We were going to be fine.

On February 29, 1988, Saddam's modified Al Hussein scud missiles reached Tehran for the first time. I was four years old.

Two weeks earlier, Tehran had joyously anticipated the arrival of spring and the Persian New Year. Throngs of families had filled the streets to shop for new clothes for Nowruz. My parents and I meandered along with the crowd, perusing the store windows along Bahar Street in search of my Nowruz gift. Suddenly I stopped, yanked my father's hand, and jerked us to a halt. In the store window, an assortment of child-sized mannequins were beautifully dressed in men's suits. I stood speechless, mouth breathing, staring at the tailor shop's display. My father, like most Iranian men, always wore a suit. It was the source of his power. My empirical observations indicated that men wore suits; it could only follow that if I put one on, I would become a man. After much logical explanation of why I absolutely had to have one, my parents took me into the small tailor shop, where a nice old man with prickly salt-and-pepper stubble dressed in a simple white shirt and black vest placed me atop a desk and took my measure.

"Alright my little man, what fabric would you like?" he offered, showing me the reams all around the room.

"The one with the stripes!" I yelled, pointing to a seersucker pattern. Stripes scream power. Even a child knows that.

"Do you want to be a doctor or an engineer when you grow up?" he asked, offering me the only two career options ever presented to a clever young Iranian.I was four years old, so I was used to this question.

"Engineer! I want to build things."

"Good. I like to build things too," he said with a nod, as he chalked up the fabric with a tape measure dangling from his mouth. "Your suit will be ready in two weeks Mr. Engineer."

For me, the scud missiles could not have come at a more inconvenient time. We were supposed to pick up my suit the next day. For the past two weeks, I had asked about it every day. Was it ready yet? Could we get it now? Could we just go see it, see how it was coming along? Maybe he needed to measure me again. We should really go make sure everything is going well.

When the sirens stopped on February 29, when ten million lights relit, when I was finally tucked into bed, all I could think about was my suit. A scud missile was going to hit the tailor shop and destroy my suit before I had even worn it. Saddam was trying to ruin my life. I knew this.

The next morning I rushed into my parents room before they were awake.

"Dad, we have to go get my suit! Get up, we have to go."

"Kayvan jan, come. Sit here," my father said, making room for me between him and my mom.

"Let your mother and me listen to the news, find out what is happening, and I promise we will get your suit as soon as it is safe."

"But dad, it won't be there. Saddam is going to blow it up." I couldn't understand why he was laughing.

"The tailor is a very clever man, Kayvan jan. He will hide your suit in a safe place. I will call him myself to make sure he takes special care of it."

We turned on the radio and listened to the damage reports. The reporter named several streets and neighborhoods that had suffered the worst damage. My parents sat stunned in silence, contemplating the wreckage. I could see the distress on their faces, and I understood their worry. "Did the-- did the missiles hit Bahar Street?"

For the next few days, as the raids and the sirens and the trips to the basement intensified, my anxiety for my suit grew unbearable. We could not wait any longer. This was a time for decisive action. I convinced my father that we had to rescue my suit.

"Saeid, are you crazy?" my mother shouted hysterically. "Is there some kind of emergency that Kayvan needs a suit right now? Does he have a job interview? Kayvan can have his suit in a few weeks. He has to understand that we are living in a war zone."

"We have to live, Roya, even during war. We can't stay locked in our homes forever. We have to live our life as best we can, despite everything. It is almost the New Year, and Kayvan wants his gift."

We went out into the empty streets of a bombarded Tehran, careful to stay close to buildings where we could run for shelter as soon as the sirens went off. We made our way to Bahar Street, only to find that most stores had closed and boarded their windows. But my store was open. We pushed open the door and the tiny bells above the threshold greeted us with a joyous jingle. The old tailor walked out from the back, wiping off the crumbs of lavash bread and feta cheese from his black vest.

"Hello, little Mr. Engineer. I was wondering if you would come. I've made you a very special suit."

He placed the suit on the table and I immediately ran to the dressing room to try it on. It was perfect; I looked just like my father.