Kallepache and the Danger Men

When I was assigned to set up equipment at the air base in Esfahan, friends recommended a restaurant called the Feed House, known for serving excellent Kallepache.

There was a group of very strong men in Esfahan called “Danger Men,” by the people of Esfahan. These guys swung objects that looked like giant bowling pins around with their hands and they did it as a group, combining slow, artistic movements with ancient Iranian music. It was like a dance. I had seen them on television, performing for the Shah. They would practice in the very early hours of the morning. Turns out they also breakfasted regularly at The Feed House, and they all ate Kallepache.

The first day I went there for breakfast, they all stared at me, but no one spoke. The second day, they were much more friendly. On the third day, it was like old home week. Suddenly, it was like I was an old friend. They all stood up and insisted that I be served the best part of the head of the sheep (Kallepache is made from the head and feet of a sheep). The server complied. Actually, it was very good. From that time on, they all stood up when I came in. Now I was their buddy. It was a very good feeling. There was no danger for me at that place. No one ever saw my gun, even though it was always with me. If they knew that, people would have stayed away from me and I would have missed out on this beautiful experience. Iranian people are very friendly and respectful to people who they think deserve it. These strong men thought that I deserved respect.

The Iranian people that worked with me at the various electronic equipment stations knew I was having breakfast at the Feed House. Something had changed. Now, when I came near them, they would move towards a wall and put their backs to the wall. I noticed it and after a while, I asked a close friend why they were doing this. Reluctantly he explained: it was well-known that people who ate Kallepache for breakfast became more agressive and — well, let’s just leave it at that.

Kallepache – a favorite dish from Iran, made from sheep’s head and feet.

Another bit of info to add to the cultural differences all around me.

PTSD? All In A Day’s Work

Was I suffering from PTSD? I have no idea. It was a different lifestyle, in Iran. After a while I realized someone was always stalking me. Life was literally about going to sleep not knowing if you might die that night, because in order to fall asleep, I had to let my guard down for a few hours. That’s a different kind of sleep. I never let go completely, even then. I was always ready to snap awake in an instant.
It’s when you’re driving to work; you’re looking for someone who might want to shoot you. Everywhere you go – like the Bourne Identity, constantly in danger, same idea –In the book we’re not talking about fatalism, we’re not talking about the danger. We’re talking about loss of control.
I’m good at what I do. I’m used to getting things done, training people, At Alamut I realized I no longer had any control over the situation. I had to get out of there. I was living in a country where some people are willing to kill you to get what you have. It drains you, after a while. I was making great money, fulfilling my goal to support my family and do something that really helped people. But I was running on empty, and the dangers were overwhelming. I knew I was in danger, but I kept going, for years, until I had to stop. Self preservation finally kicked in. It was time to leave.

Criminals, Terrorists and Vietnam

When we first moved to Iran in 1967, we were warned about encountering bandits in deserted places. But it turned out we seldom traveled off the beaten path, as a family. We did take frequent trips to the FAA resort at Chalus on the Caspian Sea, but that was a busy route with lots of traffic.

We didn’t see a lot of criminal activity in Iran. Occasionally we heard of someone being shot or hung for a serious crime. Women were hung for running illegal brothels. Once a woman’s husband left her, she didn’t have a lot of options when it came to making a living. She could move in with family or become a prostitute. There were legal, government-run brothels where women were inspected for STDs on a regular basis.

After a few years, around 1970, we started hearing of terrorists going after Americans in Iran. The Vietnam war was at its height and many of our friends were transferred there. Sadly, we lost quite a few friends in Vietnam. A lot of our attention was focused on daily activities with school and getting the girls to their swim lessons so we didn’t realize terrorist activity was picking up until fall 1972 when Lloyd Jones’ car was blown up in the MAAG parking lot.

People have asked us many times why we stayed in Iran for ten years. I guess the simplest explanation was, it was home. You can get used to anything, they say. As long as we were able to maintain a fairly normal life, we just kept on going.

Slovakia, Pennsylvania, Iran: From One Generation To The Next

As a young child, I learned some Slovak from my Aunt Nana. Her parents had moved to the Lehigh Valley from Slovakia and handed that spirit of adventure on to me. I loved to be out on my own, exploring unknown territory. The oldest of four girls, I was a top student and spent my summers at Camp Moseywood. I always wanted to be a nurse; I became a good one.
At 27, I moved with Mike and our four little girls to Iran, eager for a new adventure. I learned some Farsi; we rented a house in north Teheran. Everything bought at the market had to be washed and soaked in bleach and water. Vendors walked through the alleys, crying their wares. The children clamored for camel rides. I took them to the Officer’s Club for swimming lessons and a host of activities. Our family enjoyed vacationing at the Caspian Sea.
Now I was moving in high society as a queen bee. Mike and I had two boys and another girl. I began teaching English to officers at Doshen Toppeh. For a mom with seven children, busy wiping noses and bottoms, it was nice to put on a clean outfit, work with grown-ups and be treated with respect.
In 1972 I began taking classes, long distance, through the University of Maryland. It was fun to take a class on “Politics of the USSR,” then go to a cocktail party and talk with ambassadors’ wives about politics and international relations. I was delighted to find I could hold my own; that really boosted my confidence.
Aunt Nana died while we were in Iran. One night, I woke up, elated, from a dream about her. One thing was clear; the lessons she’d learned from her family would be passed on to my children.

What Happens After The Book Is Published: Zehbel, The Clever One

I thought, once I published the book, that was it. I’d send it out there and let it find its own way in the world. Then I found out books need attention, just like children. So I told my friends about it, and many rushed out to buy this masterpiece on Amazon and Kindle. That was encouraging. Friends told others, especially in military circles, and more copies of Zehbel The Clever One were sold. That was wonderful. I gave a talk at our local library and more books sold. 

I was delighted to find so many people enjoyed Zehbel The Clever One. Many emailed or called me with glowing reviews on the extraordinary experiences I shared in Zehbel. But as the book’s author, I felt dissatisfied. The book didn’t fully capture the unremitting stress I’d been under for all those years. Back then, I was always looking around to gauge the level of danger in each situation. I looked at people — what was their agenda? Were they a danger to me, to my men, to my family? Each day I had to summon up the determination to face whatever lay ahead. There was constant danger, wearing me down, like water dripping on a rock. 

Corruption throughout Iran was so pervasive in the sixties and seventies (I doubt this has changed much, given the restrictions Iranians operate under the current regime.) . People did what they could, to provide for their families. Greed was borne out of desperation and centuries of repression. 

These were some of the elements missing from Zehbel The Clever One. But I didn’t have the time, or the energy to write another book. Instead, I had my editor write a screenplay for me, based on Zehbel, but with a more dynamic approach. We called it Mercenary To The Shah. And another project was underway. Now we had to pitch the screenplay to producers, managers, agents in Hollywood. This is ongoing: people like the project, but I don’t know how long it will take to get the screenplay sold. One industry professional is providing coverage to ensure the script has all the elements needed to attract the right buyer. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we flew out to LA and pitched the script to a slew of producers with many favorable responses. My editor followed up with additional pitches to a few more producers. Two asked to read the script, so we’re waiting to see what will happen next. 

Fortunately, my editor handles that for me. She compares the project to lighting a fire. You strike a match, the flame catches, but getting the big logs to ignite takes a bit of patience and tact. So, no overnight success, but through persistence and following a well-organized protocol, my editor feels we will succeed. 

One thing hasn’t changed over the years. I’ll still do everything I can to help my family. Zehbel, The Clever One is just one aspect of that story. 

3 Things Most People Don’t Know About Hollywood

Going out to Hollywood for this pitch conference was a real eye-opener. The first thing I noticed was how eager these talented writers, actors, producers, and executives were to meet and share valuable information with newbies. We learned a lot in a very short time! I think the best-known person, to us, was Edward Saxon, one of the producers for “Silence of the Lambs,” who gave the opening talk. Everyone we met gave generously of their time and energy to help us succeed.
There were two conferences going on at the same time, in the same hotel: the Writer’s Digest Pitch Conference and the Screenwriter’s World Pitch Conference. My writing partner, Barbara Carson, Lucretia and I were there to attend the screenwriter’s conference, but there was a lot of mingling with authors from the other group, between talks. We all met in the huge downstairs lounge/”marketplace” where juices, muffins and croissants were offered, along with DVDs, CDs, flyers and other promotional material from self publishers, writer’s groups, filmmakers and more.
Barbara was delighted to find the latest Final Draft Version 8, at $100 off the regular price, but we didn’t spend much money in the marketing area; we’d grab a bite and head off to the next talk or panel discussion. We were focused on gathering as much useful information as possible, and honing our pitches.
The second thing I learned was how the words “based on a true story” caught people’s attention. Between the two of us, Barbara and I pitched to about 20 different producers. As soon as we mentioned that our screenplay MERCENARY TO THE SHAH was based on a true story, that is, on my memoir, Zehbel, The Clever One, people sat up and took notice. Hollywood is definitely interested in real-life stories. And the most popular genre is an action-thriller, so MERCENARY TO THE SHAH is well-positioned for today’s market.
The third thing I learned was that this process could take a while. Most of the producers who expressed interest in our screenplay said “we’ll get back to you in two weeks,” or “you should hear from our creative producer within six weeks.” So we’re in to the waiting game. Barbara followed up the pitch conference with a Skype pitch last week, with a big-name producer. His response? An email saying he’ll get back to her in 3 weeks. So we’re in the game, and in it for the long haul. We’ll keep everyone posted. Thank you for your good wishes!
Meanwhile, a new edition of Zehbel, The Clever One will be coming out on Amazon in a few days. We’re bringing back the original cover everyone liked so much from the first printing. It should be out on Kindle within the week.
So I’ll be out giving a few more talks to local groups and pestering the radio stations again. More on that another time.

From Hokendauqua To Hollywood

original cover designed by graphic artist Jamie Roman

Zebel, The Clever One, heads to Hollywood! Mike Roman’s book is being turned into a screenplay, highlighting selected scenes from the book along with new material never seen before. Now its time to finish up the script, check the beats, practice pitches and get everything ready in preparation for selling the screenplay. Sound like quite a gamble? So was moving a young family to a foreign country called Iran. Hollywood, here we come!

Beaufort and Back to Business

Lucretia and I down in Beaufort last fall.

I’m enjoying a well-deserved vacation with my extended family down in Beaufort, South Carolina. We got to see some incredible fireworks at Port Royal (the Marines cancelled theirs due to the sequestration, citing limited funds), and I’ve been spending time fixing up my boat, taking the grand-kids here and there, eating great food, swimming and just relaxing in the sun.
Three of my daughters just came back from their much-anticipated Teheran American School Reunion in Las Vegas, so I got to hear how amazing it was to reconnect with all their friends from forty years ago. The girls and everyone who lived in Iran for a time carries the memories of living in a foreign land and falling in love with the place and the people.
Really getting to know the Iranian people involves letting go of past misconceptions.
They are a warm and wonderful people — aside from a few bad guys.
But the memories grab on to you and won’t let go.

We get so insulated in this country. America is big and our borders are open to all kinds of people from around the world. Many of them speak English, so we never really get into the rich knowledge of another person’s culture. The best way to do that is to go there and live among them for a time.
Once you do, you are forever changed.
That’s what my book, Zehbel The Clever One is about: accepting change, and learning a new culture. Keeping true to who you are and what you stand for, even in the face of rampant corruption and the death of people you love.
We are more connected than we know, to everyone on the planet.
My story is a part of theirs too, and I have changed their lives as well.
Read Zehbel. It may shatter a few illusions, but the message is a good one.
Know who you are and what matters to you.
Stand by that, and pass it on to your family.

Funny Hats and Beautiful Women, New Year’s Eve 1967

Along with the hazards of living in the Middle East, Lucretia and I soon discovered the many delights of working and living abroad — including free tuition for our children, a Dangerous Living Allowance, wonderfully low prices at the PX Commissary (imagine paying just $3 for a bottle of premium-label Scotch like Johnny Walker), and a whole new circle of friends. My FAA assignment included all the perks accorded to a major in the USAF, including membership in the Officer’s Club.

We enjoyed getting acquainted with new faces, some of whom became lifelong friends. Sure, it meant occasionally wearing funny hats and dressing up in ridiculous outfits (I’m hoping none of my friends have a picture of me in those skin-tight lederhosen from one memorable evening!), but I’d say it was worth it. A true friend is a treasure beyond price. Here’s a picture of a few of them from New Year’s Eve, 1967. Lorie Hartquist is next to me. Her husband, Fred is across the table from me, next to Laurie Hemp.

Muslims, Catholics and a Mission in Iran

There was a small Catholic church on Shemeron Road in north Teheran when we arrived there in 1967. We called it the Catholic Mission and went there every Friday. The Muslim day of rest began on Thursday evening, when one could no longer distinguish colors because it was too dark. It lasted until Friday evening. When I was away, installing equipment in other parts of Iran, I did my best to get home by Friday morning to attend Mass with Lucretia and the children. There weren’t many places where the Catholic Mass was celebrated in Iran. Most Catholic churches there celebrated Mass on Friday, so you could work or go to school the rest of the week.
Our pastor was Fr. Williams. He’d been a missionary in China, was arrested, tortured and imprisoned there for many years. He was very thin, aesthetic , with a gentle smile that lit up his lined face. We weren’t sure of his age and no one asked. He might have been in his 70s at that point. Fr. Williams offered Mass every Friday morning at the tiny church on Shemeron Road. The Second Vatican Council had concluded two years earlier and Fr. Williams celebrated Mass in the new style, facing the people. He used to say, “The Mass is the meal. The meal is Christ. ”
We knew he was poor; he didn’t seem to have anything to live on, and looked like he really needed a good meal himself. Naturally, Lucretia invited him to our house for dinner many times. Fr. Williams never talked about himself. We didn’t know where he was from, only that his order had sent him to Iran after he was released from prison in China. He was there at the Catholic Mission the whole time we lived in Iran. Most Americans were in the military. They came and went, putting in their 2 year overseas assignments, but Fr. Williams stayed. He was a holy man, a saintly man.
It was different when we first got to Iran, in 1967. Catholics were tolerated. Teheran was being westernized by Reza Shah Pahlavi. The Ayatollah Khomeini had been kicked out of Iran and the religious leaders, the mullahs, seemed to be afraid of the Shah. Nobody could attack a woman for wearing western clothes, under the Shah. The Iranian officers’ wives all wore western clothes; they wanted to look modern and up to date.
The Shah favored Zoroastrians; they had a free visa. Anyone of the Zoroastrian faith could enter the country without restriction. I don’t believe the Shah liked the Muslims at all. He’d have his picture taken kneeling in prayer, covered with a shawl. But he never made himself out to be a religious Muslim.
Poorer women out in the villages wore the traditional chadors. They seemed to be more religious, following Muslim customs. Wealthier people did not adhere to the Muslim faith at all. Some even mocked it, laughing at the poor villagers. The wealthy Iranians never talked about Christians; they ignored the faith. Maybe it was safer not to talk about it. We saw the contrasts between rich and poor, secular and religious Iranians, but in those days, our rights were respected. We were allowed to build up our church and practice our faith without restriction.
The hierarchy in Teheran was a French bishop who traveled around in a big limousine. He demanded money from the Catholic Mission. Fr. Williams encouraged people not to give “You can give what you want; I wouldn’t give anything,” he told us with a twinkle in his eye. He was at our house for dinner and Lucretia was heaping his plate with mashed potatoes. He was so thin. Naturally, as a nurse, Lucretia worried he wasn’t taking care of himself.
One of our American friends was a high-ranking officer. He was a Protestant, but married to a devout Catholic woman. Anyway, this officer got Fr. Williams a job as an auxiliary chaplain attached to the US military in Teheran. That guaranteed him a decent salary; it was a nice thing to do. It was the right thing.
The Americans in Iran were relatively young; there weren’t many old people. Fr. Williams would go around visiting sick people. Then we Americans built a school, a whole complex of buildings so the kids could attend religious education classes. And we took better care of Fr. Williams. He had a wonderful rapport with all the people; he loved them .
After Mass, while the kids went to CCD, we’d walk around the beautiful gardens with paved walks which surrounded the little church. It was a good time to catch up on the news, talking to other parents. That’s how we met our friend, sweet Livvy. She wasn’t a very knowledgeable Catholic, but she sent her kids to CCD. Her husband Ray wasn’t a Catholic. There was a bowling alley down the road, on another block. Sometimes the kids would sneak out of CCD and go bowling. I don’t think they did it very often. They told us about it, years later.
Out in the country, most villages were isolated. People were excited to meet Americans; they smiled and said hello. They were extremely friendly. The women wore their chadors because the mullahs came around to check on that. I think the mullahs had a lot more influence among poorer people and in the villages. But the people went out of their way to do things for you, in spite of what the mullahs ordered. They were told to stay away from Christians, but they liked me.
I worked with so many Iranians, every day. They thought I was special. We were working together on projects to help their country. They looked up to me because I seemed to have all the answers, all the time. I got very close to several people. When people get close to you they trust you and share all kinds of stories about their lives. That was when I really started to learn about the Iranian people, their warmth and generosity. They are an amazing people.

Carolyn’s First Holy Communion,
Catholic Mission,
Teheran, Iran 1968