Tales From Tehran

Your first novel, “The Septembers of Shiraz,” has become a surprise hit, in part because it so vividly captures the veiled world of post-revolutionary Iran and the unjust fate of one Isaac Amin, a Jewish rare-gem dealer who winds up in jail. Is the novel at all autobiographical? It’s loosely based on my family’s experiences. When I was 8, my father was arrested for being a Zionist spy. We didn’t know where he was. My mom would go out looking for him. And then he just reappeared one day, about a month later.

The Revolutionary Guard, which arrested him, are very much in the news these days — President Bush is hoping to have them officially branded as terrorists. Some of our neighbors, at our last home in Tehran, were Revolutionary Guards. We would see them coming home, carrying TVs and VCRs and things they took from peoples’ homes.

Didn’t President Ahmadinejad begin his career as one of the guards? In photographs, I always think he looks more like a homely professor than a tyrant. Yes. He’s so dangerous, but he looks like a little mouse.

What was it like growing up as a Jew in a Muslim country? Every morning before classes the entire school would line up in the schoolyard and sing revolutionary songs. Afterward we would chant: “Marg bar America! Marg bar Israel! — Death to America! Death to Israel!”

Did school officials know you were Jewish? Yes, but they view Judaism and Zionism as different entities. They may have some tolerance for the religion, but Israel is Zionism, and that’s the evil. As they say, the big Satan is America, and the little Satan is Israel.

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You were 11 years old when you arrived in New York as an exile. Where were you educated? I went to the Lycée Francais, where I had to learn Molière by heart. Then I went to N.Y.U. I majored in French literature and minored in creative writing. Later, I went to Sarah Lawrence and got an M.F.A. in fiction.

Have you met any of the Iranian-American writers who have recently published memoirs, like Azadeh Moaveni (“Lipstick Jihad”) or Azar Nafisi (“Reading ‘Lolita’ in Tehran”)? No. There are a lot of women who have written memoirs.

I would think that Iranian-born women see memoir-writing as a kind of protest against a society that demands so much stillness and silence of them. Perhaps. Even Farsi, as a language, is elusive and indirect. There’s this whole idea of taarof — you say something you don’t mean, and the other person is supposed to pick up on it.

For example? If I am visiting you, I may say, “It is getting late; I must go,” and you say, “No, please stay,” and I am supposed to know that you really want me to go. People have to pick up on codes.

Is that a hint? If so, I’m too caught up in taarof to tell you so.

Are you ever afraid of being persecuted by Iranian fanatics? For a little while, I was very paranoid and thought they might actually try to track me down. But I don’t think about it much anymore. They have other things to worry about.

Do you have nightmares? I do. A lot. I am being pursued. Being chased.

Do you live by yourself? I live with my cat, Leo, an orange tabby with a gorgeous coat. The name Leo, shared by many popes and Byzantine emperors, really suits him. He is definitely the absolute monarch of my apartment.

Do you want to go back to Iran? In my heart, I do wish I could go back. I don’t feel rooted here. But New York is so welcoming and homey. I enjoy New York. It’s not like I am ungrateful. I enjoy New York like a guest would enjoy a lovely hotel.