The lion women of Tehran / Marjan Kamali.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

NATIONAL BESTSELLER

An " evocative read and a powerful portrait of friendship, feminism, and political activism" ( People ) set against three transformative decades in Tehran, Iran--from nationally bestselling author Marjan Kamali.

In 1950s Tehran, seven-year-old Ellie lives in grand comfort until the untimely death of her father, forcing Ellie and her mother to move to a tiny home downtown. Lonely and bearing the brunt of her mother's endless grievances, Ellie dreams for a friend to alleviate her isolation.

Luckily, on the first day of school, she meets Homa, a kind girl with a brave and irrepressible spirit. Together, the two girls play games, learn to cook in the stone kitchen of Homa's warm home, wander through the colorful stalls of the Grand Bazaar, and share their ambitions of becoming "lion women."

But their happiness is disrupted when Ellie and her mother are afforded the opportunity to return to their previous bourgeois life. Now a popular student at the best girls' high school in Iran, Ellie's memories of Homa begin to fade. Years later, however, her sudden reappearance in Ellie's privileged world alters the course of both of their lives.

Together, the two young women come of age and pursue their own goals for meaningful futures. But as the political turmoil in Iran builds to a breaking point, one earth-shattering betrayal will have enormous consequences.

"Reminiscent of The Kite Runner and My Brilliant Friend , The Lion Women of Tehran is a mesmerizing tale" ( BookPage ) of love and courage, and a sweeping exploration of how profoundly we are shaped by those we meet when we are young.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter One ONE December 1981 I stood on the lacquered floor--a small woman in black with a rectangular name badge on my chest. My coiffed, contented look was calculated so I'd appear not just satisfied but quietly superior. In America, I'd learned the secret to being a successful salesperson was to act like one of the elite, as if spritzing perfume on customers' blue-veined wrists were doing them a favor. A sea of haughty New Yorkers swerved to avoid my spray. Thank God for the more down-to-earth women--the cooks and bakers coming up to the first floor from the basement home goods section--they were too polite to reject the fragrant droplets I offered. Orange, lily, jasmine, and rose notes nestled in the lines of my palms and the fibers of my clothes. "Look at you, Ellie! Soon you'll take over this whole brand. I better watch my back!" My friend and coworker Angela, returning from her cigarette break, sidled up and whispered in my ear. The scent of her Hubba Bubba gum couldn't hide the smoke on her breath. I shivered at the reek of tobacco. The bitter, sour notes would forever remind me of one long-ago night in Iran. The night when an act of betrayal changed the entire course of my friendship with Homa and both of our lives. From the moment I'd read Homa's letter last night, I'd been a wreck. I batted away Angela's compliments, said I wasn't doing all that well, really, and that I had a headache because I hadn't eaten all day. " I just might faint ," I added with a touch of melodrama. It was a relief when Angela was whisked away by a needy customer. My mother always said the envy of others invites the evil eye to cast doom on us. She'd often told me that being perceived as too competent, happy, or successful could summon misfortune. I knew belief in the powers of other people's jealousy and the jinxing of an evil eye needed to be cast off. But at the age of thirty-eight, in the middle of that massive Manhattan department store, I was still unwittingly beholden to superstition. The truth of who I was could not be escaped. Nor could the flaw I had spent years trying to quash and erase. The guilty one had always been me. Earlier that morning, in our apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, my husband, Mehrdad, had tried to comfort me with breakfast. He prepared toast with feta cheese and cherry jam. He brewed bergamot tea. But I couldn't eat or drink. The jam was made from Homa's recipe. The bergamot tea in the white teapot adorned with two pink roses reminded me of her. With the arrival of her letter, her absence dominated my life all over again. When I had first seen the red-and-blue-bordered airmail envelope, I'd assumed it was from Mother and would contain the usual mix of laments and updates about the dangerous political situation in Iran. I knew those letters were probably opened and read by regime forces, but my mother often didn't care and wrote bluntly: Aren't you lucky, Ellie? You left and escaped the violent demonstrations and deafening riots. You skipped our country's slide back into medieval times. Women have lost decades, no, centuries, of rights in this country. I'm glad you're sitting comfortably with your professor husband in America. Thank goodness you got out! But when I pulled the onionskin paper from the envelope and unfolded it, my heart almost stopped. For there on the page was the unmistakable curlicue handwriting of my old friend, Homa. As girls, we'd sat on the same elementary school bench in downtown Tehran. Together we scratched out hopscotch grids in our neighborhood alley and raced to school with satchels bouncing against our hips. With Homa, I had zigzagged through the mazes of the Grand Bazaar and shared ice cream sandwiches and dreams for the kind of women we'd become. In her stone kitchen, I learned to cook. With her hand in mine, I jumped over the largest bonfires. When we'd hiked up Alborz Mountain and seen Tehran laid out beneath us, it felt like the world could be entirely ours. Until one moment of striking carelessness ruined it all. For the past seventeen years, we had been ghaar --purposefully estranged--with no contact save one unplanned encounter. Now her letter was in my hands. How did she know where to find me? She must have gotten my address from Mother. One page of Homa's letter was filled with questions about my life in America. And another was about her situation in Iran. Her health was good ( pressure in the sinuses but nothing more ), the weather ( cold and yet delicious in the mountains--remember the teahouse we went to? ) was fitting for the season, her job as a teacher kept her busy. But her mind was not at ease ( You wouldn't recognize this country, Ellie. I don't know where we went wrong ). At the bottom was a sentence about Bahar, her daughter, and how she loved to sing. She closed the letter with Can you call me, Ellie? Please. My number is 272963. I need to speak to you. It's urgent. After I told Mehrdad about the letter, he held me close and said gently, "It's good she's reached out. You were the best of friends. Time to air it all out, Ellie. Speak to her." How I wish it were so simple. I couldn't blame Homa for cutting contact. But now she had flown back into my life all innocence and zest, creating a crater of questions with her sign-off. It's urgent. At the end of my shift, I removed my name pin, put it in the counter drawer, then pulled on my warm camel coat and striped leg warmers. As I rushed outside toward the subway station, the cold December air carried the scent of roasted nuts from food carts and diesel fumes from hissing city buses. Large-bellied, tired-looking men dressed as Santa Claus rang bells, pointing to their kettle buckets and shouting, "Merry Christmas!" Gold and silver tinsel framed the insides of shop windows and trees with shiny ornaments winked behind glass displays. There was a chill in the air that made my breath float in visible rings. The words in Homa's letter ran through my head. Suddenly a taxi swerved far too close to me and honked loudly. My heart fell as I remembered another time a car had almost hit me. But this time, the only damage done was sludgy puddle water soaking through my leg warmers. A neon pizza sign flashed red and yellow close to the subway entrance. I got giddy at the thought of a slice. Since arriving in New York almost four and a half years ago, I'd strolled through Central Park, visited museums filled with global art, and dined in a few fancy restaurants. But no cultural experience topped eating a salty, cheesy, hot slice of New York pizza. Every pizzeria seemed to be in on the secret recipe for tangy tomato sauce and a perfectly foldable crust. I looked at my wristwatch. No point in getting into the train hungry and drained of energy. I slipped into the pizza place and waited in line to order. After paying my seventy-five cents, I walked out with a cheese slice snug in a triangular cardboard box. I opened the box to take my first bite. I heard her before I saw her. She moaned rhythmically as though in pain. Under the dim light of the streetlamp near the subway station, I made her out: an old woman huddled against the lamppost, two plastic bags on her feet, a flowered headscarf barely covering her hair. In between moans she asked unresponsive passersby in a weak voice on mechanical repeat: "Madam, can you spare a dime? Mister, can you spare a nickel?" I wanted to get to my train. Get home. I needed to think, to decide whether I would call my old friend. But how could I ignore this woman? I went to her and stooped down. She smiled, and I was surprised to see straight and perfect teeth. The old woman held my gaze. Her eyes were watery and opaque-looking. She shrugged slightly. In that small movement, I detected a silent acknowledgment of the randomness of the wheel of fortune. I handed her my triangular cardboard box--the pizza in it still hot and untouched. From my bag, I found the kiss-lock purse Mother had given me as a child in Iran, opened it, and took out all the coins and a few scrunched-up bills. American money still appeared strange to me: so green and thick compared to our bills back home. The lady took the pizza, coins, and bills I offered with a look of bewilderment. I got up and walked away. As I descended the subway station steps, I turned around only once. She was eating the pizza quickly--her face an expression of complete relief. When the train rushed into the tunnel and screeched to a stop, we all jostled and hustled to get inside. The crowded subway car smelled of urine and damp wool. Thankfully, I got a seat. Wedged between strangers, I was grateful for the anonymity. Not one person in that dirty, busy, fascinating, energetic, depressing, alluring city knew about my past or the guilt and regret that swallowed me whole. The train lurched and blasted forward. Someone by the door sneezed and a gentleman in a baseball cap hummed a tune that was strangely cheerful. I closed my eyes. I remembered all of it--every single bit. Those days of connection and chaos that had shaped our friendship could never be forgotten. Excerpted from The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Kamali (The Stationery Shop) captures the soul of Iran in this fantastic and timely story that not only gives listeners much to ponder but also brings a ray of hope. The Shir-Zan (Farsi for "lion women") are the heart of this narrative that celebrates four generations of Iranian and Iranian American women, each with their unique story of hope and inspiration. The lifelong friendship between Ellie and Homa, who met as seven-year-olds when Ellie moved downtown upon her father's death, is a poignant testament to the enduring power of women's relationships. Their journey, along with those of the other women in the story, is a beautiful exploration of hope and friendship. Though weathered and frayed by betrayal and time, their friendship is brought to life by the narration of Mozhan Navabi and Nikki Massoud, who infuse these intelligent, brave, and vibrant characters with warmth and vulnerability. Their authentic accents and new-language-learner pacing and word order effectively delineate each character's generation and level of education, adding depth to the narrative. Navabi and Massoud conjure up hand gestures and facial expressions in listeners' minds. VERDICT This personal history of Iran's 1979 Islamic revolution brings it tragically and heroically to life.--Laura Trombley

Publishers Weekly Review

The insightful latest from Kamali (The Stationary Shop) chronicles the decades-long friendship of two Iranian women whose lives are upended by their country's political upheaval. After seven-year-old Ellie's father dies from tuberculosis in 1950, she and her mother are forced to move to a smaller apartment in one of Tehran's poorer neighborhoods. At her new school, Ellie befriends a spirited classmate named Homa. Several years later, Ellie's mother remarries and they move to a better neighborhood, causing the girls to lose touch. Ellie later attends a prestigious high school and is mortified when Homa, who she now views as uncouth, becomes her classmate and greets her in front of her new friends ("Homa was my past. My two worlds were not supposed to collide"). They eventually rekindle their friendship, but are once again divided when Homa is imprisoned for protesting the shah in 1963. Later sections follow a married Ellie in 1981 New York City, where she receives a desperate letter sent by Homa from Tehran. Though there's not much of a plot, Kamali sustains the reader's interest by exploring the contrasts and sustained connection between the two central characters. This will resonate with fans of women's fiction. Agent: Wendy Sherman, Wendy Sherman Assoc. (July)

Booklist Review

Homa and Ellie meet as children in the city of Tehran and form a seemingly unbreakable bond. Each has hopes and dreams of the future. Homa longs to become a judge so that she can right wrongs and create a more equitable community. Ellie learns the art of translation, but dreams of a kind husband and a large brood of children. Despite these differences, they become lifelong friends. Coming of age over three decades, the friends must also navigate their country's tumult, which includes social injustice, class divide, immigration disruptions, and the loss of women's rights. Kamali (The Stationery Shop, 2019) places food center stage with vivid descriptions, from the perfect New York pizza slice to traditional savory Iranian dishes, immersing readers in the culinary delights of Iranian cuisine especially--readers will virtually taste the food on the page. As these two remarkable women strive to overcome the hardships they face and fight for their rights, Kamali's narrative highlights the struggles of women in Iran and explores relationship challenges between friends and family. "Women. Life. Freedom."

Kirkus Book Review

A lifetime of friendship endures many upheavals. Ellie and Homa, two young girls growing up in Tehran, meet at school in the early 1950s. Though their families are very different, they become close friends. After the death of Ellie's father, she and her difficult mother must adapt to their reduced circumstances. Homa's more warm and loving family lives a more financially constrained life, and her father, a communist, is politically active--to his own detriment and that of his family's welfare. When Ellie's mother remarries and she and Ellie relocate to a more exclusive part of the city, the girls become separated. They reunite years later when Homa is admitted to Ellie's elite high school. Now a political firebrand with aspirations to become a judge and improve the rights of women in her factionalized homeland, Homa works toward scholastic success and begins practicing political activism. Ellie follows a course, plotted originally by her mother, toward marriage. The tortuous path of the girls' adult friendship over the following decades is played out against regime change, political persecution, and devastating loss. Ellie's well-intentioned but naïve approach stands in stark contrast to Homa's commitment to human rights, particularly for women, and her willingness to risk personal safety to secure those rights. As narrated by Ellie, the girls' story incorporates frequent references to Iranian food, customs, and beliefs common in the years of tumult and reforms accompanying the Iranian Revolution. Themes of jealousy--even in close friendships--and the role of the shir zan, the courageous "lion women" of Iran who effect change, recur through the narrative. The heartaches associated with emigration are explored along with issues of personal sacrifice for the sake of the greater good (no matter how remote it may seem). A touching portrait of courage and friendship. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.