She was a Friend of Mine

 

Nahid and I met over twenty years ago. We were both published in Margo Perin's anthology How I Learned to Cook: And Other Writings on Complex Mother-Daughter Relationships. Nahid and I bonded over writing, as well as our difficult childhoods. However, Nahid’s childhood was something out of a sweeping historical novel--something akin to War and Peace. She lived a big life--a truly epic life.

And yet, her writing was not loud or explosive. Rather, her writing was precise and considered, carefully crafted, poetic and beautifully rendered.

My friend wrote with the knowledge that the simple act of language and story-telling carried with it the capacity to ignite a revolution and change the course of not only one's own life, but the course of history.

Nahid was born in Iran during the reign of the U.S. installed Shah--a complex time--when the veil was not required, when her family spoke French, and went to see western movies. And yet, it was also a time when an arranged marriage for a nine year old girl to a thirty-four year old man was not unusual.

This would have been Nahid's fate had she remained in Iran. But rather, she won a full scholarship to college in the United States, and married an American man. And then--and this is where the art comes in--she returned to her former home in Iran during those dangerous and confusing days leading up the revolution, the ousting of the Shah and the arrival of the Ayatollah Khomeini.

And so, she herself had become a stranger in her own land. And yet, she always remained a stranger in America. This sense of non-belonging is what inspired her debut novel, Foreigner and was the driving force behind much of her work. In fact, during my last meeting with Nahid, she talked about the sense of never being quite at home in the world--not in Iran, not here.

But dare I say, this sense of never quite belonging is the nature of being an artist. It's the thing that keeps us always searching and it's the thing that drives us to understand the mysteries of life, and to create.

I miss my friend. I miss her beauty and her elegance, her grace. I miss her ferocity. I miss practicing French with her. I miss her fashion sense. I miss her delicate features, her soulful eyes.

Yes, she is gone, but her words, her language, her stories--they remain with us. They are the gift she has left to those of us who survive her. Thank you for that, Nahid. Thank you for everything.

Rest in peace, dear friend.

Love,

Jamie

To read more about Nahid, please visit The New York Times, link here:

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/05/14/books/nahid-rachlin-dead.html