Her

I'm not sure how I feel about her death. I must say I was close... but I wasn't quite done forgiving her for what she put me through, all because she was trying to save her ass and stay out of prison, which she did... or did she?

Is she really dead? Or did she fake her death and escape? If she is dead, was it really cancer that took her life? I know that's the official version, but I've learned not to trust everything the media presents as truth.

What I know for sure is I didn't want her to die. In fact, I wanted her to live a long life... to allow time to give her back everything she did to others, everything she did to me. I wanted her to publicly be held accountable for her crimes, to go to prison, to get a taste of the suffering she put others through.

I'm not referring to the slander or even the four attempts on my life – four that I know of – each of which, in legal terms, is attempted murder. I'm talking about the reason behind her publicly discrediting me, about what I witnessed.

That was never made public, obviously. When a criminal abuses her power, connections, money, and uniform, the corruption is kept quiet because the truth would compromise not only that one criminal, but also all the connections. I was the scapegoat, the distraction.

A plausible story that the ignorant public, the public exposed to years of brainwashing and devoid of the practice of using their brain, would easily accept was delivered... a story that would justify terminating my employment, a story based on evidence planted only to cover up the truth, a story that would make my testimony sound retaliatory, like that of a disgruntled former employee.

The law, a courtroom, a decent judge, and a jury should have decided what her sentence would be for the long list of charges against her – from fraud and embezzlement and destroying evidence to verbal, physical, and sexual assault to intimidation, torture, attempted murder, and murder. I pictured her standing trial, wearing orange instead of green, knowing none of her power, connections, and money would come to her rescue, feeling as powerless as her victims, her many many victims, who now will never get justice.

She left without making amends, and her departure makes me think of the lyrics to The Noose by A Perfect Circle:

But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about making your amends 
To the dead
To the dead

She never faced the consequences of her actions. Living a long life paying for her crimes and thinking about her deeds is what I wanted for her. Assuming she is dead, if cancer is the real reason for her death, and that's a big if, it's not enough.

Was it really cancer, or did she take the easy way out, like the coward that she was. Cancer is a bad way to go, but innocent people get cancer and suffer.

She was far from innocent, but I never wanted death for her. If I'd wished for her death, I would have wanted something more appropriate for her, something more special, like being skinned alive or death by a thousand cuts or being burned alive... a death worthy of the kind of person she was and the kind of things she did – only after she had confessed. However, I never wished for her death. I didn't even care what kind of prison sentence the judge would give her.

For me, the truth coming out would have been enough. I only wanted her to acknowledge what she'd done. That would have meant justice for me. I don't know if it would have been enough for her other victims, though.

Someone once asked me why I didn't sue her. I thought about doing just that at first, but as time went by and I saw how easily she raised her hand and swore to tell the truth then lied in court, I realized I would never win a case against her. It was a mental struggle for me for months, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized suing her, or her department, wouldn't reveal the truth. She'd been sued before, and she had always settled out of court. For me, it was never about financial retribution. I just wanted the truth to come out, and it wouldn't, not the way she manipulated things.

She'd been forced to resign once for killing a young man, and she'd managed to weasel her way back in the system, only to commit more crimes, many more. No... There was never any hope for the truth to come out, not through her.

That left me feeling powerless and angry. It was more than anger. It was rage... for months... maybe a year... maybe longer. That rage was only intensified by the attempts on my life. Writing saved me. It was therapeutic at a time when I couldn't talk to anyone about what had really happened. My daily writing routine allowed me to vent. I wrote all the things I couldn't say.

Announcing her death, the media praised her bravery and integrity. She had neither. If she had been brave or if she'd had integrity, she would have never done any of those things. If she had made a mistake, she would have acknowledged all of it, and righted the wrong. No.

There was no bravery or integrity whatsoever in her. She tried to kill me to keep herself out of prison because she believed I had a video recording of what I had witnessed. That's not integrity or bravery.

My rage gradually turned into a desire for survival. My focus turned to getting my peace back and putting these despicable criminals behind me. So I did. I got my life back. Despite her multiple attempts to have me killed, somehow the universe protected me.

Look who's dead now. I guess I should take the gift the universe has given me at the beginning of this new year, be grateful for it, and say “Goodbye, Shit Head”...

I can't, however. I hated what that corrupt clown did to me, but I have to admit her criminal actions were the catalyst that got me from the life I had, and enjoyed, to the life I'd always dreamed of having.

My life in the US hasn't been easy, but I've managed by myself, and I've felt proud of my efforts and independence. I've spent all my adult life in this country working toward realizing my dreams. I've worked hard for three decades. I've always obeyed the law. I've always been a no-nonsense person, and that, of course, has never sat well with people who think everyone can be manipulated or bought. Despite all the hardship, I've always enjoyed my own struggles and achievements. I've celebrated accomplishing smaller tasks, done my best to reach my bigger goals, and worked hard to have a simple, quiet, and peaceful life.

I gave up a lot for this life. Had I stayed in Iran, I would have continued to live in a mansion, taught at the most prestigious university in the country, and retired after thirty years of work, which in my case would have been at the age of forty-six. Also, I would have stayed close to my entire family and enjoyed their love and support. Therefore, making the decision to move wasn't easy.

I decided to leave Iran, however, because there were many aspects of that culture I didn't like. I'd spent most of my childhood in Europe and the clash I felt was too much for me. Most of all, I despised the corruption in the country. That was my ultimate reason for my immigration.

I moved to the US in the hope of making a better life: a modest life with less corruption and more peace. It may not be much by most people's standards, but for me it was everything. Besides, I never wanted a big house. In fact, I'd always loved tiny homes. Also, I made my peace with having to work twenty more years than I would in Iran. I was a workaholic anyway. As for the corruption...

For the longest time, I stupidly believed there was no corruption here, at least not any that would affect my life. Corruption, I thought, happened among politicians, and I had no connection to that life. I was just a girl teaching, tutoring, editing, and learning. I was minding my own business... until I accidentally witnessed something I shouldn't have.

Then my world came crumbling down. Not because I did anything, but because she saw me as a loose end. I was a witness; therefore, I was dangerous. Overnight, I lost everything: I was attacked in my home, my possessions were broken or stolen, evidence was planted, my integrity was questioned, and I was wrongly accused.

Accused, threatened, homeless, hunted, I survived it all. For all that, I am so proud of myself and so amazed at how strong I have been. I didn't even realize all this until I started reading all the things I had written down since that time. Reviewing those writings, I saw how my rage changed to gratitude.

I wrote this piece, an acrostic about her, in May 2016:

(“An acrostic is a poem in which the first letter of each line spells out a word, message or the alphabet.” Wikipedia)

Cooked up a fine story
Only to save her tail,
Called me a criminal
Knowing she would prevail
Supported by her drove.
Used all of her power,
Corrupt and deceitful,
Knavish, cunning, and sly,
Eluding justice. Then
Rejoicing in her lie.

I wrote this piece, a letter addressed to her, in September 2020:

You attacked me with all your might.

I took your attack;

I used it to make myself the life I always wanted.

You threw stones at me, hoping to kill me;

I picked them up one by one;

I built myself the house I always wanted.

The truth is...

Without your viciousness,

I wouldn't have the beautiful life I have today.

The universe put your ugliness in my way to make me change tracks.

All bad things are blessings in disguise.

I am grateful for you.

I see my transformation, and it's hard for me to believe all of this happened in less than five years. I'm grateful for my guardian angels, my dogs, and my true friends. I'm grateful for all the ugliness in my life, too. I can't have any regrets because without every single one of those lessons, including her, I wouldn't be the me I am today. I am grateful for where I am now, in this moment in time and space. I'm alive today, living my dream life.