Dora Levy Mossanen2013-05-25T19:46:26-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=dora-levy-mossanenCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Dora Levy MossanenGood old fashioned elbow grease.On the Merits of a Cigartag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31042252013-04-24T19:24:55-04:002013-04-24T19:25:02-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
I just returned from Montreal where, thanks to the Jewish Book Council and to the Montreal Public Library, I spoke to a group of around 70 or 80 members, whose many intelligent questions kept the evening lively and the auditorium buzzing.
Having never been to Montreal, my husband and I decided to extend our trip for a couple of days to enjoy the much heralded beauties of the city. We were impressed by the charming architecture, but more so by the kindness and generosity of its people. We walked a good part of the city, disregarding an unexpected snow storm, below zero temperatures, and a right foot that for no reason--other than, perhaps, being struck by the evil eye--ached so badly, I was forced to limp like a pregnant duck.
On our only free evening, we decided to spoil ourselves and asked the concierge to suggest a "magnificent" restaurant, my choice of word, alas. "Europa!" His immediate response. "You can easily spend four hours there," he added, "It's an unsurpassed culinary experience."
We combed and teased and dressed up for the occasion and walked six blocks in the slush and snow, yours truly hanging for dear life to my husband's arm, slipping now and then, imagining sacrificing my life at the feet of my ravenous stomach. I had not eaten much the entire day, other than chocolate, 99 percent cocoa.
We arrived in one piece, pleased at the warm sepia décor and friendly ambience. We were seated under a red crinoline floor lamp that made everyone and everything appear flushed with joy and beauty. The bread was warm and delicious--yes I go to a "magnificent" restaurant and I report the bread. But then again, I gauge the quality of a restaurant based on the merits of its bread and butter, which to me is the best part of the meal. One course after another came, small morsels displayed like gems we thoroughly enjoyed--an added bonus, no sign of pork in anything.
We were halfway through the meal, enjoying every bite, waiting expectantly for the main course, when the waiter approached with a cigar box. "Cigar for Madame?"
Is this a joke, I wondered, offering the waiter a tentative smile.
"Would Madame like a cigar?" she repeated, unfazed by my growing shock and annoyance at her doggedly serious expression.
I glanced at the shiny wooden top of the box, embossed with golden letters that pronounced: "Cigars from Havana," or something to that effect. No, this was not a joke.
I turned to the waiter and barked, "Do I look like someone who would light a cigar to cleanse her palette?"
She snapped the box open, releasing a puff of aromatic smoke and revealing two appetizing cheese croquettes in the shape of cigars.
"Perhaps Madame has changed her mind now?"
Madame had changed her mind, but so did her appetite.]]>The Comfort of Liestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30553422013-04-12T14:09:10-04:002013-04-12T14:09:16-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
The ups and downs of everyday life, the many dramatic struggles woven into the fabric of life, provide writers -- this group of shameless voyeurs and hoarders of stories -- with invaluable ideas for our novels. In The Comfort of Lies (Atria Books, 323 pp), Randy Susan Meyers, the bestselling author of The Murderer's Daughter, explores such modern-day themes of love and obsession, motherhood and adoption, trust and infidelity, and above all, the resiliency of the human spirit and the intrinsic need to forgive.
The story is told through four alternating points of view: Tia, a young, impressionable woman, who gave her daughter up for adoption five years ago; Nathan, a married man, who has a short-lived affair with Tia, but turns his back on her and disappears when she becomes pregnant with his child; Juliette, Nathan's wife, whose life is upended when she learns about Nathan's affair; and Caroline, the adoptive mother, whose work as a pathologist seems to take precedence over her motherly responsibilities.
Initially, the women are clueless of each other's affairs, but soon enough secrets are revealed, emotions prevail, actions are taken, often rash, forcing the women to confront one another.
At stake is the future of Savannah, a five-year-old girl, whose adoptive mother seems ambivalent about her role as a mother until faced with the possibility of losing Savannah.
Meyers delves into the layered facets of motherhood and how children not only shape the fate of their parents, but also manage to sometimes tinker with their emotional balance and sense of judgment. Tia compiles a scrapbook of Savannah's mailed photographs, and the reader knows that trouble is not far behind. No sensible person, with such an explosive secret, is allowed to collect evidence for the world to witness. But Tia's obsessive love for Nathan, in addition to her desire to know her daughter, sets her on a reckless path. So much so that she sends a letter to Nathan that ends in the hands of his wife, causing a whirlwind of events -- some expected, others not -- and forcing everyone to come face-to-face, unearth secrets, and acknowledge past mistakes.
The strength of the book lies in shedding light on the much-too-common dilemmas of modern times, and its weakness in the fact that few of the characters, while embroiled in their own sense of right and wrong, fail to take the child's future welfare into account, until too late into the novel.
Meyers has given us a tapestry of family life that begs a universal question: how would we react if we were to find ourselves in the same predicament as any one of these characters?]]>Review: Women of the Shahnamehtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28150532013-03-15T17:34:03-04:002013-05-15T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
It is not often that I come across a book, the subject of which is so exciting, I'm compelled to praise it, even before I've had a chance to read the book. Women in the Shahnameh; Their History and Social Status within the Framework of Ancient and Medieval Sources, by Djalal Khaleghi Motlagh, edited by Dr. Nahid Pirnazar, and translated by Brigitte Neuenschwander, is such a book.
Last week, I had two calls from two different ladies, whose worthwhile work in the Fariborz Fred Matloob Foundation I very much respect, inviting me to attend a book signing and speaking event for the launch of Women in the Shahnameh.
As we begin to celebrate March as National Women's Month, my eternal commitment to raising and strengthening the status of women -- both in my world and in my books -- is as strong as ever. Thus, as a staunch admirer of Dr. Pirnazar's work, I found myself on Sunday at the residence of the Shooshanis, who hosted this event, opening their beautiful home to an attendance, which to my pleasant surprise, was more than 100 strong. The book, I mused with a wide smile, is alive and kicking.
I learned that Nahid Pirnazar first discovered the German text of Die Frauen im Schahname (Women in the Shahnameh) on the dusty shelves of the UCLA library while pursuing her doctorate degree in 1997. Despite Khaleghi's seminal work being of critical importance to a vast array of disciplines, the text in fact had never been translated into Persian or English. Upon meeting Professor Djalal Khalegi Motlagh at an international conference in Hamburg, Germany in 2006, Dr. Pirnazar secured his blessing to translate the work into English and eventually, Persian. With the help of Brigitte Neuenschwander, Dr. Pirnazar expertly lifted Women in the Shahnameh from its original pages for republication within the context of a 21st century, global market audience.
Women in the Shahnameh explores the vital role of the female gender as expressed within that great national epic of Iranian culture, the Shahnameh. Viewing the Shahnameh for the historical document and cultural cornerstone that it is, Dr. Khaleghi's original work (first published in 1971) sought to shed light on the position and practices of early Islamic women.
Analyzing the variety of female figures and expressions of womanhood throughout the Shahnameh, Dr. Khaleghi does well to outline notions of gender within the pre-Islamic familial framework and society at large. Undoubtedly, the female characters contained within the Shahnameh, and brilliantly brought to life by Khaleghi, Dr. Pirnazar and Neuenschwander in Women in the Shahnameh, appear as a fulcrum upon which the contemporary female may stand proud.]]>The Lure: Some Things Are Better Left Hiddentag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19342652012-10-04T10:36:12-04:002012-12-04T05:12:01-05:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
If you were to peel life like an onion, you'd find layer after layer of hidden meaning philosophers have debated over for centuries and will continue to do so until the end of time. Why are we here? Where are we going? Who is our creator? Does she exist and if so, how involved is she in our lives? I could go on and on about scientific and religious debates having to do with the mystery of creation, to do with Adam and Eve, the Big Bang theory, evolution, or whether our creator is nature itself. But I divert into sensitive territory.
I bring up the symbolism of the onion because research for my recent historical novel, The Last Romanov, was like peeling not one, but many boxes of onions -- one box brimmed with rotten political onions, another with familial intrigues, yet another dealt with the inner politics of court, and one held sticky-layered, hard-to-peel onions that had to do with the intricacies of keeping the heir's hemophilia a secret from the Russian people. Every under-layer revealed unexpected secrets that helped explain the social and political landscape of the time.
Every book, every page, every website, and every interview shed light on new details that illuminated how numerous small sparks gathered force to create a great explosion that ended the 300-year-old Romanov dynasty and gave rise to the Bolsheviks and, eventually, Communism. In hindsight, Tsar Nicholas II and his advisers should have paid attention to these smaller insurgencies before it was too late. But the Romanov Court was isolated inside a cocoon of denial, the truth often kept from them, concealed under a carapace of false grandiosity so thick that years of unrest, series of revolutions, and even World War I failed to alert them to the seriousness of the situation. To the Imperial family, like goldfish swimming in muddy waters, the world outside appeared opaque and unfathomable.
Talking about the mystery and allure of veiled things reminds me of our Naneh, who came to Tehran from the village of Rasht and lived with us until the onset of the Islamic Revolution. She was endowed with large breasts that were a constant source of fascination. Every now and then she dug her fist into her cleavage and fished out a hidden treasure to calm down one of the children -- a plastic rooster, a clay teacup or saucer, a piece of slightly melted chocolate that smelled of the humid places she came from, a tiny plastic doll with carved yellow hair and painted, raisin eyes. Most often, she would flip out a bunch of keys to unlock our cellar, where honey dews, watermelons, summer fruits and sacks of nuts and rice were stored to keep cool. How deep was that crevice and how was it possible to fit so much in there, I wondered, fighting the urge to find out for myself?
One day I threw all caution to the wind, snuck behind her, and plunged my hand between her breasts. She slapped the back of my hand so hard my ears buzzed for the rest of that day. But I had discovered hidden in there, something cool, soft, and almost spongy, something full of promise I wanted badly. My curiosity sparked, I went on a mission, following Naneh as she huffed and puffed around the house to complete her chores. Every now and then, she narrowed her eyes and aimed a dark stare my way, cursing under her breath. I'd scurry to find temporary shelter behind a chair or door as if her stares were arrows that might maim. By the end of the day, she plopped down on a stool in the kitchen, turned to me and held me in her gaze that kept changing expression -- disgust, pity, rage, even a hint of compassion. Finally, she hooked one plump forefinger and gestured for me to approach her. But instead of accepting her offer, which I had anticipated all day, I was paralyzed with fear. Those meaty hills loomed high, ready to swallow me like the Bermuda triangle. I wanted nothing more than to uncover the secret of that hidden thing in her cleavage, mysterious and inviting. But what if her breasts locked up? Clamp! Broke my fingers with one snap, or forever imprisoned my hand in its humid depth?
My imagination running wild and scared to death, I drew a deep breath and stepped forward. I stopped short of Naneh's reach and stared down her paisley shirt. She unbuttoned two red glass buttons to further release the already loose collar of her blouse. "Ya'Allah!" She ordered, or encouraged, I couldn't tell which. "What are you waiting for?" I pointed to her chest. "Bia! Come, get it, then. Y'Allah." I started shaking in my tiny ballerina slippers. Even a child is able to smell a trap when it stinks to the high heavens. Still! The deliciously tempting treasure was an arm's length away. I stepped closer, reached out and inched two fingers across the edge her blouse, tapped on one glass button, then another, testing the waters, lingering on the upper V of her breasts that felt velvety soft and gigantic under my touch. She held her breath, wiggled her nose, and suddenly threw her head back as if to avoid a slap. A thunderous sneeze burst out of her. Startled back, I came crashing over a stool and found myself splayed on the carpet. Her laughter, louder than her sneeze grated my pride. I dusted myself off, tossed a dirty look her way and threw my shoulders up, pretending that whatever she hid there no longer interested me.
"Come, my nosey little leach," she chuckled, "Come see for yourself. See how I'm hiding the eighth wonder of the world here. Found it right under my nose in Rasht! Come closer, I said!" Her hand crept into her cleavage and reappeared with a perfectly round, pink wad of bubble gum. She stretched it this way and that then rolled it back into a ball and tossed it in her mouth, her jaws grinding like an overactive mill. She looked me straight in the eye and said: "Some things are better left hidden."
In that she was certainly right.
*Article by Dora Levy Mossanen originally published in Zan Magazine Sep/Oct 2012 issue]]>Magical Lake Tahoe Inspires The Last Romanovtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.17774722012-08-15T18:26:29-04:002012-10-15T05:12:02-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
I just returned from my personal Shangri La, or Incline Village, North Lake Tahoe. The artists, Tom and Mary Garrell, had arranged a book signing in Kris Moose, their lovely gallery that displays Tom and Mary's imaginative paintings and photographs. It was wonderful to connect with the locals and enjoy the interest of so many book clubs that flourish in the community.
I fell in love with Lake Tahoe on a crisp summer day in the '60s. I was visiting America for a short time. My brothers were studying at UC Berkeley and we decided to drive from San Francisco to Incline Village. It was a time of long-haired, save-the-earth, tie-dyed, bell-bottomed hippies. Simon and Garfunkel played nonstop on the car radio: "Mrs. Robinson" and "Homeward Bound." We sped across highway 267 toward North Lake Tahoe. The lake, a majestic expanse of turquoise came into view around a bend. One glance and I was smitten. My first dip into the life-giving chill of those waters was magical. I vowed to live here one day, a seemingly out of reach dream at the time. Much has happened since. Above all, a revolution that forced us to flee Iran and settle in California. It took a few decades, but my dream came true. Nowadays, Incline Village is a second home.
An author now, I bring a different perspective to my novels, a point of view that springs from the amalgam of different cultures I experienced. Having spent my formative years in a country where poetry, myth and superstition are woven into the fabric of everyday life, these elements find their way into my stories. The Last Romanov is no exception. If we did not limit ourselves to our five senses, we might consider the fantastical a different form of reality. We might detect magic in ambergris that takes decades to cure under the sun, ambergris whipped by winds and bathed in saltwater to turn into an aromatic offer from the seas and oceans. We might possess the ability to sense the presence of the evil eye before misfortune strikes or believe in the afterlife and in reincarnation and celebrate Darya Borisovna, my protagonist, who has an opal eye.
The reign of Nicholas II is arguably the most tumultuous era in Russian history and the process of research and discovery was rife with surprises.
My research about Grigori Rasputin, who was alleged to possess extraordinary sexual powers and have an amorous affair with Empress Alexandra, revealed a complex man with hypnotic powers, who was believed to hold the life of the hemophilic heir in his hands.
I was faced with numerous challenges. Unaware of the extent of Nicholas II's anti-Semitism and his indifference to the deadly pogroms around Russia, I had developed great affection toward the tsar and his family. How to address this injustice, when Darya Borisovna was devoted to the Romanovs? The solution presented itself in Avram, Darya's lover, who becomes a spokesman for the Jews and Darya's conscience.
During my many days of writing inspired by the lake below, the aromatic pines and trembling aspens above, I came across more than a few fascinating natural wonders. None was as mesmerizing as ambergris, which plays an important role in my novel. Ambergris is a fatty substance sperm whales expel when they suffer indigestion, caused by hard-beaked squids that inflict the poor animal with massive tummy aches. The verdict is still out whether ambergris, which originates in the whale's intestines, is vomit or excrement. This rare substance, which can weigh hundreds of pounds, stinks when first expelled, but once it has a chance to float in the seas and oceans, and be cured by air, sun and saltwater, its foul smell transforms into a tantalizing aroma that encouraged many a myth.
The Chinese call ambergris "dragon spittle fragrance," evoking images of perfumed dragons guarding jewel-filled caves. Throughout history, all the way back to ancient Egypt, ambergris was used to cure anything from simple headaches to hysteria and impotence. And in The Last Romanov, Darya adds ambergris to black honey; wine from Livadia grapes fermented in oak barrels, and melted saffron to create a healing concoction for Alexei, the hemophilic heir to the Romanov throne.
I've come to believe that the lake, with its crystal blue waters nestled in the Sierra Nevada Mountains at an altitude of 6,225 feet, is a place where magic happens every day.]]>Columbus Thriller Uncovers Explorer's Secret Jewish Lifetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.15600522012-05-31T17:26:06-04:002012-07-31T05:12:17-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/The Columbus Affair (Ballantine Books), by New York Times best-selling author Steve Berry.
The many readers who eagerly followed the adventures of Cotton Malone, Berry's beloved action hero, are in for a treat. The Columbus Affair, Berry's first stand-alone thriller since 2005, is an arresting tour de force.
Thomas Sagan, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, is about to commit suicide. He has lost his wife, his daughter and his reputation as a respected journalist. He "tightens his finger on the trigger, imagining how his obituary would start. Tuesday, March 5, former investigative journalist Tom Sagan took his own life at his parents' home in Mount Dora, Florida." A rap on his window. A man outside presses a photograph to the glass. Tom recognizes his 25-year-old estranged daughter, Alle, in the photo. The man holding up the photograph, Zachariah Simon, a Jewish zealot, warns Tom that Alle is at his mercy, her life in danger. Unless Tom allows the exhumation of his father's body. Zachariah wants to get his hands on a secret buried with Tom's father, Abiram, a secret that will presumably lead to the lost treasures of the Second Temple.
What Tom discovers in a sealed packet buried with his father sets into motion a series of adventures that far surpass the dramatic, heart-stopping turns and twists of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code.
Zachariah is intent on finding these "most sacred objects in Judaism" and restoring them to the State of Israel in the hope of building the Third Temple. The problem is that he is not the only one seeking the treasure. A cast of colorful characters set out on the same journey around the globe in search of the holy treasure. Is it Columbus' lost mine or "the Jews' supposed hidden wealth"? As is Berry's way, there is even more at stake here than finding a lost mine. Tom, who converted to Christianity to please his wife, learns that his father was a Levite. "Not of the house of Levi, but chosen for duty and called a Levite. One of only a few men since the time of Columbus who knew the truth... What has lain hidden for nearly two thousand years will once again see the light of day." And now, the reluctant son has inherited the Levite mantle from his father.
Convoluted paths intersect and a network of traps pop up as different groups scheme their way from Florida to Britain, Cuba, Jamaica, Prague and other meticulously detailed locales. In the process, a rich historical tapestry of exotic worlds and cultures unfolds that spans centuries -- all the way back to the destruction of the First and Second Temples, the plight of Jews under Roman rule, and the journey of the enigmatic Christopher Columbus and his Hebrew interpreter, Yosef Ben Ha Levy Haivri. Were the first words spoken in the New World Hebrew?
The profound sadness I felt when I visited Prague a couple of years ago was renewed by the vivid descriptions and the history of the Jewish community in Prague. Only 1,500 practicing Jews are left in Prague, once the "epicenter for European Jewry." The Jewish Quarter in Prague is now home to high-end designer boutiques. The Old-New Synagogue and the Jewish cemetery are heart-wrenching sights. More than 100,000 bodies are buried 12 layers deep in a space no larger than 11,000 square meters. Tombstones are "set at odd angles as if from some earthquake."
Tom pays a visit to Rabbi Berlinger of Prague, who helps him solve a piece of the puzzle. To the end, Tom is surrounded by dangerous, back-stabbing characters, but none more dangerous than Tom himself, a father with no fear for his own life yet intent on saving his daughter. The strained relationship between father and daughter adds a powerful poignancy to the story. The naive Alle is in the clutches of the ruthless Zachariah. "What did you find in grandfather's grave?" she asks her father. Is she spying for Zachariah, Tom's arch-enemy? But Tom, a seasoned reporter and the only Levite who "can complete this journey," will not easily reveal the Levite's secret.
The reader is held spellbound as a series of cinematic episodes of heroism, intrigue and betrayal lead to one surprise after another until the ultimate scene of ... Well! It would be unfair to rob the reader of the pleasure of discovering the remarkable ending.
Originally posted by Dora Levy Mossanen on Jewish Journal (issue June 1-7, 2012)]]>On the Merits of an Arranged Marriagetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.15375942012-05-23T09:59:49-04:002012-07-23T05:12:05-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
The author with her grandmother
My paternal grandmother was 9 years old when she married my grandfather. Or this is what I was told -- until recently, when my dear uncle, who possesses a treasure trove of familial information, informed me that she was thirteen. What is, perhaps, more certain is that she had not yet had her first menstrual period. Her father had extracted a promise from the young groom to refrain from consummating his marriage until his wife "became a woman." Whether my grandfather kept his promise or not, no one will know for certain. Not that her grandchildren did not ask. We were curious, wanted to know, prodded her in jest and when she refused to answer, we changed our tactics. We insisted on interviewing her as if for an important historical book that might thrust the entire family into fame. In answer, her blue eyes twinkled as she flipped her silk Parisian scarf off her knees, waving it in our faces and shooing us away. My grandfather was nine years his bride's senior, himself a young man of 22. Still, if I had to bet on it, I'd say that the ethical man I came to know as an adult would have kept his promise to his father-in-law.
My grandmother fell asleep on her wedding night and had to be awakened and coaxed to her new home. Now, before you start screaming "child abuse" at the top of your lungs, remember that that was a different time, a different country, and a very different culture. In Iran 94 years ago, Jews lived in Mahaleh, the Jewish Quarter. Parents lived with their married children and grandchildren in the same house, cooked together, ate together, slept -- well not together -- but in their respective bedrooms. Unless it was summertime and the hot weather sent the entire family out onto freshly watered balconies, rooftops and gardens, where mattresses were spread out and the entire family slept under the star-struck sky. So, my just-married grandmother moved in with her mother-in-law, father-in-law and other members of her husband's family. Her parents, too, lived nearby. At the crack of dawn, she'd toss her chador over her head and run to her parents' home, where she spent a good part of her days. She would have spent her nights there too, I'd guess, if an adult wouldn't have coaxed her back to her new home.
As hard as it is for us to fathom this today, my grandparents developed deep love and respect for each other. They were married for 66 years until my grandfather passed away in Los Angeles in 1984. No husband and wife could have been more different. He was a doctor and historian, a highly educated man. Her signature was her fingerprint. Yet, they remained in love up to the very end. The only time I witnessed my grandfather lose his composure was when my grandmother was in pain, whether because of something as serious as passing a kidney stone or as trivial as a headache. This man, whom we all tiptoed around in fear of agitating his surrounding aura, would suddenly turn into a child, who didn't know what to do with himself.
My grandfather was an author, a researcher, a man who had no time for old wives tales. His wife was superstitious. She believed in the evil eye. She warded it off with seeds of rue and cracking an egg while reciting the names of supposed enemies. Heaven forbid any of her family members would commit the mistake of wearing black stockings, pantyhose, or even the sheerest of nylons in her presence. Black nylons were a symbol of bad luck and meant to be worn only during periods of mourning. If any of her daughter-in-laws or grandchildren had the audacity to wear black, she'd hook her forefinger into the offensive object and, with one quick, expert motion, rip the offender. Oh! She was quick! And she was fast. No fabric was immune to her rage. Needless to say, we learned not to wear black in her presence. My grandfather was tall and stately, his wife hardly reached his shoulders. But her European elegance made up for her height. On their trips to Paris, which was often, she would purchase meters of the most delicious fabrics I'd ever seen, silks, chiffons, and delicate laces so colorful and fine I loved to nuzzle my face in them. Her Iranian seamstress sewed them into her design of preference, befitting her ample figure. And there was the eternally present silk scarf, not to cover her hair -- no need for that after Reza Shah came into power and banned the chador -- but to cover her knees when her silky skirts rode up flirtatiously.
Accepting of her eccentricities, my grandfather would do his own thing, tapping on his ever-present typewriter. She, too, allowed him his ways, which encompassed the recording of historical information he spent a lifetime collecting for his three volumes of The History of the Iranian Jews.
Was theirs an arranged marriage? It certainly was. Were they different in every imaginable way? You bet. Yet they managed to build a relationship based on love and trust. I wonder whether that was possible only because divorce was not an option at the time.
My grandfather signed the first copy of The History of the Iranian Jews with a message to me. Not long after I left Iran, I reached out to a friend and asked for two things to be sent to me in America: family photographs and the autographed copy of my grandfather's book.
The photographs arrived concealed in boxes of pistachio. My grandfather's books came too, but not the autographed one. Was I foolish enough to lend it to someone? I'm not certain.
Now, in the age of Huffington Post, Facebook and Twitter I'm reaching out to all four corners of the world. If anyone happens to be in possession of a Farsi copy of The History of the Iranian Jews by Dr. Habib Levy, autographed to me in Farsi, please, please mail it to me. I promise to pay the mailing expenses as well as send you signed copies of all of my novels.]]>One of the Hazards of Falling in Love With Your Characterstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14072912012-04-09T18:45:45-04:002012-06-09T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
I started the lengthy and always fascinating process of research for The Last Romanov a few months before I put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard. And for the next three years, while working to complete the novel, I continued to gather a treasure trove of information. I learned about a tumultuous era in Russian history, a series of revolutions that gathered force and gave rise to Communism, transforming the political landscape of the world. I became intimately familiar with the looks, likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses of Tsarina Alexandra, Tsar Nicholas II, and their five children. I studied the depth of Alexandra's guilt at having transferred the hemophilia gene to her only son, the heir to the throne, who was born after four girls. The extent of the couple's insulation from their disgruntled people, the thick cocoon of denial surrounding them, surprised me. And I learned about Nicholas and Alexandra's great love for each other that might have caused the downfall of the 300-year-old Romanov Dynasty. I couldn't stop collecting information, not even after the last period was tapped on my keyboard, my laptop was shut, and I went out to celebrate with a glass of wine. I was an obsessed woman. A voyeur! Unable to say goodbye to my charges, stop prying into their lives, unable to keep myself from digging into the mystery of the mad monk, Grigori Rasputin. I sifted through fact and fiction. Was it true that this vile womanizer was the Tsarina's lover? Did he really cure Alexei Nikolaevich, the hemophilic heir, when the most competent doctors had failed? How did Rasputin's penis end up in a jar of alcohol in a museum in St. Petersburg? I'm not kidding! I saw the photograph with my own eyes -- a curious woman peering behind a glass jar in which an enormous penis was displayed. Well! Whose member could it be but Rasputin's, who was alleged to have been well-endowed and to have been "dismembered" by his murderers? Further investigation revealed that this precious relic might be nothing but a strangely shaped sea-cucumber.
But I digress! The discussion is about the hazards of falling in love with your protagonists, in this case the Romanovs. The problem arose when I became more familiar with the Imperial family and, consequently, with the extent of their anti-Semitism. I faced a dilemma. Here was I, a Jewish writer, who had developed deep compassion and even love for my charges. I did what I always do when faced with a problem. I took a few days off to distance myself from my story. When I returned to the Romanovs with a fresh eye, I realized that I had already planted my own emissaries in the Imperial Court. One of them is Avram Bensheimer, a Jewish artist, whose paintings the Empress admires. Darya, the opal-eyed Toyota Dasha auntie of the Tsarevich, falls in love with Avram. He becomes a spokesman for the Jews. He voices what is taking place beyond the walls of the palace -- the discrimination, the pogroms, the devastation of entire Jewish communities.
]]>On the Importance of Teatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12946622012-02-27T12:15:59-05:002012-04-28T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
In this photo: Samovar (Courtesy Dora Levy Mossanen)
I had 15 minutes to kill before a lunch appointment, so I stepped into American Tea Room in Beverly Hills. This is my favorite destination to purchase all types of sumptuous teas. It was raining outside, and I poured myself a cup of lavender tea, enjoying the aroma, the pleasant warmth.
There are canisters brimming with high-caffeinated, medium, or none-caffeinated tea leaves, teas that will cleanse, energize, calm, or promote sleep. Teas for different times of the day -- Yerba Mate for its stimulating effect in the morning (this I learned from Dr. Oz), Bi Luo Chong green tea with a nutty flavor for late morning (this one I find cleansing), refreshing peppermint to enhance digestion, Long Jing green tea, harvested from top of the Tian Mu mountains, light in caffeine for early afternoons, and my favorite: golden chamomile blossoms from Egypt to calm and relax in the evening. efore you think I'm some kind of a tea-crazed woman, let me explain that the origin of my love affair with tea goes years back to when I lived in Iran.
In Iran business meetings, signing of agreements, promises of marriage, reaffirmation of vows and friendships, renunciations of love or loyalty, and above all, divulging of the most guarded secrets, are conducted over a cup of steaming tea.
Fine tea is like premium wine. The color and bouquet are important. When held up to the light, tea must not be too weak so that light passes through without exposing the character, nor too dark to conceal the cognac gleam of its heart.
Aromatic leaves of the highest quality are selected, preferably from mountainous regions, where the plants grow slowly, allowing time for the complex flavors to develop. A multitude of herbs and spices, cardamom, peppermint, ginger, black currant, mint, jasmine, or rose petals add a pleasing aroma.
The process of brewing tea is a delicate art of precision and control that requires the proper accouterments. Water in a silver samovar must reach a boiling point before being poured over tealeaves in a china pot. Once the leaves are submerged in hot water, the teapot, filled to three-fourths, is placed on the neck of the samovar to brew for no less than 15 minutes and no more than 25, or the color will turn muddy, rendering the tea worthless.
Narrow-waisted glasses with filigreed holders are preferable. Set on small saucers with miniature spoons to the right of the glass. Glasses must be arranged in perfect order on a tray, the handles facing guests, the tray held low and at a comfortable serving level.
Tea must never, ever be served lukewarm or cold, not only because the heat soothes the throat and stomach as the liquid is sipped through a sugar cube, but because boiled water is safe to drink in any village or out of way hamlet.
Above all, it is rude to refuse tea. A glass of steaming tea has contributed to long lasting friendships and its refusal to raging conflicts and battles, such as the notorious Opium Wars. So, there you go! Take a deep breath and steep yourself a soothing cup of tea. Life is good!
]]>Fires, Opals and the Romanovstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12456542012-02-02T17:04:41-05:002012-04-03T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/The Last Romanov.
I'm fascinated by opal and its mythical reputation, so much so that my main character in my forthcoming novel, The Last Romanov, possesses an opal eye. My interest in this gemstone started long before I began my research for my book. Perhaps my attraction was due to the fact that opal, like a lover, thrives when in close proximity to the warmth and scent of its wearer. You have to love a precious stone that is perceived as sensitive and emotional, a gemstone with the power to unearth and reflect its owner's feelings -- a jack-of-all-trades, a guiding beacon in this increasingly tortuous path of our lives.
Perhaps I became fascinated with opal owing to certain snippets of information I read here and there, some factual, others fictional.
In ancient times, for example, Arabs believed that opals were magical stones that rained from the skies. Zeus was so pleased to defeat the Titans, his tears of joy turned into opals when they fell at his feet. Throughout the Middle Ages, opal was called "ophthalmios" or the "eye stone," because it was considered beneficial to the eyes. Europeans thought it would make the wearer invisible if wrapped in a fresh bay leaf. And in the Orient opal was cherished as "the stone of hope." Every culture had and continues to have its own beliefs about opal and its healing properties, whether it brings good or bad luck, and whether it represents the evil eye or magical elements of fire.
"Fire color" is a term used to convey the array of flashing colors in the heart of the fire opal -- among the most precious of opals -- a striking optical phenomenon that reveals the entire spectrum of color, creating the illusion of fire. No other precious stone seems to be so intimately connected to images of fire. This is exemplified in the numerous names given to the captivating fire patterns in opal -- pinfire, flashfire, broad flashfire, and rolling flashfire to name a few.
Once I assigned a golden opal eye to my protagonist, magical things began to happen. No! Not in my life, but in my story.
Slowly, quietly, even sneakily, the element of fire began to emerge in my historical novel, The Last Romanov. "Sneakily" because it was not until I had finished the second and perhaps third draft of the novel that I realized how central all types of fires had become to the story. Did I mention my fascination with fire? No! That's for another time.
Anyway, sometime during the process of writing, all types of fires began to sprout here and there, demanding attention.
Among the many lessons John Rechy, the accomplished author of City of Night -- in addition to many other memorable novels -- taught me was the importance of paying attention to the silent signals in my story. As an example, he shared how, while reviewing his manuscript for The Miraculous Day of Amalia Gomez, he once followed his protagonist, Amalia, and here I quote:
"Amalia, a middle aged Mexican-American woman, walked along lower Sunset Boulevard when she saw a bridal shop. She paused, walked on, and paused again. That was it; a casual moment that then became central to the whole novel, Amalia having signaled to me its then-unknown importance."
Having taken this lesson to heart, I paid attention to the emergence of the many fires in my story -- the small bonfires Little Servant ignites around the Entertainment Palace to keep himself warm, the flames in the fireplaces in the Romanov palaces that rather than warm Darya, my protagonist, make her shiver. And the "Big Fire," the mother of all fires, which seems to possess a will of its own and goes awry when the Bolshevik Commandant Vasiliev attempts to burn Rasputin's corpse.
So I paid attention! And an entire sub-story began to unfold.
Not wanting to rob you of the pleasure of surprise, I'll stop here, certain that those of you, who will read The Last Romanov in April, when it comes out, will recognize the importance of fires and its centrality to the story, especially the most significant fire of them all: Athalia's fire.
]]>Ambergris: Dragon Spittle Fragrancetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.11005122011-11-18T11:07:00-05:002012-01-18T05:12:01-05:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/The Last Romanov, I came across more than a few fascinating natural wonders, but none as mesmerizing as ambergris and its origin. Ambergris is a fatty substance sperm whales expel when they suffer indigestion, caused by hard-beaked squids that can be abrasive to the intestines and cause the poor animal massive tummy aches. At such times, the thunderous belching of whales can be heard miles away. Since no one has had the luck or misfortune of having witnessed a sperm whale in the throes of pain, the verdict is still out whether ambergris, which originates in the animal's intestines, is vomit or excrement. What's certain is that this rare substance, which can weigh hundreds of pounds, stinks when first expelled. So why is it so valuable?
Ambergris is like fine wine, certain Isfahan carpets, and a rare breed of men and women, who have the good fortune to age well. Once an excreted chunk of ambergris has had a chance to float in the seas and oceans, and be cured by air, sun and saltwater, its black color changes to a rich variegated gray and the foul smell to a tantalizing aroma that has encouraged many a myth.
The longer ambergris has a chance to age during its long journey across the seas, the more valuable it becomes. The Chinese call it "dragon spittle fragrance," evoking images of perfumed dragons guarding troves of jewels. Throughout history, all the way back to ancient Egypt, ambergris has been used to cure anything from simple headaches to hysteria and impotence. And I use it in my novel, The Last Romanov, to cure hemophilia.
One of the forms ambergris is used today is as a valuable fixative in perfumes to enhance and prolong the scent. But nowadays, since ambergris is rare and expensive, most perfumeries prefer to add a chemical derivative which mimics the properties of ambergris.
Ambergris is found in gray rock-like lumps, washed up on tropical seashores. Although no longer consumed for medicinal purposes or as a spice as it once was in Ancient Egypt, and the East, or carried around to ward off the plague and other contagious diseases as it was during the Black Death in Europe, ambergris has not lost its mystique or value in the modern marketplace.
It remains a gift from the seas, its complex and aromatic scent described as sweet and earthy, powdery, animalistic, with notes of musk and marine.
If you are wondering if you have been wearing a perfume with this legendary ingredient, you may want to review your scent collection. Here are a few of some of the top ambergris containing perfumes: Givenchy Amarige, Chanel No. 5, and Gucci Guilty.]]>A Jerusalem Woman's Tale of Faith and Arttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10231362011-10-21T11:05:58-04:002011-12-21T05:12:01-05:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
Let me begin by saying that when I finished reading the engrossing Jerusalem Maiden by Talia Carner (Harper Collins, $14.99), two thoughts flashed through my mind. First, that the inevitable ending was quite satisfying! And, second, that a number of the ancient cultural and religious rituals and practices among the ultra Orthodox Charedi Jews in Jerusalem at the onset of the twentieth century are still being followed, and not just by Charedim. I remember my own grandmother cracking one egg after another to search "its clear part for a red vein of fertilization that would render it impure." A practice I continue to follow. I remember my father reciting "Woman of Valor" from the Book of Proverbs to my mother on Erev Shabbat, as does Aba in "Jerusalem Maiden." I also remember that despite my own joy at giving birth to two beautiful daughters, to say that my mother-in-law was less than pleased would be an understatement. Not until I read the richly detailed Jerusalem Maiden did I realize that the Talmud, Kiddushin decrees: "Happy the man whose children are boys and woe to him if they are girls."
Jerusalem of 1911, at the end of the rule of the Ottoman Empire, was a mixture of isolated individuals -- Arabs, Charedim, Zionists, Chassidim and even a few Parisians -- with such conflicting religious and cultural beliefs you might think they lived on different planets. The animosity between Jews and Arabs is well documented, perhaps not so the resentment of Orthodox Jews toward the "brash" Zionists for fighting, for drying swamplands and for planning vineyards, instead of "waiting for the Messiah to bring salvation." Zionist women were disliked for their slack ways, their lack of respect to men, for speaking up in mixed company. Jerusalem was a miserable place for conservative Charedi women, yet, accustomed to familial and financial struggles, to the laws of the book and of the land, most of these women did not consider their lives that miserable. Working hard and bearing sons was a small price to hasten the arrival of the Messiah.
But the talented Esther Kaminsky, who has the courage and insolence to paint, a forbidden act, refuses to accept this life. Nor will Esther's Parisian teacher, Mlle Thibaux, who recognizes Esther's exceptional talent and does everything in her power to nurture it. But despite Esther's love and respect for her liberal teacher, "None of Mlle Thibaux's arguments carried weight with God." When Esther's God strikes her family with one misfortune after another, certain she is punished for the grave sin of "drawing Hashem's image," she sacrifices her dream, steps on her overwhelming desire to paint and swears to stop creating art.
After a short reprieve from misfortune, Esther allows herself to believe again, believe that her sins might not have brought "Sodom-and-Gomorrah-like wrath" after all, and it would be safe to leave her three children with her sister and join her husband in Europe. But once in the city of lights, the lure of Paris proves irresistible. Esther ignores her husband's letters to return home. Relishing her newfound sense of freedom among a community of Avant-garde artists, she allows her passions free rein, cuts her hair short, wears fashionable clothes, picks up her brushes and paints again. Perhaps Hashem intended her to be an artist, after all, she reasons. This is why He facilitated her journey to Paris and guided Mlle Thibaux and her son, Pierre, back into her life -- the goy sculptor Pierre, who is unfortunate enough to fall in love with a "woman who would be forever claimed and reclaimed from me by her God." The story gathers speed when Esther experiences a short period of happiness as a vibrant woman and an artist. But her wrathful God strikes again. This time more forcefully. The devastated Esther is certain that her sinful conduct in Paris instigated this last tragedy. But why would God punish an "innocent bystander for her sins!"
The main thread running through the story is Esther's continued struggle with her deep-rooted guilt and with God -- the story's main protagonist -- and the ongoing clash between her sense of responsibility to her religious mores on one hand and to her passions and desires on the other. Esther's tumultuous journey leads the reader to 1968 and back to Paris and to the gripping epilogue. We care for Esther. We pray that the older woman has learned to make peace with her God.
]]>Guilt: Shame on You!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9993032011-10-10T12:11:54-04:002011-12-10T05:12:02-05:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
Imagine this scenario: our turning away from one beggar or another instead of stopping, opening our purse or riffling in our pocket, and parting with a dollar. Most of us, I'm certain, have done this at one time or another. There are many valid reasons why we would act in such a manner. The beggar appears young and strong, we reason, competent enough to hold a job. Or, what if the dollar is spent on feeding an addiction? What if the purse is snatched away when one stops to retrieve the dollar? Well, you understand what I'm getting at. Reasons abound to support our act. Then why do we spend the rest of that day wallowing in guilt?
Here's another example: A friend asks you for a loan. It has happened before. You know the consequences. Call it a loan, call it what you may, but you might as well kiss your hard-earned money goodbye. But that's not the worst of it. Let's say you decide to oblige. The next thing you know you've lost a friend. Why? Perhaps your friend is embarrassed to tell you that he or she is unable to repay your loan, so it would be easier to avoid you. Perhaps, the money is more valuable than the friendship. Whatever the reason, it happens all the time. So, next time, having learned your lesson, you decide to hold on to the friendship as well as to your dollars that are dwindling fast in this economy. Then why do you feel so miserable and guilty?
Guilt is an especially potent form of Jewish self-flagellation. Generations after generations injected guilt into our blood, and perhaps we are doing the same to our children. Are we? I wonder about this, too, whether I've contaminated my own children with this poisonous emotion. If so, "mea culpa," it was unintentional. You realize I'm using "I think" and "I'm not certain" and "unintentional" a lot. Because I honestly have no idea how to deal with this sneaky, passive aggressive worm that is a master at wriggling its way into the deepest folds of your subconscious, so that a ton of therapy and wads of precious dollars fail to undo the damage. So, shame on you! Next time you come across a beggar in the street, open your purse or dig into your pocket and part with not one, but a couple of hundred dollars. Do it! Make an investment in your guilt bank.]]>On the Importance of a Community and On Being a Generous Writertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8801732011-06-20T13:37:42-04:002011-08-20T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/
Jennifer Weltz of Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency was our keynote speaker during lunch. She emphasized the importance of the author's involvement in promoting the novel, as did Shana Drehs, senior editor at Sourcebooks, during an informative session entitled: "What a Publisher Wants You to Know." Yes, it's true, being involved in promoting and selling our novels is paramount to our success, an investment in our careers as writers. But, please! Let's not forget to set aside some leftover time to write those novels we will have to promote.
Ms. Weltz stressed the value of authors supporting one another, backing, encouraging, aiding other writers, acts of generosity that will come back to benefit us. I can't remember her exact words, but this was the gist of what she conveyed.
I full-heartedly believe in this philosophy and, as such, was twice rewarded on the same day. Once when DeAnna Cameron, the author of The Belly Dancer, approached with my novel, Harem, in hand and asked for an autograph, mentioning one or another act of generosity I'd extended to her some years back. And the second time, when I attended a panel titled "Turning the Antagonists of History into Sympathetic Protagonists" and asked the panelists a question that had to do with different points of view. And to my great delight, one of the panelists, C. W. Gortner, the author of The Last Queen, among other historical novels, replied that he has read and loved Harem and did not believe I needed much help in establishing different points of views.
I went ahead and promptly downloaded both C. W. Gortner's The Last Queen, www.cwgortner.com, and DeAnna Cameron's The Belly Dancer, www.DeAnnaCameron.com, on my Kindle. Perhaps Kindle will devise a key, an app, whatever it takes, to allow author autographs in the future. For now, alas, those of us who read on such devices have to do without.
Yes, we will sell more books and end up a stronger community, as Ms Weltz mentioned, if we support one another. So what are you waiting for? Let's visit our favorite authors' websites, Facebook pages, Twitter, click their "like" button, read their books and create a buzz. We will all benefit.
]]>Love, Loss and Memory Haunt Housetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8510892011-04-19T16:47:20-04:002011-06-19T05:12:01-04:00Dora Levy Mossanenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dora-levy-mossanen/Great House by Nicole Krauss (Norton, $24.95) is a testimony to the relentless grip of memory on our present, a series of interconnected stories rendered with poise and striking clarity.
As she proved in her previous novel, the international bestseller The History of Love, Krauss is an astute and compassionate author. She cares for her characters, cares to probe deep, spend time navigating the emotional geography of each protagonist -- the old as well as the young -- to expose their most intimate conflicts, reflections and desires.
Great House brings to life the complex relationships of a solitary writer and an inherited desk, a father and his alienated son, a husband and his dying wife, and the suffocating hold a father, who is an antiques dealer, has on his son and daughter. Central to these stories is a massive desk owned by a Chilean poet who disappears at the hands of Pinochet's secret police. And always present, never forgotten, are the profound effects of the Holocaust, the way tragedy and loss shapes each character, and the plight of Israeli families -- those who lose children in war, and those who live in perpetual fear of the ring of a doorbell that might herald devastating news.
"Your Honor, in the winter of 1972 R and I broke up," begins the first sentence of "Great House," situating the reader in a courtroom. The speaker, a writer, is explaining how she came to own, and eventually lose, the mysterious, wooden desk with 19 drawers, "some small and some large, whose odd number and strange array, I realized now, on the cusp of their being suddenly taken from me, had come to signify a kind of guiding if mysterious order in my life, an order that, when my work was going well, took on an almost mystical quality."
After years, a woman who maintains that she is the poet's daughter appears to claim the desk, disrupting the writer's life; so much so that she decides to lock her apartment and travel to Jerusalem, perhaps to claim the desk back, although she denies it. The reason the protagonist is in court will be revealed much later; in the meantime, being led by a sure-penned author, we settle back and enjoy the journey.
In Israel, a father is reminiscing about his estranged son, Dov, a barrister, returned home from England to sit shiva for his mother. Krauss reveals a deep understanding of the human psyche and of a father's pain, anger, longing and envy in the old man who, in the little time left to him, aches to mend his relationship with his son -- even if father and son might not possess the right tools to do so. Always present is the all-consuming fear of losing his sons to war: "It was the doorbell we feared the most. Across the street they arrived at the Biletskis' to say that Itzhak, little Itzy whom you and Uri played with as children, had been killed in the Golan."
Across the oceans, in England, the doorbell rings to announce a different kind of trouble: at the door is a stranger the husband suspects of being his wife's lover, setting a series of incidents into motion that will unearth a far more disconcerting secret. And here, too, looms the presence of the mysterious desk that "overshadowed everything else like some sort of grotesque, threatening monster, clinging to most of one wall and bullying the other pathetic bits of furniture..." A desk that will someday reveal its own set of secrets.
In the meantime, a love affair is blooming "in the house in Belsize Park that [Yoav] shares with his sister, Leah." The house is wonderfully gothic, a significant character with eccentricities of its own, "a large and dilapidated brick Victorian... filled with darkly beautiful furniture that the father, a famous antiques dealer, kept there... the rooms were always changing, taking on the mysterious moods of houses and apartments whose owners had died, gone bankrupt, or simply decided to..." In the house in Belsize Park, under the austere shadow of their father, Yoav and Leah are "locked within the walls of their own family, and in the end it wasn't possible for them to belong to anyone else." Not unlike their father who, unable to free himself of the past, dedicates his life to reassembling his own father's study that was plundered by the Nazis -- an obsessed son who will not rest until every piece of furniture is sought, transported and arranged in its rightful place.
Once again, the doorbell rings. This time Weisz, the antiques dealer, is at the door:
"Forgive me for not calling in advance... There's something I'd like to discuss with you... A desk..."
To discover the fate of the desk, and whether the possessed Weisz succeeds in his quest, pick up Great House and read it, and once you have, circle around and read it once more to better appreciate the interconnected stories and doubly enjoy the magical prose and insight of an author at the top of her form.]]>
Great House brings to life the complex relationships of a solitary writer and an inherited desk, a father and his alienated son, a husband and his dying wife, and the suffocating hold a father, who is an antiques dealer, has on his son and daughter. Central to these stories is a massive desk owned by a Chilean poet who disappears at the hands of Pinochet's secret police. And always present, never forgotten, are the profound effects of the Holocaust, the way tragedy and loss shapes each character, and the plight of Israeli families -- those who lose children in war, and those who live in perpetual fear of the ring of a doorbell that might herald devastating news.