Exiled from Home

Rising from the ashes of the powerful, influential, and storied Persian Empire is the modern nation of Iran. The heart and soul of the Empire, Iran is strategically located in Mesopotamia and, over centuries, has been a confluence of various powerful imperial forces. Iran has been shaped by waves of both indigenous and foreign conquerors and immigrants, among them the Hellenistic Seleucids, and the native Parthians and Sasanids. However, it was the Muslim Arabs’ conquest in the 7th century CE that most profoundly influenced the modern Persian nation. Owing to its abundant natural resources—particularly petroleum—Iran’s importance in the region has remained constant despite the passage of time. In the contemporary era, it is a major player, both as a regional power and as a key figure in colonial and superpower rivalries, such as the ongoing tensions in the Middle East.

With the rise and fall of several great empires, Iran has had one of the most colorful histories in the world—albeit occasionally marked by violence. Following the collapse of the empires that once ruled ancient Mesopotamia and the modern Middle East, Iran’s form of government has undergone several changes. In 1953, hopes of Iran becoming a constitutional monarchy were dashed when a coup—supported by the United States and the United Kingdom—overthrew the elected prime minister. Iran was subsequently ruled as an autocracy under the Shah, who received continued backing from the United States until the monarchy was eventually dismantled. In 1979, the Iranian Revolution—led by Islamic leaders, most prominently Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini—ultimately brought down the monarchy after nearly two years of civil unrest and political instability. It also marked the ascent of the Islamic Republic.

As it has always done, literature has become a tool to capture the intricacies and legacy of the Iranian Revolution, including the catalysts that gave rise to it. Among these contemporary works is French-Iranian writer and screenwriter Négar Djavadi’s debut novel, Disoriental. Originally published in 2016 in French as Désorientale, the novel was well received by both critics and readers alike. It earned Djavadi several accolades, including the Prix de L’Autre Monde, the Prix du Style, the Prix Emmanuel Roblès, the Prix Première, the Prix littéraire de la Porte Dorée, and the Prix du Roman News. In 2018, the book was made available to Anglophone readers through a translation by Tina Kover. Like the original French version, the English translation was also warmly received.

Because to really integrate into a culture, I can tell you that you have to disintegrate first, at least partially, from your own. You have to separate, detach, disassociate. No one who demands that immigrants make “an effort at integration” would dare look them in the face and ask them to start by making the necessary “effort at disintegration.” They’re asking people to stand atop the mountain without climbing up it first.

Négar Djavadi, Disoriental

At the heart of Disoriental is twenty-five-year-old Kimiâ Sadr, whom we first meet in a waiting room at Cochin Hospital in Paris, France. While awaiting the results of in vitro fertilization, she reflects on her family’s history. Shuttling between past and present, she takes the readers to moments across her recent and distant past. The catalyst for her trip down memory lane is an innocuous question she once asked her father. In an opening section called The Escalator, Kimiâ asks her father why he never uses escalators. His response: the escalators are for “them,” referring to the French citizens. Early on, she tells the readers: These pages won’t be linear. Talking about the present means I have to go deep into the past, to cross borders and scale mountains and go back to that lake so enormous they call it a sea. I have to let myself be guided by the flow of images and free associations.

The novel is divided into two sections representing major periods in the narrator’s life: Side A and Side B. Side A shuttles between the present and past as it reconstructs Kimiâ’s provenance. It begins with an anecdote about her own birth and traces her roots to the Iranian province of Mazandaran, where her great-grandfather, Montazemolmolk, was a feudal lord. From Montazemolmolk’s harem was born Nour, his thirtieth child and Kimiâ’s grandmother. She stood out among Montazemolmolk’s children because of her blue eyes; it was also for this reason that she received special treatment from their father. When she came of age, her marriage to Mirza Ali was arranged. Interestingly, Mirza Ali also had blue eyes. The couple would have six sons, one of whom was Darius Sadr. Nour and Mirza Ali’s marriage fell apart after Mirza Ali cheated on his wife, fathering an illegitimate child.

Nour then took control of her destiny by leaving her husband and forging a new life on her own. Although she passed away when Kimiâ was born, Nour remained a significant presence in her granddaughter’s life. Meanwhile, Kimiâ’s parents met after Darius returned home from Egypt, where he had studied law. He met Sara Tadjamol, a history teacher. The rest, they say, is history. The couple had three daughters, with Kimiâ as the youngest. Sara’s mother had initially predicted that Kimiâ would be a boy, but when she was born a girl, Sara was nevertheless thrilled. Kimiâ’s gender did not prevent her father from treating her like a son. She grew up a tall, lanky teenager with a tomboyish disposition. Her behavior was so different from her sisters’ that her older sister Leila cautioned her against “appearing like a lesbian.” Though it was her first time hearing the term, it left a deep impression on Kimiâ.

Kimiâ’s worldview was also shaped by her parents’ active involvement in political affairs. Upon returning to Iran, Darius worked as a journalist. He was a radical voice—born to protest. As the Pahlavi regime and the Shah consolidated power, Darius fearlessly voiced his opposition. Their life further unraveled during and after the Iranian Revolution. Kimiâ and her sisters were initially jubilant when the regime was overthrown, but their celebration was short-lived. When Ayatollah Khomeini seized power and immediately transformed Iran into an Islamic Republic, their world came to a screeching halt. Darius, however, remained critical of the Ayatollah. His outspokenness made him a target of both the Pahlavi regime and the Islamic Republic.

I was confronted by a world that I could see and touch but didn’t know how to talk about. There were so many words and names that I just didn’t have. Flowers, trees, birds, reptiles, organs. The words you learn as you grow up in a country the ones the language reserves for people who are immersed in it and denies to those who just dip their toes in every now and then. The words for Saturday-afternoon strolls and summer camps and weekends in the country. Words from peaceful lives, lives that belong to the people living them.

Négar Djavadi, Disoriental

With government agents hot on his trail, Darius occasionally went into hiding. Sara, for her part, supported her husband’s activism. However, the breaking point came when their home was bombed by the secret police. Although the family survived, it had become clear they needed to flee Iran. Darius relocated to Paris, and was soon followed by his wife and daughters, whose escape from Tehran was both eventful and harrowing. They crossed mountains on horseback through Kurdistan into Turkey, where they awaited papers granting them entry to France. In Paris, the family was reunited and began a new life in a small apartment. The dangers at home did not deter Darius from expressing his views. Side B then paints a portrait not only of their life in Paris but also of Kimiâ’s personal evolution.

Disoriental paints a vivid portrait of contemporary Iranian history. The novel serves as a primer on Iran’s recent past, capturing the struggles of modern Iranians—from the rise and fall of the Pahlavi regime to the ascent of the Supreme Leader in the late 1980s. Djavadi leads readers through street protests and danger around every corner. In many ways, the novel is her homage to her homeland and a chronicle of its ailments. Beyond its historical backdrop, the novel offers subtle yet scathing social commentary—particularly about the burdens modern Iranian society places on women. Even before Iran became an Islamic Republic, it had long been a patriarchal society. Nour’s mother was only fifteen when she gave birth to her, and she died during childbirth. Kimiâ and her sisters would grow up in a similarly repressive environment.

Still, despite the turmoil, the female Iranian voice remains resilient. Nour grew up facing the prejudices of her sex, expected to be subservient to the men around her. Yet in a society that often muted the female voice, she tried to be different while outwardly conforming. She held progressive ideals and even read Russian existentialist novels and political texts. Politics was considered a man’s realm. Sara, too, demonstrates strength of character. Though devoted to her husband and supportive of his causes, she possesses a strong will and eventually finds her voice. She managed to raise their daughters despite her husband’s prolonged absences. As much as the novel is an homage to Iran, it is also a paean to the resilience and strength of Iranian women, seen through the lives of the Sadr women.

Kimiâ’s journey takes a slightly different path. She is the backbone of the story, and her personality fully emerges in the novel’s Side B. In Paris, she becomes a rebellious teenager who finds solace in the punk scene. In distancing herself from Iran’s politics, she is forced to confront her own past and identity. She begins writing about Iran’s atrocities and joins protests. Her journey highlights the layered complexities of identity. Even before birth, Kimiâ’s gender was an object of fascination. Still, as an adult, Kimiâ identifies as bisexual, and her tomboyish demeanor is frowned upon when she was growing up. In Iran, queerness is not just taboo—it is persecuted. Her Uncle Number Two—one of Darius’s brothers—was also homosexual but had to conceal his identity, glossing it over with marriage and fatherhood. He was also the keeper of the family’s mythology.

I have become—as I’m sure everyone does who has left his or her country—someone else. Someone who has translated myself into other cultural codes. Firstly in order to survive, and then to go beyond survival and forge a future for myself. And since it is a generally acknowledged idea that something is lost in translation, it should come as no surprise that we unlearn—at least partially—what we used to be, to make room for what we have become.

Négar Djavadi, Disoriental

Interestingly, Kimiâ’s name means “alchemy”; as she explains, her name comes from the Arabic Al-kimiya, derived from the Greek khêmia, meaning “black magic.” Her struggle with identity deepens in Paris. In a new country, she must confront her national identity. The French title—Désorientale, a portmanteau of Oriental and désorienter (to lose one’s way)—reflects this new struggle, shared by her family. As she aptly puts it, her family became strangers not only to others but to one another. In Paris, they never felt they truly belonged, with her father avoiding using escalators. They felt more like exiles than immigrants. For Kimiâ, integration seemed senseless, as it required the disintegration—at least in part—of what came first. In Kimiâ’s case, it was her Iranian identity.

The novel’s strength also lies in Djavadi’s vivid prose. She crafts an atmospheric narrative that guides readers across the tumultuous landscape of modern Iran. Though the narrative is non-linear, she masterfully navigates multiple timelines and locations. She weaves history and memory with precision. A shift in tone adds nuance—the historical portions are written in a journalistic style, while the family saga feels intimate and tender. Djavadi captures complex human emotions with clarity and depth, rendering Kimiâ’s vulnerabilities fully by the novel’s end. Lightening the otherwise heavy tone is occasional humor, which further showcases Djavadi’s skillful writing.

A literary sensation in France, Disoriental is a multilayered, multifaceted debut. Vivid and powerful, the novel explores a plethora of theme, ranging from identity to history, memory, and diaspora. Iran’s contemporary history comes alive through Djavadi’s lush prose. It is also about home and belongingness. While it is a tribute to Djavadi’s homeland, the novel is a tribute to the silent strength of women, captured through the Sadr women. Yet it is Kimiâ’s story that drives the narrative. Djavadi’s most affectionate writing captures her growth and self-discovery. The rawness of her voice is both haunting and captivating. Parts-family saga, parts coming-of-age, parts-historical fiction, Disoriental is a riveting read: a primer on the tumultuous landscape of modern Iran and a celebration of the indomitable human spirit.

Talking about the present means I have to go deep into the past, to cross borders and scale mountains and go back to that lake so enormous they call it a sea. I have to let myself be guided by the flow of images and free associations, the natural fits and starts, the hollows and bumps carved into my memories by time. But the truth of memory is strange, isn’t it? Our memories select, eliminate, exaggerate, minimize, glorify, denigrate. They create their own versions of events and serve up their own reality. Disparate, but cohesive. Imperfect yet sincere.

Négar Djavadi, Disoriental
Book Specs

Author: Négar Djavadi
Translator (from French):  Tina Kover
Publisher:  Europa Editions
Publishing Date: 2018 (2016)
Number of Pages: 338
Genre: Historical, Literary, Bildungsroman

Synopsis

At once a sweeping saga of twentieth-century Iran and an intimate story of a young woman’s determination to create a future on her own terms, Disoriental is Négar Djavadi’s timely, passionate, and entertaining debut novel.

Kimiâ Sadr fled Iran with her mother and sisters at the age of ten to join her father in France. Now in her twenties, sitting in a fertility clinic in Paris as she awaits life-changing news, Kimiâ is inundated by memories of her ancestors, reminiscences, and family myths that reach her in unstoppable waves. Generations of flamboyant Sadrs return to her, including her formidable great-grandfather Montazemolmlk with his harem of fifty-two wives, and her distracted but ardent parents, Sara and Darius, stalwart opponents of each political regime that has befallen them.

In this high-spirited, multigenerational tale, key moments of Iranian history punctuate a story about motherhood, family, exile, rebellion, and love. At the heart of this prize-winning international bestseller is the unforgettable Kimiâ Sadr – queer punk-rock aficionado and storyteller extraordinaire, a woman caught between the vibrant intricacies of her origins and the modern life she’s made.

About the Author

Négar Djavadi was born in Tehran, Iran in 1969 to a family of intellectuals. Following the conclusion of the Iranian Revolution, her family moved to France due to their opposition to the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. At the Institut national supérieur des arts du spectacle et des techniques de diffusion, she studied film. She then worked as a screenwriter and film director before venturing into writing. Her work in film included the short films L’Espace désolé (1995), Entre les vagues (1997), Comédie classique (2001) and Jeanne, à petits pas… (2005), the feature film 13 m² (2007) and the television film Né sous silence (2018).

In 2016, she made her literary debut with the publication of Désorientale. It was an immediate sensation that earned Djavadi a score of accolades such as the Prix de L’Autre Monde, the Prix du Style, the Prix Emmanuel Roblès, the Prix Première, the Prix littéraire de la Porte Dorée and the Prix du Roman News. The book’s English translation, Disoriental, was published in 2018 and was awarded the Lambda Literary Award for Bisexual Fiction at the 31st Lambda Literary Awards and the Van Cleef & Arpels Albertine Prize. It was also shortlisted for the National Book Award for Translated Literature.

Djavadi is currently residing in Paris, France.

But I sometimes think that her apparent detachment was her way of letting us know that she was helpless, that she didn’t know how to be a mother anymore. She doubtlessly didn’t know who we were anymore, or what she had a right to expect from us, now that our promised land had turned out to be a road to nowhere. Our uprooting had turned us into strangers, not only to other people, but to one another.

Négar Djavadi, Disoriental