He slammed his fist on the table. Rice and flatbread jumped. “I am not being ridiculous! You will learn to obey. This is Iran. Here, I am the law. You will not take my daughter back to that corrupt, godless country.”
They met Ali, the smuggler, in a dusty garage on the outskirts of Tabriz. He was a small, wiry man with a scarred face and the eyes of a predator. He looked at Betty and Mahtob and shook his head. “A woman and a child? The mountains will eat you.” not without my daughter book
"Not Without My Daughter" is more than just a memoir; it's a testament to the unbreakable bond between a mother and her child. The book chronicles Betty's journey, from her early days in Iran to her desperate escape with Mahtob. The story is a powerful reminder of the strength and resilience of women and the lengths to which they will go to protect their children. He slammed his fist on the table
The child did not cry. She dressed in the dark. They crept down the stairs—twelve flights, counting each landing, holding their breath. The lobby was empty. The street was a dark river of shadows. A taxi idled at the corner, its driver a grizzled old man named Reza whom Mrs. Hakimi had vouched for. He didn’t ask questions. He just said, “Get in.” You will learn to obey
“We made it, sweetheart,” Betty whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Not without my daughter. Never without my daughter.”
It was the longest night of Betty’s life. The smuggler moved like a ghost. Betty held Mahtob’s hand, half-carrying, half-dragging her through the snow. The child’s lips turned blue. Her breathing became labored—the asthma. Betty stopped, dug out the inhaler from the coat lining, and gave her two puffs. “You can do this,” she whispered. “We are almost there.”