I was watching a news show the other day. A guest, a female doctor who fled Iran as a child, reminded me of earlier encounters with some students from other countries.

The doctor referenced how sometimes women in the U.S. will talk about being “oppressed,” and also pointed to some of the protests we see here.

“They have no idea!” she said, and shared a few stories from her experiences and those she knows in Iran.

Quite often, I’ve mentioned our Michigan State University days, times my husband Gordy and I, and later, with Michele, lived and worked on campus. What’s happening in Iran, coupled with this woman’s testimony, took me back to my first office job. It was from late 1969 through 1971, times we were exposed to a LOT of turbulence and protests.

My job was in the Chemistry Department as secretary and typist to several professors, who were also professional researchers. Each had a team of graduate students who not only helped teach freshman classes, but did the research in the labs.

One grad student I well remember was from Iran. We came from small-town New York state, so our university experiences brought some of our first exposures to people from other countries. I wasn’t always comfortable around “Akbar.” It was because I couldn’t understand him at first. His language was strange to me, as was his writing for scientific papers, which I had to type. We used IBM Selectric typewriters with little swap-out fixtures you put in that contained special symbols. Later the same researchers started building mini computers, including word processors they had me try out.

After a time, I got more comfortable when Akbar and I could communicate better. He was picking up more English and I became accustomed to some of his phrases. At one point, I could tell something was up with my employing professor and members of his lab group. Querying another grad student, I learned that Akbar was at risk of being sent home to Iran, and he surely did not want to go.

As more of the story came out, it was more than just not being ready due to his studies not being completed. He feared being shot when he got off the plane! Apparently, this had happened to someone he knew. Remember, this was around 1970 and things were pretty volatile in Iran (even then) during the Shah’s tenure. There were secret police, I was told, watching anyone who would dissent. People with certain backgrounds and histories often feared for their lives.

A few years later, we went back to MSU when Michele was about 4 years old for Gordy to continue grad school. I covered a maternity leave in my old department and, one day, Akbar came in. I hardly recognized him. He spoke fluent English and was on campus as a visiting professor of chemistry. A request for asylum had been granted a few years before and he later became an American citizen.

My little family was living in Cherry Lane, a small community made up of brick apartments for married students. Our neighbors came from MANY other countries and Michele had friends from several nations, speaking different languages. Around 1979, Iran was still in governmental disarray with a revolution going on. Our next-door neighbors were from Israel, and a few doors down, a large Iranian family lived together in these little two-bedroom dwellings.

Word had it they fled Iran after the ousting of the Shah. There were at least three generations living there. I was never sure which ones were the students, but we knew they did not want to go back to Iran.

They had a 20-something daughter and her husband, also students, who lived in an apartment across the street. I fondly remember their little girl, Shamnah. She was about 3 years old when we’d find her wandering the patios, often making her way to play with Michele. Picture a child with long, dark, curly hair and striking features, singing at the top of her lungs, an American song she had learned. “Shake your booty…shake your booty…”

I often wonder what happened to children reared in the States who had to go back to countries that were not democracies.

Around 1979, we learned a little more about Iran. We were visiting New York during the hostage crisis when 52 Americans were held captive for 444 days. During our home visit, the entire country was to show support at Christmastime by turning on porch lights and standing outdoors, praying for them. My brother, Dale, was in the Air Force, and happened to be home at that time. We stood quietly together in the cold for a long time after others went inside.

Thank God, those hostages were finally released, but we all learned how ruling methods elsewhere can affect us right here in the USA. We recently learned Iran killed more than 30,000 of its own people for dissenting.

As that news show guest bluntly stated, living here, we really have no idea!

(Contact contributor Deb Wuethrich at deborahmarcein@gmail.com.)