Spanning continents and infused with heart-pounding action, Shadows of Tehran by Nick Berg is more than just a story of war. It’s an exploration of one man’s refusal to break under abuse, abandonment, and loss—an affirmation that we, not the events in our lives, determine whether to be a victim or survivor. Below is an excerpt from the book:

Whispers of Difference

The boy was from two different worlds. From an early age, he felt he never belonged to any one part of society. Ricardo was born in 1967 to an Iranian mother and an American father; his life was destined to be a unique blend of cultures and a crossroads of identities.

David, his father, a naval intelligence officer, was returning from the Vietnam War. His ship had docked in Abadan on the southern coast of Iran in the Persian Gulf.

According to Samira, his mother, it was love at first sight. David was a dashing young American in a pristine white uniform, and she was an Iranian woman with an enigmatic figure, a gentle charisma, and a striking appearance. David described her as the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, with a flirtatious but also rebellious character.

After just a few short months, he asked Samira for her hand in marriage.

“Impossible,” Samira had said. “My family would fight tooth and nail to prevent the union, and anyway, securing a work permit will be impossible; my brother said it will take more than a year.”

“I’ll make it happen,” David had said.

His confident demeanor had surprised Samira, and her family had ridiculed his claim. Sure enough, the work permit came through within a few short months, and they were married soon afterward. Very few of Samira’s family members attended the small ceremony. Nobody was in attendance from David’s side; there was no family or even a single friend.

__________

Ricardo was born twelve months later, and his sister, Hannah, was born two years later.

It was a fairy tale come true. Samira couldn’t have been happier, so they moved to Samira’s mother’s house.

Why not? The house was huge, an ancient Iranian house built in the mid-1800s in one of the more affluent areas of Tehran near the skirts of the Alborz mountains in the north part of the city.

Ricardo’s grandmother had passed away, and his Aunt Sudabeh was always rattling around the house on her own. Sudabeh was the youngest of Samira’s siblings. She was the embodiment of grace and compassion, and whenever Ricardo was in her presence, she brought a sense of calm and solace, like a gentle breeze on a warm day, her voice as soft as a whisper. Sudabeh epitomized gentleness; no soul could recall a moment when she raised her voice. To Ricardo, she was more than an aunt; she was a sanctuary. She filled the house with the aroma of her soothing teas, and the faint hum of a kettle often accompanied their late-night conversations.

It seemed like the ideal solution: the type of house that needed a family to make it a home, the sound of children’s feet, the toys strewn around the floors, chaos, bedlam, meals shared, a place where memories were made and cherished, never to be forgotten.

The house was built over two stories. The stairs to the second floor were accessible via the garden, with the kitchen on the side of the house. It was a grand affair. The house had servants, though Ricardo never looked upon them as such; they were more of an integral part of the family and even shared mealtimes together—one big family.

Nanny Belgase was a kind woman who had been with Samira since Ricardo was born. She was one of the kindest women Ricardo had ever met, from a village north of Tehran. She took care of the children and acted like a second mother. Now and again, she’d bring one of her younger children to the house, and Ricardo and Hannah would play with them for hours.

Belgase’s eldest son was called Ali. He was the family driver, a very well-mannered, educated young man. He worked to help support his mother and father while attending college. The kids loved Ali; he always brought them sweets and played with them in the garden. The garden had a fountain and ponds surrounded by lush greenery. There were colorful pomegranate trees and lemon and orange trees with fragrant blooms. The maple trees were tall and elegant, evergreen the whole year round, and jasmine and lavender bushes gave the garden a heady aroma.

The grounds were tiled with decorative blue tiles, and flower beds bordered the length and breadth of the house. In the middle of the garden was a large marble birdbath that stored water for watering the garden.

The house’s basement had a large, now empty reservoir. It had been worth its weight in gold for generations long past, supplying all the water they needed in the long, hot summer months. The public water system installed in Tehran in the 1920s confined the reservoir to history, a relic of a bygone era. The downstairs of the house had four large rooms with a covered patio where the family spent most of the summer evenings.

High brick walls and a large wrought iron gate separated the house from the busy Tehran streets and led to the garden’s entrance.

It was the dirt part of the garden that Ricardo loved best. He tingled with excitement as he wandered into the roughest, most unkempt part of the property with his father, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. Here, they transformed the earth into a vast battlefield, the once-vibrant flower bed now a cratered moonscape, meticulously sculpted with determined hands.

Plastic army men, hand-painted green and camouflage; tanks and trucks; and tiny rocket launchers were strategically placed for maximum impact on the make-believe enemy. And that look in his father’s eyes as he was transported into another world, mumbling snippets from the Vietnam War as he rambled on about napalm, a village called My Lai, and the tunnels underground called Cù Chi.

The intensity of the play battle concerned Ricardo, even at such a young age. His father took it too far; he got carried away.

“What are you doing?” Ricardo asked as he watched his father douse some of the plastic soldiers with lighter fuel.

“Making it a little bit more realistic, my boy.”

A small rocket in his father’s hands. He watched as his arm was at full stretch, and he made a whistling noise as he drew the rocket toward the ground where the soldiers were. “BOOOOOM!” He stretched the sound out, struck a match, and threw it into the mix.

There was a far-off look in his father’s eyes as the plastic soldiers burst into flames, and they both watched as they melted away into nothing.

A slight smile crossed his father’s lips, and then it was gone.

“Dad, was it like this when you were in the war? I mean . . .”

“It was like this, but much more serious. We had choices and decisions to make; taking a wrong turn could mean death. I lost a lot of good friends out there.” David smiled. “Ready to see if your sniper can hold the ridge?”

Ricardo laughed, and the tension eased slightly. “Let’s do it. I bet he’ll last longer than your tank brigade!”

Ricardo loved every precious second he spent with his father in the dirt of their backyard battlefield. His father seemed to enjoy it and was at his most animated and talkative. His mother once said David was a riddle wrapped up in a mystery inside an enigma. She’d stolen the quote from some book, but Ricardo understood.

Related: 5 Autofiction Books You’ve Got To Read This Spring

Visit our Reading Essentials section to discover the best bookshelves, reading chairs, book lights for reading at night, and more!

Receive top book recommendations directly in your inbox.