From Iran to America, One Epic Tale at a Time

When I was growing up, my bedtime stories involved great warriors and kings, the heroes of ancient Persia. Many came from the “Shahnameh,” an epic Persian poem that weaves the history of Iran like a colorful tapestry. In “Everything Sad Is Untrue,” Daniel Nayeri weaves an equally rich history of his family’s journey from Iran to America.

In this epic tale, our hero is Khosrou, a 12-year-old boy named after a real king. His battle? Fifth grade. Khosrou lives in Oklahoma, having fled Iran with his sister and his mother, whom the secret police threatened for practicing Christianity. Khosrou’s father stayed behind.

In Oklahoma, things aren’t great for Khosrou. His father is just a voice on the phone; his mother, who was a doctor in Iran, has to work different jobs to make ends meet; his classmates shoot paper clips at his neck.

But in Mrs. Miller’s class, Khosrou is a storyteller. He has a treasure chest of memories and family myths. His assignment is to tell them. In the stories he weaves, Khosrou’s family is not poor but had their land stolen generations ago, and his dad is still with him. Khosrou spins these tales like a modern-day Scheherazade: He understands the manipulative nature of storytelling, how he can use it to string his classmates along. To survive.

“Everything Sad Is Untrue” is a love letter to storytelling. Some of its most authentic and clever moments are when Khosrou’s classmates interrupt his stories. They ask what the bathrooms in Iran look like, and how the toilets work. (You squat.) They even hurry him along. “Get to the point,” they say in the middle of a particularly long-winded tale.

Khosrou’s teacher chimes in, too; she tells him he’s “lost the plot,” or he’s “not allowed to write about poop for class assignments anymore.” (He’s a modern-day Scheherazade, but he’s still a 12-year-old boy.) Khosrou’s stories are a mix of epic and everyday, and you get the sense that he’s telling certain ones to avoid real vulnerability. “Fine,” he concedes when Mrs. Miller calls him out on another poop story, “I’ll write the emotional parts.”

This is not your typical novel. There’s little in the way of plot; there aren’t even chapters. But that’s the point: It’s a mishmash. As Nayeri writes, “A patchwork story is the shame of a refugee.” Stick with Khosrou, though, and you’ll be rewarded.

The reward is empathy. Early on, Khosrou tells the reader, “The quick version of this story is useless. Let’s agree to have a complicated conversation.” “Everything Sad” invites us not just to see another perspective but to live in it. It’s openhearted storytelling when we need it most, an antidote to our divided times.

Nayeri pours an ocean of humanity onto these pages. Even the mythical characters benefit from Khosrou’s empathy. He tells the tale of Khosrou and Shirin, a well-known tragic romance in which the lovers commit murder to be together. But then Khosrou (our narrator, not the king) wisely points out that two famous Persian poets tell the story differently. In one version, Shirin is a “jealous maniac.” In the other, she’s “too pure for this world, and too sad.” In his version, she’s a mix.

For a novel chock-full of lessons, “Everything Sad” hardly feels didactic. Many of the book’s most moving moments are netted with humor, irreverence, all the lighthearted fun you’d expect from a 12-year-old boy. And Khosrou is self-aware. He acknowledges from the very first line that his tales are only as true as his (and history’s) memory. Myths and legends change over time. He’s achingly honest about that with his readers. Or is it his listeners? I can imagine young people begging to read these stories aloud to their friends, their parents.

“Everything Sad” is a modern masterpiece — as epic as the “Iliad” and “Shahnameh,” and as heartwarming as “Charlotte’s Web.” It’s for the kids at the lunch table; the heroes of tomorrow, just looking to survive the battle of adolescence.