After living here for two years, after reading countless articles about Iran, after viewing news spots and listening to radio spots about Iran, I want to offer a few quick pointers to journalists coming to Iran.
Tarof:
Tarof is a complicated system of manners than can make it extremely difficult for a visiting journalist to get a straight answer.
a. Iranians would rather agree to do something than to admit that they cannot help you.
b. An initial "no" or "yes" should not be taken seriously. If permission is not granted initially, keep asking. It pays to be persistent.
c. Most Iranians you meet will invite you to their homes. If you agree to go, please understand that your visit may cost them a lot of money. They might not really want you to come. It might be too expensive for them.
d. If an Iranian invites you to a party where alcohol is served, you might want to remember just how expensive that alcohol is. They may love to see you, but resent the amount that you drink. Try to show some restraint. A case of beer costs 70,000 tuman. Cheap, brand name whiskey costs 50,000 tuman. This is not cheap even for a westerner. Imagine what it means to an Iranian.
Outside/Inside:
This is a kind of addendum to tarof. The biggest cliché in the world is that the Middle East is a veiled society where there is a strict dichotomy between outside and inside behavior. (I know, I know, Iran does not consider itself part of the Middle East. Is a region unto itself.) Just because it is a cliché does not mean it's not true. Please take it seriously.
a. Take everything presented to you with a shaker of salt. Take context into consideration. Ask yourself, who else is listening? Who else is observing? For example, when an anti-American speech is made on the anniversary of Iran's revolution, don't forget to mention the occasion in your reporting.
b. It's hard to get to know Iran and Iranians unless you marry into an Iranian family. Don't be fooled by appearances.
c. Go to any funeral or wedding that you get invited to. Funerals do not require invitations. Your presence at one would be welcomed.
d. Most Iranians in exile do not know anything about Iran as it is today. Don't depend on them for information unless they still have family in Iran and have traveled here in the past two years.
Exaggeration:
a. Iranians are prone to exaggeration. All Iranians.
Northern Tehran vs. the rest of Iran:
a. Take any opportunity to get out of north Tehran. Talk to people who are neither wealthy Tehranis nor fundamentalist Islamists. Find the middle ground. How big is it? I have no clue myself.
b. If possible, opt for an intercity bus when traveling out of Tehran. Talk to your fellow-travelers.
c. Don't stay in a protected bubble. Your hotel, your friends or friends of friends, and most of the people you are meeting have little to do with Iran or Iranians.
Gender Roles:
There is no one more privileged in Iran than a western woman. If you are a woman, don't pass up the opportunity to come here.
For women:
a. Do not be offended if a man does not shake your hand or look you in the eyes. Don't let it make you feel anything at all.
b. Shake hands with anyone who offers his/her hand. (For men as well)
c. Don't over dress. Iranian women expect you to push the boundaries of hijab regulations.
d. Style is key. Don't let the Islamic dress code make you look unstylish. Practice wearing a scarf before you get here. Buy a fashionable jacket that covers your ass. Look good.
e. Go to as many all-women events as you can. Try to talk to women without any men around.
For men:
a. Shake hands with all of your female colleagues and all women who offer their hands.
b. Don't be fooled by women who are demure in front of men.
Tolerance:
More than once, I have seen reporters refer to the supposed religious tolerance of reformist clerics. When a cleric expresses his tolerant views, please ask him these questions:
a. Does this tolerance refer only to the "people of the book" or does it extend to the Bahai, Hindus, and Buddhists (to name just a few?)
b. Does tolerance refer to Muslims who convert to other religions?
c. What about aetheists?
Hijab:
Many Iranian women struggle to assert their own personality through their hijab. Strangely enough, style *is* a form of protest. Style, however, is a function of class. Wealthier women can afford to flaunt dress codes because they can afford to pay any fines that they might be saddled with as a result. Poorer women are more subtle because the fines would be impossible to pay and because their families commonly exert more pressure on them to conform to Islamic dress standards.
Chadors are the big black capes that women wear over their heads. Manteaus are the jackets women wear. Please keep the two separate.
Government employees are required to wear chadors. Not all of these women would choose this form of dress for themselves.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
A (naïve) case for (modicum of) Irano-Israeli rapprochement
Interesting post from the Brooding Persian...
I am still puzzled by the curious silence which shrouds Mr. Katsav's recent personal peace appeal to Iran. I think we might have a real opportunity here to win some much needed time and breathing space to set our houses in order. I know this is a thorny issue. But I am going to make a case for having the Europeans find a way of linking the future of Iranian nuclear aspirations to some degree of direct engagement between Iran and Israel.
The relations between these two nations have ancient roots. I know the affairs have been a tad more complicated in recent past, with revisionists on both sides hard at work projecting the present animosities backward in time in order to provide even more justification for the ongoing campaigns of hate and venom.
Yet, the fact remains that some ancient nations are tied at the proverbial umbilical cord. There have been positive interactions and mutual influences over countless centuries as attested to by what little scholarly work exists that map out the history. Much work remains to be done, of course, given the vast quantities of material available still that has remained unexplored by the broader academic community.
As an aside, I have noted once before what a magnificent tradition of Judeo-Persian literature exists which is simply astounding and that you should get familiar with it if you are not already. And in one recent work (I have yet to examine) we get a glimpse into the life of our Jewish compatriots over the years. Some pictures here. ">Brooding Persian: 08/01/2005 - 08/31/2005: "I am still puzzled by the curious silence which shrouds Mr. Katsav's recent personal peace appeal to Iran. I think we might have a real opportunity here to win some much needed time and breathing space to set our houses in order. I know this is a thorny issue. But I am going to make a case for having the Europeans find a way of linking the future of Iranian nuclear aspirations to some degree of direct engagement between Iran and Israel.
The relations between these two nations have ancient roots. I know the affairs have been a tad more complicated in recent past, with revisionists on both sides hard at work projecting the present animosities backward in time in order to provide even more justification for the ongoing campaigns of hate and venom.
Yet, the fact remains that some ancient nations are tied at the proverbial umbilical cord. There have been positive interactions and mutual influences over countless centuries as attested to by what little scholarly work exists that map out the history. Much work remains to be done, of course, given the vast quantities of material available still that has remained unexplored by the broader academic community.
As an aside, I have noted once before what a magnificent tradition of Judeo-Persian literature exists which is simply astounding and that you should get familiar with it if you are not already. And in one recent work (I have yet to examine) we get a glimpse into the life of our Jewish compatriots over the years. Some pictures here.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
SEAN PENN IN IRAN
I'll join Iran bloggers everywhere and link to Sean Penn's series in the SF Chronicle.
One of our young friends received an email full of pics of Penn on his recent trip to Iran. She assumed that they had all been faked and could not understand why he would come here.
Well, it's an interesting country...
One of our young friends received an email full of pics of Penn on his recent trip to Iran. She assumed that they had all been faked and could not understand why he would come here.
Well, it's an interesting country...
Monday, August 22, 2005
Down with Germany! Down with France!
Flew back into Tehran. Paid too much for a cab. Well, just about 20 cents too much. I guess I can live with that. My driver has the radio on. The news. Reporting on Friday prayers. Chants of Khameini! Khameini! Khameini!
Subject of sermon: nuclear power, AN's cabinet, and the usual "down withs:" Israel, America, England…Plus 2 new ones: Germany and France. Welcome to the club!
"What do you feel when you hear 'Down with America'?" My driver asks me.
"Frankly, I don't like it. But it does not bother me too much because no one has ever been rude or insulting to me. Even the Basiji are polite and friendly when they find out I am an American."
"We are a hospitable people. You won't meet a more hospitable people anywhere in the world."
Maybe not…
The driver's brother lives in San Jose, California. His sister lives in Germany. His other brother is a fisherman in Bandar Abbas.
Get home. Friends greet me. Sleep.
Subject of sermon: nuclear power, AN's cabinet, and the usual "down withs:" Israel, America, England…Plus 2 new ones: Germany and France. Welcome to the club!
"What do you feel when you hear 'Down with America'?" My driver asks me.
"Frankly, I don't like it. But it does not bother me too much because no one has ever been rude or insulting to me. Even the Basiji are polite and friendly when they find out I am an American."
"We are a hospitable people. You won't meet a more hospitable people anywhere in the world."
Maybe not…
The driver's brother lives in San Jose, California. His sister lives in Germany. His other brother is a fisherman in Bandar Abbas.
Get home. Friends greet me. Sleep.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Mourning
No one would ever call an Iranian stoic. In fact, you might say that Iranians have a trembling lower lip rather than a stiff upper lip. Mourning is expressive and public and shared with friends, relatives, acquaintances, and colleagues.
Until you've been to an Iranian funeral, you know nothing about the culture. And until someone you love dies, you can be nothing but an interested observer.
This past week, someone I loved died. I was not the only one who loved her. She was one of those people who just get under your skin. Perhaps it is because of their own comfortable relationship with themselves, who knows? But from the first minute I met her, she was like family to me. She always seemed to understand my difficulties adjusting to Iranian culture and especially to tarof. Even before I could speak a word of Persian, we managed to share jokes and stories. I cannot tell you how we did it. I used to marvel at it myself. Sometimes we would talk for hours. She in Farsi and me in English. We never seemed to misunderstand each other. How is that possible?
Day 1
At 7 in the morning, K and I landed in her hometown. Looking down from the window of the airplane, I wondered if I would ever visit this part of Iran again, now that this woman was dead. In my mind, her oil-rich city belonged to her and her alone and not to the myriad of other relatives who lived there.
Before entering the house, we could hear the fresh screams of her sisters. Her children were still in Tehran where they were waiting to accompany her body down south. Every person who entered the house was greeted with wails and shouts and a flood of tears.
I was embarrassed. And exhausted. "We should call a doctor for your sister," I told K. "She needs a sedative."
"This is the way things are here," K told me. "We cannot call a doctor."
A woman entered the home beating her chest and crying. She and K's sister hugged and yelled and cried together.
There were times when I wanted to laugh. I couldn't help finding these extreme displays of emotion somewhat comical, which does not mean that they were not sincere.
Soon the house was full. It kept us busy preparing tea and orange juice and cold water. The children kept themselves busy anticipating the needs of new guests and bringing them drinks.
In the evening, we went to the airport to meet the body. A little boy played with the security guard at the gate to the landing strip. He ran in and out of the bars of the fence. His father chased him through the secure area.
The body arrived and was placed into the ambulance.
People collapsed on the ground.
My friend's young son picked his friends off the ground.
Still thinking like a foreigner, I thought, "How could they make their grief more of a show than his?"
Day 2: The Burial
The next morning we were up at 6:30 and at the house by 7. We arranged the ice and the cold drinks and the trays of dates and halvah (not halavah…) that we would bring to the graveyard.
At 8:00, the house was packed with women. The body was carried into every room of the house while the women wailed and beat their chests. I was terrified and shaking.
By the time we arrived at the graveyard, it was 110 degrees, dusty, and starting to fill up with families who came to picnic at the grave of a lost loved one.
There was a ceremony. The body was lifted onto the shoulders of sons and brothers and nephews and carried to her plot.
She was still in her Iran Air wrapping a chipboard box covered with a beautiful shawl that her best friend would later wear as a kind of chador.
My friend went into the grave wrapped in a simple shroud and facing Mecca. When it came time to pray on her grave, I knew what to do. I squatted down with the others, put three fingers on the grave like the others, and said Kaddish. Then I got up so that someone else could take my place.
Evening Prayers
That evening, the prayers were arranged for her. Her Koran teacher could not lead them, so another woman came in her place. She didn't want any men or boys to hear her. It was an ordeal kicking the sons and nephews out of the room. They did not want to leave to sit in another room.
The woman was such a cleric. She was officious and angry and complaining about us. She lectured us. I looked at my friend's daughters and we all started to smile and quietly laugh. "Well, at least she made them smile," I told K later.
I served fresh dates with walnuts in the centers. I think they were called Fatimeh's dates. I am not sure.
A young male cleric arrived later. He would not lead prayers unless everyone would cover up. My sister-in law looked at me and said, "What is it about our bare arms that has so much power?"
"Hey, it's nice to know that we still do have some power over men," I responded.
After the prayers, everyone relaxed and started to tell stories about our friend, sister, mother, and aunt. People were laughing, as they will do. It was at that moment that the full power of my grief hit me. I went out into the heat, sat on the window ledge, covered my face with my scarf, and started to cry.
K's nephew (just a couple of years younger than K himself) came to sit next to me and comfort me. Normally I would demand to grieve alone, but I let him comfort me.
"We Iranians, we cry at everything, but your tears are very powerful for us," he told me. "Uncle's wife," (Iranians are very literal about family relationships) "are we really so different anywhere in the world? When someone we love dies, don't we all feel the same grief?"
"That is the question I am asking myself," I told him. "I keep hearing that we are really different, but I do not feel it myself."
He called to his young daughter and his wife to come comfort me as well. As I let them, I felt how much I had changed in the last two years. I realized that the display of grief from others gave the family something to do. It gave them someone to comfort. It allowed them to think of something other than their own grief.
Day 3: The Mosque
Six in the morning, up and showered, and into the early morning heat to prepare for the morning at the mosque.
Trays of dates, cookies, and halvah are covered in plastic wrap.
Ice is always a problem. The water in the desert is not exactly the best, so all of the ice has to be made with mineral water. The family does not trust ice-sellers, so everyone is busy making ice in their packed freezers.
We prepare coolers and coolers with orange drink.
Bottles of water are packed in barrels of ice.
You cannot have too much to drink in the middle of summer in the desert cities of Iran. By noon, the air is so hot and dry that you feel like your eyeballs are cooking in your head. There is no water in your body other than the water you put into it.
When we arrive at the mosque, it is clear that there is no way that the women's area is big enough for the hordes of women who will arrive. K lifts the curtain that celebrates us from the men, but someone else lowers it. We pack into our tiny area. Soon, though, the curtain gets lifted and the women spill over into the spacious men's section.
Most Iranians, no matter how devout, go to mosques only to attend funerals. Their religion is integrated into their daily lives. Unless they have a family member or friend who is a cleric, they do not have any personal relationships with their religious leaders.
Despite the small size of the women's area, it is a much better place to sit than the men's area. It's more casual. You don't have to see the cleric. You don't have to pretend to listen to his 1-hour sermon. The women form little groups. They chat and cry. Some of them pray and read the Koran.
The first hour of the service is sung. When a woman dies, the hazzan sings this song that is sung for Fatimeh (Mohamad's daughter). I am not sure of the event: is she dying or is someone else? The song is like pouring salt into open wounds. There is long wail: "Mother, mother, mother get up!" The hazzan cries. "All women are mothers," he sings. "Even those women who have no children." The family wails. The chadoris cover their faces with their chadors and their shoulders shake from weeping. When the song ends I notice that quite a few of them uncover their faces to reveal dry eyes.
Noon: the Graveyard
We are doing the third and 7th day ceremonies together. So when the service is finished, we head over to the graveyard. An air-conditioned bus is waiting outside the mosque. An 8-year old great-nephew is calling out "Air-conditioned bus! Just 10,000 tumans! Ride with us!" When I come out he yells, "Kharigi [foreigner]! Kharigi! Come on board!"
We laugh.
We arrive at the graveyard. It is at least 120 degrees. (It's 54 degrees [129]," a taxi driver tells me, "but they never report that because they would have to close all of the factories. So it can be 53 here, but never 54.")
We go to the grave and cover it with flowers. Everyone is crowded around it. We have a truck with loudspeakers and a singer and so does the funeral party next to us. Our guy is saying, "Brothers, sisters, get moving it's too hot to crowd around the grave. Say your prayers and get moving." Very sensible. Their guy is singing and shouting commands as well.
The grave next to us is mourning a father and son. I assume they were killed in a car accident. A midget is lifting their pictures above his head. When the prayers are finished, the young men strap on drums and beat out a heartbeat while the women trill.
After about ten minutes, the young men come to our grave and drum for us. Mourning is sociable in Iran.
Afternoon: another Graveyard
"I want to visit my father's grave," K's nephew's wife tells me.
"I will come with you."
Her husband drives us to a mosque in the center of the city. We get out and go into the quiet, shaded graveyard. "The plots here cost 30 million tuman," V tells me. "When we got my father's plot, they were much cheaper.
We put on the flowered chadors that they are handing out.
"Since Ahmadinejad became president, they think they have to make us wear these chadors," V tells me. "I have fought with them a few times, but I never win." V never takes off her headscarf around us. I have only seen her hair once in 2 years and that was when we were alone and she wanted to show me her curls.
The chadors are scented with rosewater. I wear mine like a tallis. It's the best I can do.
When we get to her father's grave, I squat, put three fingers on the grave, and say my prayers. It always baffled me what people were doing at stranger's graves – what kinds of prayers they were saying… now I get it. It feels normal for me now.
Until you've been to an Iranian funeral, you know nothing about the culture. And until someone you love dies, you can be nothing but an interested observer.
This past week, someone I loved died. I was not the only one who loved her. She was one of those people who just get under your skin. Perhaps it is because of their own comfortable relationship with themselves, who knows? But from the first minute I met her, she was like family to me. She always seemed to understand my difficulties adjusting to Iranian culture and especially to tarof. Even before I could speak a word of Persian, we managed to share jokes and stories. I cannot tell you how we did it. I used to marvel at it myself. Sometimes we would talk for hours. She in Farsi and me in English. We never seemed to misunderstand each other. How is that possible?
Day 1
At 7 in the morning, K and I landed in her hometown. Looking down from the window of the airplane, I wondered if I would ever visit this part of Iran again, now that this woman was dead. In my mind, her oil-rich city belonged to her and her alone and not to the myriad of other relatives who lived there.
Before entering the house, we could hear the fresh screams of her sisters. Her children were still in Tehran where they were waiting to accompany her body down south. Every person who entered the house was greeted with wails and shouts and a flood of tears.
I was embarrassed. And exhausted. "We should call a doctor for your sister," I told K. "She needs a sedative."
"This is the way things are here," K told me. "We cannot call a doctor."
A woman entered the home beating her chest and crying. She and K's sister hugged and yelled and cried together.
There were times when I wanted to laugh. I couldn't help finding these extreme displays of emotion somewhat comical, which does not mean that they were not sincere.
Soon the house was full. It kept us busy preparing tea and orange juice and cold water. The children kept themselves busy anticipating the needs of new guests and bringing them drinks.
In the evening, we went to the airport to meet the body. A little boy played with the security guard at the gate to the landing strip. He ran in and out of the bars of the fence. His father chased him through the secure area.
The body arrived and was placed into the ambulance.
People collapsed on the ground.
My friend's young son picked his friends off the ground.
Still thinking like a foreigner, I thought, "How could they make their grief more of a show than his?"
Day 2: The Burial
The next morning we were up at 6:30 and at the house by 7. We arranged the ice and the cold drinks and the trays of dates and halvah (not halavah…) that we would bring to the graveyard.
At 8:00, the house was packed with women. The body was carried into every room of the house while the women wailed and beat their chests. I was terrified and shaking.
By the time we arrived at the graveyard, it was 110 degrees, dusty, and starting to fill up with families who came to picnic at the grave of a lost loved one.
There was a ceremony. The body was lifted onto the shoulders of sons and brothers and nephews and carried to her plot.
She was still in her Iran Air wrapping a chipboard box covered with a beautiful shawl that her best friend would later wear as a kind of chador.
My friend went into the grave wrapped in a simple shroud and facing Mecca. When it came time to pray on her grave, I knew what to do. I squatted down with the others, put three fingers on the grave like the others, and said Kaddish. Then I got up so that someone else could take my place.
Evening Prayers
That evening, the prayers were arranged for her. Her Koran teacher could not lead them, so another woman came in her place. She didn't want any men or boys to hear her. It was an ordeal kicking the sons and nephews out of the room. They did not want to leave to sit in another room.
The woman was such a cleric. She was officious and angry and complaining about us. She lectured us. I looked at my friend's daughters and we all started to smile and quietly laugh. "Well, at least she made them smile," I told K later.
I served fresh dates with walnuts in the centers. I think they were called Fatimeh's dates. I am not sure.
A young male cleric arrived later. He would not lead prayers unless everyone would cover up. My sister-in law looked at me and said, "What is it about our bare arms that has so much power?"
"Hey, it's nice to know that we still do have some power over men," I responded.
After the prayers, everyone relaxed and started to tell stories about our friend, sister, mother, and aunt. People were laughing, as they will do. It was at that moment that the full power of my grief hit me. I went out into the heat, sat on the window ledge, covered my face with my scarf, and started to cry.
K's nephew (just a couple of years younger than K himself) came to sit next to me and comfort me. Normally I would demand to grieve alone, but I let him comfort me.
"We Iranians, we cry at everything, but your tears are very powerful for us," he told me. "Uncle's wife," (Iranians are very literal about family relationships) "are we really so different anywhere in the world? When someone we love dies, don't we all feel the same grief?"
"That is the question I am asking myself," I told him. "I keep hearing that we are really different, but I do not feel it myself."
He called to his young daughter and his wife to come comfort me as well. As I let them, I felt how much I had changed in the last two years. I realized that the display of grief from others gave the family something to do. It gave them someone to comfort. It allowed them to think of something other than their own grief.
Day 3: The Mosque
Six in the morning, up and showered, and into the early morning heat to prepare for the morning at the mosque.
Trays of dates, cookies, and halvah are covered in plastic wrap.
Ice is always a problem. The water in the desert is not exactly the best, so all of the ice has to be made with mineral water. The family does not trust ice-sellers, so everyone is busy making ice in their packed freezers.
We prepare coolers and coolers with orange drink.
Bottles of water are packed in barrels of ice.
You cannot have too much to drink in the middle of summer in the desert cities of Iran. By noon, the air is so hot and dry that you feel like your eyeballs are cooking in your head. There is no water in your body other than the water you put into it.
When we arrive at the mosque, it is clear that there is no way that the women's area is big enough for the hordes of women who will arrive. K lifts the curtain that celebrates us from the men, but someone else lowers it. We pack into our tiny area. Soon, though, the curtain gets lifted and the women spill over into the spacious men's section.
Most Iranians, no matter how devout, go to mosques only to attend funerals. Their religion is integrated into their daily lives. Unless they have a family member or friend who is a cleric, they do not have any personal relationships with their religious leaders.
Despite the small size of the women's area, it is a much better place to sit than the men's area. It's more casual. You don't have to see the cleric. You don't have to pretend to listen to his 1-hour sermon. The women form little groups. They chat and cry. Some of them pray and read the Koran.
The first hour of the service is sung. When a woman dies, the hazzan sings this song that is sung for Fatimeh (Mohamad's daughter). I am not sure of the event: is she dying or is someone else? The song is like pouring salt into open wounds. There is long wail: "Mother, mother, mother get up!" The hazzan cries. "All women are mothers," he sings. "Even those women who have no children." The family wails. The chadoris cover their faces with their chadors and their shoulders shake from weeping. When the song ends I notice that quite a few of them uncover their faces to reveal dry eyes.
Noon: the Graveyard
We are doing the third and 7th day ceremonies together. So when the service is finished, we head over to the graveyard. An air-conditioned bus is waiting outside the mosque. An 8-year old great-nephew is calling out "Air-conditioned bus! Just 10,000 tumans! Ride with us!" When I come out he yells, "Kharigi [foreigner]! Kharigi! Come on board!"
We laugh.
We arrive at the graveyard. It is at least 120 degrees. (It's 54 degrees [129]," a taxi driver tells me, "but they never report that because they would have to close all of the factories. So it can be 53 here, but never 54.")
We go to the grave and cover it with flowers. Everyone is crowded around it. We have a truck with loudspeakers and a singer and so does the funeral party next to us. Our guy is saying, "Brothers, sisters, get moving it's too hot to crowd around the grave. Say your prayers and get moving." Very sensible. Their guy is singing and shouting commands as well.
The grave next to us is mourning a father and son. I assume they were killed in a car accident. A midget is lifting their pictures above his head. When the prayers are finished, the young men strap on drums and beat out a heartbeat while the women trill.
After about ten minutes, the young men come to our grave and drum for us. Mourning is sociable in Iran.
Afternoon: another Graveyard
"I want to visit my father's grave," K's nephew's wife tells me.
"I will come with you."
Her husband drives us to a mosque in the center of the city. We get out and go into the quiet, shaded graveyard. "The plots here cost 30 million tuman," V tells me. "When we got my father's plot, they were much cheaper.
We put on the flowered chadors that they are handing out.
"Since Ahmadinejad became president, they think they have to make us wear these chadors," V tells me. "I have fought with them a few times, but I never win." V never takes off her headscarf around us. I have only seen her hair once in 2 years and that was when we were alone and she wanted to show me her curls.
The chadors are scented with rosewater. I wear mine like a tallis. It's the best I can do.
When we get to her father's grave, I squat, put three fingers on the grave, and say my prayers. It always baffled me what people were doing at stranger's graves – what kinds of prayers they were saying… now I get it. It feels normal for me now.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
One pill makes you taller
Almost everyone in Iran has a plastic bag filled with medication. That medication may range from antibiotics to Zantac and everything in between.
The other day, K came home with his plastic bag. "Please put it in some other bag," I told him. I couldn't bear seeing him carry around a clear plastic bag.
Doctors do not provide much information about lab results or prescribed medication, so it has become my job to analyze test results and research medications. Thank god for the internet.
"Look at all these negatives," K told me when he brought me a lab result to analyze. He was worried. After about 5 minutes I could tell him that the negatives were all good. No weird virus had infected him.
The more serious the illness, the less information doctors share with their patients. They might find one member of the family to inform. That family member makes the decision about who should know what, when. Since I am not that family member, I cannot tell you how detailed the information doctors provide is. My guess is that it is always too little to make informed decisions.
That is why people bring me their lab results. It's not that Iranian doctors are bad. Quite the opposite! They are excellent diagnosticians. It's just that no one ever knows how much information the doctors are sharing. People often think that the doctor is holding back. To be fair, I often get lab reports with the admonition not to share too much of the information that I discover.
Iranians do not want to make their own decisions. They believe in experts. I do not. What can I say?
The other day, K came home with his plastic bag. "Please put it in some other bag," I told him. I couldn't bear seeing him carry around a clear plastic bag.
Doctors do not provide much information about lab results or prescribed medication, so it has become my job to analyze test results and research medications. Thank god for the internet.
"Look at all these negatives," K told me when he brought me a lab result to analyze. He was worried. After about 5 minutes I could tell him that the negatives were all good. No weird virus had infected him.
The more serious the illness, the less information doctors share with their patients. They might find one member of the family to inform. That family member makes the decision about who should know what, when. Since I am not that family member, I cannot tell you how detailed the information doctors provide is. My guess is that it is always too little to make informed decisions.
That is why people bring me their lab results. It's not that Iranian doctors are bad. Quite the opposite! They are excellent diagnosticians. It's just that no one ever knows how much information the doctors are sharing. People often think that the doctor is holding back. To be fair, I often get lab reports with the admonition not to share too much of the information that I discover.
Iranians do not want to make their own decisions. They believe in experts. I do not. What can I say?
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
All news, all the time
Ganji will probably die soon.
The explosion at BA was caused by a bottle of benzene in a garbage can. "It was not a bomb," the police reported. News accounts showed some broken windows, but that looked like it.
Katzav has made a plea for peace between Iran and Israel. The plea made it into the Iranian press.
Lawyers are being arrested, and a judge has been assassinated. (The lawyers work for the family of the Canadian photo-journalist who was killed in custody and for A. Ganji. The assassinated judge was responsible for imprisoning Ganji and other reformers.)
Ahwazis are being taken in by pyramid schemes and they do not appreciate it. The news reports these as anti-government protests, but K's family says that the protests are in response to something more mundane. Apparently, many Ahwazis have been taken in by promises to receive a car or a stove or other appliance after depositing 200,000 tuman (about $250) for a few months. Some have received their promised gifts. It's a typical pyramid scheme.
It feels like something is happening, but it's unclear what that something is.
The explosion at BA was caused by a bottle of benzene in a garbage can. "It was not a bomb," the police reported. News accounts showed some broken windows, but that looked like it.
Katzav has made a plea for peace between Iran and Israel. The plea made it into the Iranian press.
Lawyers are being arrested, and a judge has been assassinated. (The lawyers work for the family of the Canadian photo-journalist who was killed in custody and for A. Ganji. The assassinated judge was responsible for imprisoning Ganji and other reformers.)
Ahwazis are being taken in by pyramid schemes and they do not appreciate it. The news reports these as anti-government protests, but K's family says that the protests are in response to something more mundane. Apparently, many Ahwazis have been taken in by promises to receive a car or a stove or other appliance after depositing 200,000 tuman (about $250) for a few months. Some have received their promised gifts. It's a typical pyramid scheme.
It feels like something is happening, but it's unclear what that something is.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
CNN.com - Blast hits BA, BP offices in Iran - Aug 2, 2005
CNN.com - Blast hits BA, BP offices in Iran - Aug 2, 2005: "TEHRAN, Iran (CNN) -- An explosive device has detonated in a building housing offices for British Airways and oil company BP, breaking some windows and causing other damage, representatives of the companies said.
No casualties were reported."
No casualties were reported."
Ch-ch-changes
It's countdown to a new president in Iran.
Last night Khatami gave an important speech that K found pretty exciting. "Everything he should have said 8 years ago, he is saying now." I hope to find a good translation soon. You can read Payvand's summary here: http://www.payvand.com/news/05/aug/1005.html.
Until then, here is K's summary:
I had a hard time following the speech. I'll just say that it was the most animated speech I have seen Khatami give and that it was interrupted several times by applause.
Last night Khatami gave an important speech that K found pretty exciting. "Everything he should have said 8 years ago, he is saying now." I hope to find a good translation soon. You can read Payvand's summary here: http://www.payvand.com/news/05/aug/1005.html.
Until then, here is K's summary:
Since the beginning of the revolution, there have been two Islams. One that embraces tolerance and diversity and guarantees freedom of worship for Zoroastrians, Jews, and Christians, and one that uses the tools of terror to impose its will. There is the Islam of Al Q'aeda and the Taliban and of those who support the use of methods of terror. And there is the Islam that says: we do not have all the answers. It says, we have to use scholarship to examine our faith and modernize our faith.
…
No manager in my government has ever been more than 5 meters from prison.
…
The Middle East can prosper when there is a true dialogue among the different faiths. The Middle East can prosper when Muslims, Christians, and Jews have a meaningful conversation with one another.
(1 ½ hours of explanation and then: standing ovation… )
I had a hard time following the speech. I'll just say that it was the most animated speech I have seen Khatami give and that it was interrupted several times by applause.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Fashion
"T, you will never guess what we saw when we visited my cousin," An observant friend told me. "A girl, my daughter's size, clearly a teenager at the very least, who went out into the streets of Ahwaz in a tank top and jeans. No scarf. No manteau."
"No scarf even?"
"No."
"Ahmadinejad," her daughter laughed.
"Maybe she was only 9," I commented.
"She'd have to be even younger," the daughter said.
Among the Tehranis and Ahwazis in K's family, the girls wear as little of the hijab as they can until they are given a warning or picked up by the police. The girls in his family have a fortunate girlish look that belies their years. This is totally unlike the unfortunate daughter of a friend who is extraordinarily tall for her age, and, as if that were not enough, has entered puberty early. "She absolutely refuses to wear a scarf," my friend told me. "I had to send her to a boarding school in England. I could not keep her here."
Recently, a man I met told me how heartbroken he was about Iran. "I am a nationalist. I am Islamic. My wife and I both pray 5 times a day. The other day my nine-year old daughter asked me if she could go live with her uncle in England. I asked her why, and she told me that she does not want to wear the hijab. I told my uncles who are clerics. 'How could you do this to my country?' I asked them. 'How could you do this to the religion I love? How could your rules push my daughter away from me?'"
Fashion in Tehran: Giant scarves and tiny manteaus. Hemlines are just below the ass. The scarves are huge, flowered, and fringed, and look like your grandmother's tablecloths.
That's what I really wanted to write about. It's never that easy is it…? Over and over again I have tried not to make hijab an issue, but it is. It was over 110 degrees here for 3 weeks! In a headscarf. And a manteau. It's hot in that frigging outfit.
"No scarf even?"
"No."
"Ahmadinejad," her daughter laughed.
"Maybe she was only 9," I commented.
"She'd have to be even younger," the daughter said.
Among the Tehranis and Ahwazis in K's family, the girls wear as little of the hijab as they can until they are given a warning or picked up by the police. The girls in his family have a fortunate girlish look that belies their years. This is totally unlike the unfortunate daughter of a friend who is extraordinarily tall for her age, and, as if that were not enough, has entered puberty early. "She absolutely refuses to wear a scarf," my friend told me. "I had to send her to a boarding school in England. I could not keep her here."
Recently, a man I met told me how heartbroken he was about Iran. "I am a nationalist. I am Islamic. My wife and I both pray 5 times a day. The other day my nine-year old daughter asked me if she could go live with her uncle in England. I asked her why, and she told me that she does not want to wear the hijab. I told my uncles who are clerics. 'How could you do this to my country?' I asked them. 'How could you do this to the religion I love? How could your rules push my daughter away from me?'"
Fashion in Tehran: Giant scarves and tiny manteaus. Hemlines are just below the ass. The scarves are huge, flowered, and fringed, and look like your grandmother's tablecloths.
That's what I really wanted to write about. It's never that easy is it…? Over and over again I have tried not to make hijab an issue, but it is. It was over 110 degrees here for 3 weeks! In a headscarf. And a manteau. It's hot in that frigging outfit.
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