Showing posts with label family and friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family and friends. Show all posts
Monday, November 30, 2009
A Message from an American Family to your Khanavadeh
I hope that people in Iran will be able to see this video, I uploaded the smallest version available. If you'd like to see it in higher quality, check out the youTube link or the Vimeo link.
The struggle for justice and civil rights is a long and difficult one. Good luck...
Saturday, November 08, 2008
The Obama Effect
I am trying to convince my youngest sister (author of the love letter to our parents) to start keeping a blog. Soon, she'll have her own. Until then, I am posting her latest email to me:
I think its been three weeks, that's how long I've been holding my breath. And on Tuesday, November 4th at 8:01 pm pacific time i was able to exhale. I think our whole country exhaled at the same time - it might have been the winds of change that were felt at that moment. And the entire world was in Grant Park in Chicago, also known as the Windy City. Weathermen might call it the lake effect, those of us who live by the ocean blame it on the tides, but this wind, on this day, at this moment is what we call the Obama Effect. And when I awoke from a most restful night of sleep on Wednesday, November 5, I realized that I had forgotten to pay my rent- the Obama Effect, at least that was what I told my landlord. Later that afternoon, while waiting for my 6th grader to get home from school, and wondering why he still wasn't home 40 minutes after school had been dismissed, I realized it was my carpool day - the Obama Effect. I'm wondering, can I blame the pile of dishes in the sink on the Obama Effect? Maybe not, but at least I'm breathing again, and with every breath I take there is hope - that, for sure, is the Obama Effect.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Tehrangeles: Starbucks, sushi, and Chabad House
I was hanging out with a 22 year-old Iranian-Dutch woman who was telling me about her summer trip to LA to visit cousins. (Raise your hand if you have cousins in LA. I know I do, and I’m not even Iranian.)
“You wouldn’t believe it,” she told me, “My cousin drove for an hour to buy sweets so she wouldn’t have to buy them from the Jewish baker. She said, ‘I want my money in the pocket of a Muslim, not of a Jew.’”
Part of me was appalled, and part sympathetic. After all, when I was growing up, we bought from Jews whenever we could. That was the rule. My father still complains about certain university types who did not understand the importance of supporting Jewish merchants and would buy from anyone. “They just don’t understand how hard it is to earn a living,” he says.
Irangeles, apparently, is starkly divided by religion: Iranian- Jews, Muslims, Christians, and Bahai’s divided by semi-strict borders. “Even the coffee shops,” my young friend says. She told me of her cousin’s dismay when a group of Jewish 20-somethings dared to step foot in the coffee shop they were visiting. “They have their own. What are they doing here?” When my friend expressed her disgust with her cousin’s attitude, she was met with a blank stare. “We just don’t do that kind of thing in Amsterdam.” To be fair, Iranians in the Netherlands are pretty divided by political lines. It is true, however, that the 20-somethings are more likely to blur those lines than their parents.
--
Starbucks, sushi, Chabad House. Starbucks, sushi, Chabad House. A little Spanish, a lot of Persian, some Hebrew. That’s what Kamran and I experienced when we visited LA last Spring.
In a Persian restaurant in Westwood, a young Baha’i told us how disheartening it was to try to bring the Irangeles community together. He confirmed our Iranian-Dutch friend’s experience of the strong religious divisions in the community. Another man we met told us that when young Iranians arrive in Irangeles, they are comfortable crossing the borders between the religious communities. “They don’t seem to care at all about religious divisions at all. They’re just so much more relaxed than those of us who grew up in this community.”
--
Yesterday Kamran and I had lunch with some friends who live in Iran. “Do you think anti-Semitism is growing among Iranians?” I asked. (An article in the Washington Post had been haunting me since I read it.)
“Do you mean anti-Zionism?”
“No. I mean anti-Semitism.”
They told me that the young people born after the revolution to parents who lived most of their lives with the current regime had, in fact, become more susceptible to the message of the regime. “I mean, my friend’s younger sister has no problem throwing off her hejab and wearing a bikini in public, but when she talks you are surprised to hear her echo the message of the regime.” She’s not unique, just specific.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” she told me, “My cousin drove for an hour to buy sweets so she wouldn’t have to buy them from the Jewish baker. She said, ‘I want my money in the pocket of a Muslim, not of a Jew.’”
Part of me was appalled, and part sympathetic. After all, when I was growing up, we bought from Jews whenever we could. That was the rule. My father still complains about certain university types who did not understand the importance of supporting Jewish merchants and would buy from anyone. “They just don’t understand how hard it is to earn a living,” he says.
Irangeles, apparently, is starkly divided by religion: Iranian- Jews, Muslims, Christians, and Bahai’s divided by semi-strict borders. “Even the coffee shops,” my young friend says. She told me of her cousin’s dismay when a group of Jewish 20-somethings dared to step foot in the coffee shop they were visiting. “They have their own. What are they doing here?” When my friend expressed her disgust with her cousin’s attitude, she was met with a blank stare. “We just don’t do that kind of thing in Amsterdam.” To be fair, Iranians in the Netherlands are pretty divided by political lines. It is true, however, that the 20-somethings are more likely to blur those lines than their parents.
--
Starbucks, sushi, Chabad House. Starbucks, sushi, Chabad House. A little Spanish, a lot of Persian, some Hebrew. That’s what Kamran and I experienced when we visited LA last Spring.
In a Persian restaurant in Westwood, a young Baha’i told us how disheartening it was to try to bring the Irangeles community together. He confirmed our Iranian-Dutch friend’s experience of the strong religious divisions in the community. Another man we met told us that when young Iranians arrive in Irangeles, they are comfortable crossing the borders between the religious communities. “They don’t seem to care at all about religious divisions at all. They’re just so much more relaxed than those of us who grew up in this community.”
--
Yesterday Kamran and I had lunch with some friends who live in Iran. “Do you think anti-Semitism is growing among Iranians?” I asked. (An article in the Washington Post had been haunting me since I read it.)
“Do you mean anti-Zionism?”
“No. I mean anti-Semitism.”
They told me that the young people born after the revolution to parents who lived most of their lives with the current regime had, in fact, become more susceptible to the message of the regime. “I mean, my friend’s younger sister has no problem throwing off her hejab and wearing a bikini in public, but when she talks you are surprised to hear her echo the message of the regime.” She’s not unique, just specific.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A love letter to my parents
My sister summed up our (by ours: I mean my siblings) feelings about the melding of political and personal history so beautifully:
Dear Mom & Dad:
This week in our country is definitely historic. And while the word of the last several months has been CHANGE - and moving this country forward. Let us take a moment to recognize the change that has been quietly taking place for the last 45 years. There has been a lot of talk this week about those conversations that happen around the kitchen table - and believe you me - I am all too familiar with those conversations. But there were conversations that happened around that table when we were kids that culminated into the historical moments of the last week. To you, Mom and Dad, and the other parents of our generation, thank you for putting your history aside and making sure to raise us with openness and equality you are the true unsung heroes of this historical moment. Your efforts changed the world and you are my heroes!
All my love,
Ruthie
Thursday, August 07, 2008
America, America, America
Our friend, the great artist Liselot van der Heijden, just showed us this piece she made four years ago. It should be a YouTube hit, but you have to go to her site and watch it.
It may be from 2004, but it's just as fascinating today as it was 4 years ago.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Sept. 25, 1899
Categories: america, immigration
101 years ago today, my grandfather landed in America with a sister that my father only found out about yesterday through an internet search of records stored at Ellis Island. How cool is that?
101 years ago today, my grandfather landed in America with a sister that my father only found out about yesterday through an internet search of records stored at Ellis Island. How cool is that?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Goodbye M
Categories: iran, friends
Living in Tehran is like being at summer camp. The friendships are brief and intense, you swear you’ll be friends for life, and sometimes you never see your dearest heart ever again.
So when we had to say goodbye to a dear friend who left the country recently, it’s no surprise that I was left as stunned as I was when I was 12 years old on my last day at overnight camp. (I was one of those who loved camp).
So goodbye to a dear friend who spent one of her last nights in Iran comforting a woman who had barely survived a fatal crash and who saved me and K when we were most depressed. Everyone should have such a friend.
Living in Tehran is like being at summer camp. The friendships are brief and intense, you swear you’ll be friends for life, and sometimes you never see your dearest heart ever again.
So when we had to say goodbye to a dear friend who left the country recently, it’s no surprise that I was left as stunned as I was when I was 12 years old on my last day at overnight camp. (I was one of those who loved camp).
So goodbye to a dear friend who spent one of her last nights in Iran comforting a woman who had barely survived a fatal crash and who saved me and K when we were most depressed. Everyone should have such a friend.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Memorial
Tagged as: Iran culture
“Oh my god, haven’t you heard what’s been going on with the UK.?”
“I heard something about a bomb on an airplane when I was in a taxi, but I thought it was just the normal stuff.”
“My god, no. It’s not normal,” my friend tells me. We are sitting in a fashionable Tehran restaurant. I have arrived there straight from the airport after having been in Iran’s hot Khuzestan Province. She and Keivan explain the events of the last 36 hours to me.
“We only had the television on for 30 minutes so that everyone could watch Nargess,” I explained. (Nargess is the newest serial to sweep Iran. Everyone is watching it.)
I was in Khuzestan attending the year-memorial for my friend who died last year. It was a much less hectic and heart-wrenching affair than the funeral. We’d all had a year of mourning, crying, and bouts of depression behind us. This does not mean that any of us miss her any less, it’s just that the months leading up to her death and the months following her death were overwhelming and difficult for many, many people and that now, most of her family and friends were recovering.
It was a relief to see everyone again. I have not traveled too far from Tehran (except outside Iran) since the funeral. Khuzestan was a blistering 48 degrees C. This is the type of heat that can only be described as a moving wall that has weight and force and sound. You can almost hear it: at least you can imagine hearing it: Whoooosh.
First there was a ceremony in the mosque. There were about 150 women there: almost all of them wearing the same black knee-highs, darker at the toes and heals with a dark black band across the top. The mosque was chilled to shivering. “In Khuzestan they are used to the heat,” everyone told me. Oh yeah, then why are their homes and offices and mosques kept so cold? They are only used to staying inside, not to the heat.
We had about 2 ½ hours of chanting followed by ½ hour of a sermon. All the while, children were playing, there were the requisite operatic mourners, and a quorum of chadoris who hide their faces under their chadors, shake their shoulders as if hysterically crying, and then emerge dry-eyed.
From the mosque we went to the cemetery. Close by was the year memorial for the family who died in what I assume was a car crash. Last year I thought it was only a son and father who had died because there were only two pictures. This year it was clear that there was a third death: probably a woman, maybe the mother. My heart burned (as Iranians would say) for that family. How do you come to terms with such a quick death. The men were clearly heart broken. They were sobbing. The women sat dry-eyed while the children handed out sweets to the gathered crowd.
Our own ceremony was under a tent to protect us from the hot sun. Even so, the marble tombstone was too hot to touch. After the ceremony, we went to lunch. Children who did not attend the memorial came for the lunch. It’s hard to imagine how people survive mourning without children around. It’s impossible to resist their joy and playfulness. You could see the lights switch on in the eyes of their aunts and uncles who had lost their mother and sister.
“Oh my god, haven’t you heard what’s been going on with the UK.?”
“I heard something about a bomb on an airplane when I was in a taxi, but I thought it was just the normal stuff.”
“My god, no. It’s not normal,” my friend tells me. We are sitting in a fashionable Tehran restaurant. I have arrived there straight from the airport after having been in Iran’s hot Khuzestan Province. She and Keivan explain the events of the last 36 hours to me.
“We only had the television on for 30 minutes so that everyone could watch Nargess,” I explained. (Nargess is the newest serial to sweep Iran. Everyone is watching it.)
I was in Khuzestan attending the year-memorial for my friend who died last year. It was a much less hectic and heart-wrenching affair than the funeral. We’d all had a year of mourning, crying, and bouts of depression behind us. This does not mean that any of us miss her any less, it’s just that the months leading up to her death and the months following her death were overwhelming and difficult for many, many people and that now, most of her family and friends were recovering.
It was a relief to see everyone again. I have not traveled too far from Tehran (except outside Iran) since the funeral. Khuzestan was a blistering 48 degrees C. This is the type of heat that can only be described as a moving wall that has weight and force and sound. You can almost hear it: at least you can imagine hearing it: Whoooosh.
First there was a ceremony in the mosque. There were about 150 women there: almost all of them wearing the same black knee-highs, darker at the toes and heals with a dark black band across the top. The mosque was chilled to shivering. “In Khuzestan they are used to the heat,” everyone told me. Oh yeah, then why are their homes and offices and mosques kept so cold? They are only used to staying inside, not to the heat.
We had about 2 ½ hours of chanting followed by ½ hour of a sermon. All the while, children were playing, there were the requisite operatic mourners, and a quorum of chadoris who hide their faces under their chadors, shake their shoulders as if hysterically crying, and then emerge dry-eyed.
From the mosque we went to the cemetery. Close by was the year memorial for the family who died in what I assume was a car crash. Last year I thought it was only a son and father who had died because there were only two pictures. This year it was clear that there was a third death: probably a woman, maybe the mother. My heart burned (as Iranians would say) for that family. How do you come to terms with such a quick death. The men were clearly heart broken. They were sobbing. The women sat dry-eyed while the children handed out sweets to the gathered crowd.
Our own ceremony was under a tent to protect us from the hot sun. Even so, the marble tombstone was too hot to touch. After the ceremony, we went to lunch. Children who did not attend the memorial came for the lunch. It’s hard to imagine how people survive mourning without children around. It’s impossible to resist their joy and playfulness. You could see the lights switch on in the eyes of their aunts and uncles who had lost their mother and sister.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
We are family
Tagged as: Iran daily life
“T have you been to Hawaii?”
“No, but I want to go. My cousin is there, and I would love to visit him.”
“You see your cousins?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, you have contacts with cousins?”
“Of course. When I was home I say a lot of my cousins. I attended several family events.”
“Eeehh… The mullahs always tell us that your families are broken.”
“Some are. Some are not.”
“Just like ours. They tell us that you leave home at 18.”
“Just because we leave home does not mean that we do not love and respect our families. The mullahs tell you that leaving home means that our families are broken. I tell you that’s not what it means. They tell you we care more for our cats and dogs than for our children. That’s bullshit.”
“Bullshit, yanni chi?” (What does bullshit mean?)
Yesterday the news was filled with guidelines for de-uglifying Americans. (Thank god we’re still beautiful in Iran ;-) ) The tips are simple politeness. While I agree with being polite, I do not think we should be polite to the point of letting people tell us that liberal democracy is bad, that we are decadent, and that our families are broken.
“Did you know that over 50% of all American marriages end in divorce?” K asked his sisters a couple of years ago.
“100% of Iranian marriages end in divorce,” they laughingly responded. “Only we still have to live together.”
We are often ready to let the enlightened non-West define us as decadent, selfish, and individualistic. Well, some of us are. Some of us are not. After living in Iran where Inshallah or God’s will absolves the population of responsibility, I would say that we are not alone when it comes to facing our social problems. Here, individualism is masked as community because people do not often challenge the will of the community. Iranians can be just as willfully individualistic as the best of us…They just do it in private. Many Iranians live like perpetual high school students: hiding their private lives under a mask of propriety and manners like grown-up Eddie Haskells.
Europeans and Americans (to a lesser extent) look at themselves critically on a regular basis. Let’s just talk about crime: Why do we know our crime rate? Because we examine our crime rate. We also report crimes that other cultures do not.
“A woman came before me,” an Iranian judge told us. “She was Russian and had been assaulted by a couple of men. She was terrified to tell me about it. I could tell that she did not trust me. I had to gain her trust, reassure her that she would not be punished for the crimes of the men. It took awhile before she could trust me enough to tell me what happened to her. This is what I have to fight all day: the idea that we will not help.”
“T have you been to Hawaii?”
“No, but I want to go. My cousin is there, and I would love to visit him.”
“You see your cousins?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, you have contacts with cousins?”
“Of course. When I was home I say a lot of my cousins. I attended several family events.”
“Eeehh… The mullahs always tell us that your families are broken.”
“Some are. Some are not.”
“Just like ours. They tell us that you leave home at 18.”
“Just because we leave home does not mean that we do not love and respect our families. The mullahs tell you that leaving home means that our families are broken. I tell you that’s not what it means. They tell you we care more for our cats and dogs than for our children. That’s bullshit.”
“Bullshit, yanni chi?” (What does bullshit mean?)
Yesterday the news was filled with guidelines for de-uglifying Americans. (Thank god we’re still beautiful in Iran ;-) ) The tips are simple politeness. While I agree with being polite, I do not think we should be polite to the point of letting people tell us that liberal democracy is bad, that we are decadent, and that our families are broken.
“Did you know that over 50% of all American marriages end in divorce?” K asked his sisters a couple of years ago.
“100% of Iranian marriages end in divorce,” they laughingly responded. “Only we still have to live together.”
We are often ready to let the enlightened non-West define us as decadent, selfish, and individualistic. Well, some of us are. Some of us are not. After living in Iran where Inshallah or God’s will absolves the population of responsibility, I would say that we are not alone when it comes to facing our social problems. Here, individualism is masked as community because people do not often challenge the will of the community. Iranians can be just as willfully individualistic as the best of us…They just do it in private. Many Iranians live like perpetual high school students: hiding their private lives under a mask of propriety and manners like grown-up Eddie Haskells.
Europeans and Americans (to a lesser extent) look at themselves critically on a regular basis. Let’s just talk about crime: Why do we know our crime rate? Because we examine our crime rate. We also report crimes that other cultures do not.
“A woman came before me,” an Iranian judge told us. “She was Russian and had been assaulted by a couple of men. She was terrified to tell me about it. I could tell that she did not trust me. I had to gain her trust, reassure her that she would not be punished for the crimes of the men. It took awhile before she could trust me enough to tell me what happened to her. This is what I have to fight all day: the idea that we will not help.”
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
American is weird too
So I am on vacation.
America is funny. First meal: a corned beef sandwich on rye with pickles, a potato pancake, and kishke. Yum.
Watched the Daily Show and laughed a lot. The regular news is a pastiche of stories about missing children, child molestors, and murderers. The news channels seem to be yearning for another terrorist attack on American soil. CNN is anchored by a bunch of sentimental airheads (or are they just faking it?). Watching Fox is like being at a party where everyone is on drugs except you. No fun unless you drink the cool-aid.
I am trying to avoid news about Iran. It’s depressing. I am too confused about everything. My cousin said to me, “I used to wonder how you could live in Iran and then I thought, ‘I live in Missouri for god’s sake. I don’t agree with any of our policies. I hate Bush. What’s the difference?’”
There is a difference. I told him. “I know,” he said.
We were at a Bat Mitzvah party. There was an open bar. Teen age boys and girls were dancing together. We were not worried about the police raiding the party. We were drinking moderate amounts of alcohol. No one got drunk. Couples were openly showing affection. (Affection, not lust.) It was relaxing, fun, low-key. I almost cried. Maybe I did cry.
Everyone said they wanted to hear about Iran. We did not really have time to discuss it. It was enough to be together.
Had lunch with my dad’s old farts club. It was me and a bunch of old men. One came over from Turkey, another survived pogroms in Poland, all had lived through WW 2 either here or in Europe. Turns out my 83-year old cousin is a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge. Why didn’t I know? How much don’t I know?
Miss hearing Persian. Miss the activitity. Don’t miss the chaos. Don’t miss pollution. Do not miss the traffic. It’s so cold that I am practically wearing hijab everywhere I go...
America is funny. First meal: a corned beef sandwich on rye with pickles, a potato pancake, and kishke. Yum.
Watched the Daily Show and laughed a lot. The regular news is a pastiche of stories about missing children, child molestors, and murderers. The news channels seem to be yearning for another terrorist attack on American soil. CNN is anchored by a bunch of sentimental airheads (or are they just faking it?). Watching Fox is like being at a party where everyone is on drugs except you. No fun unless you drink the cool-aid.
I am trying to avoid news about Iran. It’s depressing. I am too confused about everything. My cousin said to me, “I used to wonder how you could live in Iran and then I thought, ‘I live in Missouri for god’s sake. I don’t agree with any of our policies. I hate Bush. What’s the difference?’”
There is a difference. I told him. “I know,” he said.
We were at a Bat Mitzvah party. There was an open bar. Teen age boys and girls were dancing together. We were not worried about the police raiding the party. We were drinking moderate amounts of alcohol. No one got drunk. Couples were openly showing affection. (Affection, not lust.) It was relaxing, fun, low-key. I almost cried. Maybe I did cry.
Everyone said they wanted to hear about Iran. We did not really have time to discuss it. It was enough to be together.
Had lunch with my dad’s old farts club. It was me and a bunch of old men. One came over from Turkey, another survived pogroms in Poland, all had lived through WW 2 either here or in Europe. Turns out my 83-year old cousin is a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge. Why didn’t I know? How much don’t I know?
Miss hearing Persian. Miss the activitity. Don’t miss the chaos. Don’t miss pollution. Do not miss the traffic. It’s so cold that I am practically wearing hijab everywhere I go...
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.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Family Life
About families for San Diegan
I have written about family life off and on since the beginning of this blog. Family life in Iran can be summed up simply: heaven for children, hell for teenagers and young adults, resignation for the middle-aged… Old? Depends.
Children in Iran live in a particular children's heaven: they get sweets before dinner and are not put to be early when guests arrive. They are always part of the conversation. Cousins and friends are often underfoot.
In many Iranian families, the age differences are smoother than in American families (I am sure this is changing as families get smaller). Uncles and nephews hang out like friends. Sometimes I am a bit shocked at the bossiness of children here. But, what can I say?
A friend who grew up in England but lives here now and has a young son in school here tells us that at school Iranian girls are really disciplined, but the boys are totally out of control. Boys are allowed to do everything and that respect for elders is broken at the schools. That may be why the majority of university students are girls.
Iranians complain that the revolution has weakened their family bonds. "Brother cannot trust brother," Iranians tell you.
K's interpretation is a little different: "The revolution made people retreat into their homes where they got on each other's backs too much. They have nothing to do now except butt into each others' lives."
I have written about family life off and on since the beginning of this blog. Family life in Iran can be summed up simply: heaven for children, hell for teenagers and young adults, resignation for the middle-aged… Old? Depends.
Children in Iran live in a particular children's heaven: they get sweets before dinner and are not put to be early when guests arrive. They are always part of the conversation. Cousins and friends are often underfoot.
In many Iranian families, the age differences are smoother than in American families (I am sure this is changing as families get smaller). Uncles and nephews hang out like friends. Sometimes I am a bit shocked at the bossiness of children here. But, what can I say?
A friend who grew up in England but lives here now and has a young son in school here tells us that at school Iranian girls are really disciplined, but the boys are totally out of control. Boys are allowed to do everything and that respect for elders is broken at the schools. That may be why the majority of university students are girls.
Iranians complain that the revolution has weakened their family bonds. "Brother cannot trust brother," Iranians tell you.
K's interpretation is a little different: "The revolution made people retreat into their homes where they got on each other's backs too much. They have nothing to do now except butt into each others' lives."
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Wow, it's been more than one year
"Our friends are all asking when our crazy daughter is coming home," my mother tells me.
"And we say, 'which crazy daughter?'" my dad chips in.
"Tell them they can call me crazy to my face. I will just laugh and agree with them. I won't even get offended."
You want to hear the craziest thing? There are things I really like about living here. Yes, there are things I like about Iran. Iranians seem to think that I only write about the negative aspects of life here. Not true. (To be fair, Iranians outside of Iran think I'm pretty positive…)
Living in Iran means that you get sucked into all of its attending neuroses: depression, passive aggression (or 'tarof'), uncertainty, indecisiveness, etc… Like others here, sometimes I get overwhelmed by uncertainty and depression. Sometimes I am paranoid; sometimes I am desperate; often I am frustrated. I am never bored; I am often amazed; and sometimes I am dazzled.
The two things that dazzled me most this year were these: K's cousin playing the drum while his brother-in-law sang and the capacity that Iranians have for change that does not compromise their core identity.
The first represents one of the unexpected pleasures of life among Iranian culture anywhere that I have experienced: unexpectedly some banker or engineer will start singing in a beautiful, clear voice while another plays the traditional drum or traditional stringed instrument. (Sorry their proper names escape me.) This year I have cried as K's sister sang folk songs she learned from their parents and been overwhelmed by the quality of amateur musicianship.
The second is connected. Iranian culture is open and changeable while retaining its essential identity. Oh the change I have seen in one year… Possibly much of the change is internal. Possibly I have become a keener observer, a more nuanced observer. Possibly I things have changed as much as I think they have.
I can't quite describe the changes in this post. It needs time. I will be attempting to describe these changes in my next few posts, but don't expect too much in the next couple of weeks…
"Our friends are all asking when our crazy daughter is coming home," my mother tells me.
"And we say, 'which crazy daughter?'" my dad chips in.
"Tell them they can call me crazy to my face. I will just laugh and agree with them. I won't even get offended."
You want to hear the craziest thing? There are things I really like about living here. Yes, there are things I like about Iran. Iranians seem to think that I only write about the negative aspects of life here. Not true. (To be fair, Iranians outside of Iran think I'm pretty positive…)
Living in Iran means that you get sucked into all of its attending neuroses: depression, passive aggression (or 'tarof'), uncertainty, indecisiveness, etc… Like others here, sometimes I get overwhelmed by uncertainty and depression. Sometimes I am paranoid; sometimes I am desperate; often I am frustrated. I am never bored; I am often amazed; and sometimes I am dazzled.
The two things that dazzled me most this year were these: K's cousin playing the drum while his brother-in-law sang and the capacity that Iranians have for change that does not compromise their core identity.
The first represents one of the unexpected pleasures of life among Iranian culture anywhere that I have experienced: unexpectedly some banker or engineer will start singing in a beautiful, clear voice while another plays the traditional drum or traditional stringed instrument. (Sorry their proper names escape me.) This year I have cried as K's sister sang folk songs she learned from their parents and been overwhelmed by the quality of amateur musicianship.
The second is connected. Iranian culture is open and changeable while retaining its essential identity. Oh the change I have seen in one year… Possibly much of the change is internal. Possibly I have become a keener observer, a more nuanced observer. Possibly I things have changed as much as I think they have.
I can't quite describe the changes in this post. It needs time. I will be attempting to describe these changes in my next few posts, but don't expect too much in the next couple of weeks…
Monday, October 25, 2004
Death of a Bagel Man
Sam Lender is dead…
When my great aunt was coming to visit us from Chicago, she asked us what we wanted. My mother said, "Just bring bagels." We lived in a bagel-deprived community and always got bagels from relatives living in St. Louis, Chicago, or New York.
My great aunt arrived with a long story about how she spent hours searching for just the right bagel. Needless to say, we were thrilled. She reached into the bag to hand us our prize: a dozen Lender's bagels.
Your gas guzzler…
…is funding the Shahab Missile project. Think about that next time you get behind the wheel.
I am not excusing the Iranian government for making the decision to extend the range of the Shahab missile: no, not that. I am just telling you that you are funding it.
Iran could use the excess money from oil sales to put emergency preparedness procedures in place in the event of the inevitable earthquakes. Japan has monthly drills. Everyone in the US has practiced getting out of their school or workplace. What about Iran? If I go into a building and ask people where all of the stairways are, they look at me with disbelief. Why would I want to know that?
Oh, and by the way, the mullahs support Bush.
When my great aunt was coming to visit us from Chicago, she asked us what we wanted. My mother said, "Just bring bagels." We lived in a bagel-deprived community and always got bagels from relatives living in St. Louis, Chicago, or New York.
My great aunt arrived with a long story about how she spent hours searching for just the right bagel. Needless to say, we were thrilled. She reached into the bag to hand us our prize: a dozen Lender's bagels.
Your gas guzzler…
…is funding the Shahab Missile project. Think about that next time you get behind the wheel.
I am not excusing the Iranian government for making the decision to extend the range of the Shahab missile: no, not that. I am just telling you that you are funding it.
Iran could use the excess money from oil sales to put emergency preparedness procedures in place in the event of the inevitable earthquakes. Japan has monthly drills. Everyone in the US has practiced getting out of their school or workplace. What about Iran? If I go into a building and ask people where all of the stairways are, they look at me with disbelief. Why would I want to know that?
Oh, and by the way, the mullahs support Bush.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Happy Father's Day
And mother's day, and any birthdays I know I have missed.
My father wants cards for father's day. Honestly, he should just be happy that I can remember it at all! ;)
But I do… So this is dedicated to both my parents and to my whole family.
When I told my mother that my family would always be more important to me than K, she said, "K is your family." Such a simple thing to say…such an important message to me. It is because of the lessons I have learned from my own parents that I have learned to treasure my own relationship. This is the first thing that I have to thank them for.
I am disorganized, scattered, and unfocused. I have my parents to thank for this. These qualities have made my life endlessly interesting and really quite wonderful. So this is the second…
Once we get past two, there are too, too many things to say. The one thing I want to stress is ho amazing it is that small things become so important to your life. I remember little conversations, one-time events, an hour or two spent with family and friends. These memories have such power. I keep learning from them and enjoying them.
For instance, I remember watching my Dad play mushball (16 inch softball) at our grade school's field. The police came because a classroom window had been broken. "Are you kidding," one of the men said. "You think we could hit this mush ball that far? It had to be one of the golfers." My dad went up to bat next and hit the ball farther than anyone had ever seen the mushball hit. "Good thing the cops weren't here to see that," one of the men commented.
I remember sitting with my mother and brother at the Chinese restaurant near my mom's store. My brother was complaining about my father's temper. "Why is it that he gets mad at me one minute and is my best friend the next?" my brother asked.
"Would you prefer it if he held a grudge?" my mother asked.
That was that. No more complaining.
And I remember jumping from a dune on the shore of Lake Michigan and wishing that my parents would let us go into the water that was over our heads.
I cannot describe the good luck I feel at having been born into my family. I only wish that I could spend more time than I do with all of them. Thanks you guys.
My father wants cards for father's day. Honestly, he should just be happy that I can remember it at all! ;)
But I do… So this is dedicated to both my parents and to my whole family.
When I told my mother that my family would always be more important to me than K, she said, "K is your family." Such a simple thing to say…such an important message to me. It is because of the lessons I have learned from my own parents that I have learned to treasure my own relationship. This is the first thing that I have to thank them for.
I am disorganized, scattered, and unfocused. I have my parents to thank for this. These qualities have made my life endlessly interesting and really quite wonderful. So this is the second…
Once we get past two, there are too, too many things to say. The one thing I want to stress is ho amazing it is that small things become so important to your life. I remember little conversations, one-time events, an hour or two spent with family and friends. These memories have such power. I keep learning from them and enjoying them.
For instance, I remember watching my Dad play mushball (16 inch softball) at our grade school's field. The police came because a classroom window had been broken. "Are you kidding," one of the men said. "You think we could hit this mush ball that far? It had to be one of the golfers." My dad went up to bat next and hit the ball farther than anyone had ever seen the mushball hit. "Good thing the cops weren't here to see that," one of the men commented.
I remember sitting with my mother and brother at the Chinese restaurant near my mom's store. My brother was complaining about my father's temper. "Why is it that he gets mad at me one minute and is my best friend the next?" my brother asked.
"Would you prefer it if he held a grudge?" my mother asked.
That was that. No more complaining.
And I remember jumping from a dune on the shore of Lake Michigan and wishing that my parents would let us go into the water that was over our heads.
I cannot describe the good luck I feel at having been born into my family. I only wish that I could spend more time than I do with all of them. Thanks you guys.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Camping
(A note to all of my Iranian friends: now I know why you guys get kicked out of so many American campsites… :) Americans like to camp for the fresh air and the sounds of nature and the starry skies. You like all that plus a lot of singing, talking, and flashlight overuse. And you guys never f-ing sleep!)
We went camping. We rode in a minibus to a mountain with ice and snow on its peaks. After all of the hot weather here, I was looking forward to feeling really cool. Because K and I had a lot of work and last minute issues to deal with, we ended up leaving 3 hours later than planned. This meant that when we arrived at the mountain we could not see the path because the moon had not yet risen. Not seeing the path meant that we were stumbling on rocks and through mud to get to a campsite near some shepherd families. The boys laughed as we tried to set up our tents in the dark. The women offered us doogh (a yogurt drink); it was the best doogh I have ever had in my entire life. (I love doogh, btw.) They also offered us a place in their tents for the night. K’s sister agreed, but her daughter wouldn’t let her.
There was a clean, ice-cold stream at the bottom of our camp. It was great to be in really fresh air, with clean, cold water, and the smell of cows and goats.
The next morning, we made our way up the mountain. (I won’t even tell you how much weight we were carrying for our two-day trip. Let’s just say that Iranians are tougher than I am…) We had backpacks, Ikea sacks, coolers, and a heavy gas stove. For almost three hours we headed slowly up, walking on the edge of a river, along a narrow and slippery path. It was not at all dangerous, just a little difficult.
We arrived at our campsite, which was ringed with Red Crescent tents. At first, I thought we had arrived at a sparsely populated refugee camp. (It was the tents that made me feel this way.) K knew everyone there, which surprised me. “I am seeing so many old friends,” he said. I thought it was a strange coincidence. What everyone had neglected to tell me was that we were attending the one-year death anniversary of a family friend. That friend had climbed almost every major mountain in the world, including Everest, and had died the previous year of a heart attack in the mountains close to his birthplace.
When we arrived, there were about 50 people at the campsite. The women and men were dressed the way they felt comfortable. Some of the women were wearing their headscarves, most were not, and some of the men were wearing shorts, most were not.
I felt so comfortable and safe with these people. I looked around and thought, “These are the same men who make me nervous when I see them in the cities.” But among them, I felt at ease.
That day we took a hike to an ice tunnel and cooled ourselves in a waterfall. I got to wear a sports bra and my pants to bathe in the waterfall. “Tell everyone that you could dress this way in Iran,” K’s family told me. “People in Holland go out in the streets in less than this,” I told them. When we returned from our hike, everything had changed. Hundreds of people had arrived, and the women arriving now were no longer removing their scarves or manteaus. The women who earlier had been wearing whatever they wanted were now wearing scarves and, in some cases, manteaus. I told K’s niece that this made me feel unsafe. “Why,” she asked? “Because now I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know who here is forcing the others to dress differently.” “You are right,” she said.
It was this event that made me capable of articulating what is making me so obsessed about the dress restrictions here. Earlier, I could say that it was the restrictions themselves that made me uncomfortable. Now I knew that it was more than that: it was the invisible enforcement that upset me. It was the feeling of not being able to trust completely trustworthy people. And I know, now, that this mistrust is something that both men and women in Iran carry with them all the time.
“Didn’t you see the sign when we entered the village,” K asked? “It said: ‘It’s everyone’s responsibility to report infractions of Islamic law,’ and then it gave a telephone number.”
The ceremony
K and I sat on a boulder overlooking our campsite. From there, we could see lines and lines of people arriving. (It was a little bit like the pictures from the California Gold Rush.) By the time the sun had set, at least 400 people had arrived and there were still more coming. You have to understand that these 400 people were not all strong, young hikers. There were all ages represented. Babies were there, 3-year olds made the climb, the oldest person there was about 70.
There were a speaker and microphone set up. People were making short speeches about the man who had died. K and his brother and I went into the center of the ring of tents for a better view of the ceremony. As we arrived some music came on the speakers. Everyone who was sitting stood up. I looked around and saw that everyone who was still in their tents was coming out. There were at least 500 people now standing and singing along to the recorded music. “It’s the Iranian nation anthem,” K whispered. “Not the Islamic Republic’s.” I can’t tell you how moving this experience was for me – and I am not even Iranian. I am just someone who has begun to fall in love with the different people I meet every day and to wish them the very best that life can offer them.
The rest of the ceremony included speeches, songs, and music. There was some truly beautiful tar (a sitar-like instrument) playing. Later, lights were lit on the summit of the mountain to commemorate the dead friend. You need to understand that lighting the fires on the summit meant that three climbers had climbed almost straight up for one day to light the fire at the exact time of the ceremony. The 500 of us gathered at this site responded with cheers that I am sure they heard where they were: about 2 kilometers higher than us. I felt so lucky to be here among these people. (This was a change from the mistrust I felt earlier in the evening.)
The ceremony wound down, and people got ready for bed. Every once in awhile we were awoken by an announcement. At about 1 am we heard, “We need 5 mountain climbers to go help a family who is stuck down the mountain.” 30 minutes later we heard, “The family has safely arrived.” We were sleeping when the speakers blared back on and singing began. Anybody who had been asleep (like me) was now awake. People started to come out of their tents to sing along. K’s brothers and sisters joined us outside. They were all singing with the two men sharing the microphone. I wished I could sing along.
“These are songs that were illegal after the revolution. If you sang any of them, you could be arrested and put in jail for 20 years.”
Eventually the generator ran out of gas. The lights dimmed, and the speakers were silenced.
The next morning, 500 people waited in line to use the 2 latrines. Luckily, there were far fewer women than men, and luckily, I was the first woman to get up.
About National Anthems
We Americans know ours, the Dutch do not know theirs, and, like most Europeans, are skeptical of any type of nationalism. I, on the other hand, think a little bit of nationalism is a good thing. It brings different “tribes” together under the idea of nationhood.
(A note to all of my Iranian friends: now I know why you guys get kicked out of so many American campsites… :) Americans like to camp for the fresh air and the sounds of nature and the starry skies. You like all that plus a lot of singing, talking, and flashlight overuse. And you guys never f-ing sleep!)
We went camping. We rode in a minibus to a mountain with ice and snow on its peaks. After all of the hot weather here, I was looking forward to feeling really cool. Because K and I had a lot of work and last minute issues to deal with, we ended up leaving 3 hours later than planned. This meant that when we arrived at the mountain we could not see the path because the moon had not yet risen. Not seeing the path meant that we were stumbling on rocks and through mud to get to a campsite near some shepherd families. The boys laughed as we tried to set up our tents in the dark. The women offered us doogh (a yogurt drink); it was the best doogh I have ever had in my entire life. (I love doogh, btw.) They also offered us a place in their tents for the night. K’s sister agreed, but her daughter wouldn’t let her.
There was a clean, ice-cold stream at the bottom of our camp. It was great to be in really fresh air, with clean, cold water, and the smell of cows and goats.
The next morning, we made our way up the mountain. (I won’t even tell you how much weight we were carrying for our two-day trip. Let’s just say that Iranians are tougher than I am…) We had backpacks, Ikea sacks, coolers, and a heavy gas stove. For almost three hours we headed slowly up, walking on the edge of a river, along a narrow and slippery path. It was not at all dangerous, just a little difficult.
We arrived at our campsite, which was ringed with Red Crescent tents. At first, I thought we had arrived at a sparsely populated refugee camp. (It was the tents that made me feel this way.) K knew everyone there, which surprised me. “I am seeing so many old friends,” he said. I thought it was a strange coincidence. What everyone had neglected to tell me was that we were attending the one-year death anniversary of a family friend. That friend had climbed almost every major mountain in the world, including Everest, and had died the previous year of a heart attack in the mountains close to his birthplace.
When we arrived, there were about 50 people at the campsite. The women and men were dressed the way they felt comfortable. Some of the women were wearing their headscarves, most were not, and some of the men were wearing shorts, most were not.
I felt so comfortable and safe with these people. I looked around and thought, “These are the same men who make me nervous when I see them in the cities.” But among them, I felt at ease.
That day we took a hike to an ice tunnel and cooled ourselves in a waterfall. I got to wear a sports bra and my pants to bathe in the waterfall. “Tell everyone that you could dress this way in Iran,” K’s family told me. “People in Holland go out in the streets in less than this,” I told them. When we returned from our hike, everything had changed. Hundreds of people had arrived, and the women arriving now were no longer removing their scarves or manteaus. The women who earlier had been wearing whatever they wanted were now wearing scarves and, in some cases, manteaus. I told K’s niece that this made me feel unsafe. “Why,” she asked? “Because now I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know who here is forcing the others to dress differently.” “You are right,” she said.
It was this event that made me capable of articulating what is making me so obsessed about the dress restrictions here. Earlier, I could say that it was the restrictions themselves that made me uncomfortable. Now I knew that it was more than that: it was the invisible enforcement that upset me. It was the feeling of not being able to trust completely trustworthy people. And I know, now, that this mistrust is something that both men and women in Iran carry with them all the time.
“Didn’t you see the sign when we entered the village,” K asked? “It said: ‘It’s everyone’s responsibility to report infractions of Islamic law,’ and then it gave a telephone number.”
The ceremony
K and I sat on a boulder overlooking our campsite. From there, we could see lines and lines of people arriving. (It was a little bit like the pictures from the California Gold Rush.) By the time the sun had set, at least 400 people had arrived and there were still more coming. You have to understand that these 400 people were not all strong, young hikers. There were all ages represented. Babies were there, 3-year olds made the climb, the oldest person there was about 70.
There were a speaker and microphone set up. People were making short speeches about the man who had died. K and his brother and I went into the center of the ring of tents for a better view of the ceremony. As we arrived some music came on the speakers. Everyone who was sitting stood up. I looked around and saw that everyone who was still in their tents was coming out. There were at least 500 people now standing and singing along to the recorded music. “It’s the Iranian nation anthem,” K whispered. “Not the Islamic Republic’s.” I can’t tell you how moving this experience was for me – and I am not even Iranian. I am just someone who has begun to fall in love with the different people I meet every day and to wish them the very best that life can offer them.
The rest of the ceremony included speeches, songs, and music. There was some truly beautiful tar (a sitar-like instrument) playing. Later, lights were lit on the summit of the mountain to commemorate the dead friend. You need to understand that lighting the fires on the summit meant that three climbers had climbed almost straight up for one day to light the fire at the exact time of the ceremony. The 500 of us gathered at this site responded with cheers that I am sure they heard where they were: about 2 kilometers higher than us. I felt so lucky to be here among these people. (This was a change from the mistrust I felt earlier in the evening.)
The ceremony wound down, and people got ready for bed. Every once in awhile we were awoken by an announcement. At about 1 am we heard, “We need 5 mountain climbers to go help a family who is stuck down the mountain.” 30 minutes later we heard, “The family has safely arrived.” We were sleeping when the speakers blared back on and singing began. Anybody who had been asleep (like me) was now awake. People started to come out of their tents to sing along. K’s brothers and sisters joined us outside. They were all singing with the two men sharing the microphone. I wished I could sing along.
“These are songs that were illegal after the revolution. If you sang any of them, you could be arrested and put in jail for 20 years.”
Eventually the generator ran out of gas. The lights dimmed, and the speakers were silenced.
The next morning, 500 people waited in line to use the 2 latrines. Luckily, there were far fewer women than men, and luckily, I was the first woman to get up.
About National Anthems
We Americans know ours, the Dutch do not know theirs, and, like most Europeans, are skeptical of any type of nationalism. I, on the other hand, think a little bit of nationalism is a good thing. It brings different “tribes” together under the idea of nationhood.
Saturday, June 21, 2003
June 21, 2003
I am not sure if Arak is under construction or de-construction. Everywhere we go there are piles of bricks and sand. I don’t know if those piles are meant for the partly constructed buildings or come from them.
A said that I might be the first American to visit Arak. Somehow I doubt that. One thing is for sure: there aren’t a whole lot of “harigis” here.
That said, Arak is somewhat beautiful. The weather is beautiful. The stone buildings are potentially beautiful. The park is great. The air, however, leaves something to be desired. The smells range from gasoline to diesel to burning garbage.
The Iranian homes I have been in are really well-designed. My mom would love the houses here: she could have a Passover Seder for 30 in a house made for two (or 4). The houses we have been in have had really functional, over-sized rooms. Presumably this is because Iranian families often host huge groups for dinner or tea.
The Koran Belt
To get to Arak from Tehran we pass through the buckle of the Koran belt: Qom. K told me that he went there to see Khomeini when he first arrived from exile. “There were so many cars that the traffic did not move at all. We had to get out of our cars and walk.”
Driving through Qom makes me realize that I have not once heard the call to prayer since we arrived in Iran. This is unlike Istanbul with its warring calls to prayer. Every mosque in Istanbul has gigantic speakers that blare out the call to prayer. It was not until the third day here when we arrived in Arak that I heard the call to prayer.
It was also on the third day that I saw my first gun.
Food
K has been making fun of me for my food obsession. “Some people think that food is the most important thing here,” he jokes.
Well food is awfully important to many of us. There is no doubt about that. I am a flavor junkie.
BTW, the secret ingredient in the stuffed eggplant dish was not cinnamon, it was turmeric. For those of you who thought that all turmeric did was turn food yellow, like I did, I have news for you: fresh, it is amazingly delicious and complex. Like I said earlier, there is a subtle flavor of cinnamon. That flavor is mixed with the flavor of cumin, but not the overt flavor of cumin. It tastes like cumin was planted nearby. It also tastes a little bit of clay.
Now that the turmeric discussion is over, it’s time to discuss dolmas. K always said that his family made the best dolmas and until eating them at his mother’s house, I did not believe him. I did have their dolmas before, but not from their own kitchen with their own ingredients. These dolmas were easily the best I have ever eaten. I do know that the grape leaves were fresh. There was rice and yellow beans inside and I think tarragon and some other herbs. One set of dolmas was salty and the other was sweet. Both were great.
Yesterday M made kebabs. “Iran’s most famous food,” he told me. I can’t argue with kebabs. These were made of ground beef, onions, salt pepper, and some other herb. We had them with barbecued tomatoes and rice. You can get these kebabs in any Iranian restaurant. They will be called koobideh or kubideh.
Tonight we are having joojeh (chicken) kebab. You’ll have to wait to hear about that.
I am not sure if Arak is under construction or de-construction. Everywhere we go there are piles of bricks and sand. I don’t know if those piles are meant for the partly constructed buildings or come from them.
A said that I might be the first American to visit Arak. Somehow I doubt that. One thing is for sure: there aren’t a whole lot of “harigis” here.
That said, Arak is somewhat beautiful. The weather is beautiful. The stone buildings are potentially beautiful. The park is great. The air, however, leaves something to be desired. The smells range from gasoline to diesel to burning garbage.
The Iranian homes I have been in are really well-designed. My mom would love the houses here: she could have a Passover Seder for 30 in a house made for two (or 4). The houses we have been in have had really functional, over-sized rooms. Presumably this is because Iranian families often host huge groups for dinner or tea.
The Koran Belt
To get to Arak from Tehran we pass through the buckle of the Koran belt: Qom. K told me that he went there to see Khomeini when he first arrived from exile. “There were so many cars that the traffic did not move at all. We had to get out of our cars and walk.”
Driving through Qom makes me realize that I have not once heard the call to prayer since we arrived in Iran. This is unlike Istanbul with its warring calls to prayer. Every mosque in Istanbul has gigantic speakers that blare out the call to prayer. It was not until the third day here when we arrived in Arak that I heard the call to prayer.
It was also on the third day that I saw my first gun.
Food
K has been making fun of me for my food obsession. “Some people think that food is the most important thing here,” he jokes.
Well food is awfully important to many of us. There is no doubt about that. I am a flavor junkie.
BTW, the secret ingredient in the stuffed eggplant dish was not cinnamon, it was turmeric. For those of you who thought that all turmeric did was turn food yellow, like I did, I have news for you: fresh, it is amazingly delicious and complex. Like I said earlier, there is a subtle flavor of cinnamon. That flavor is mixed with the flavor of cumin, but not the overt flavor of cumin. It tastes like cumin was planted nearby. It also tastes a little bit of clay.
Now that the turmeric discussion is over, it’s time to discuss dolmas. K always said that his family made the best dolmas and until eating them at his mother’s house, I did not believe him. I did have their dolmas before, but not from their own kitchen with their own ingredients. These dolmas were easily the best I have ever eaten. I do know that the grape leaves were fresh. There was rice and yellow beans inside and I think tarragon and some other herbs. One set of dolmas was salty and the other was sweet. Both were great.
Yesterday M made kebabs. “Iran’s most famous food,” he told me. I can’t argue with kebabs. These were made of ground beef, onions, salt pepper, and some other herb. We had them with barbecued tomatoes and rice. You can get these kebabs in any Iranian restaurant. They will be called koobideh or kubideh.
Tonight we are having joojeh (chicken) kebab. You’ll have to wait to hear about that.
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