I am not sure. Part of me does not want to experience that loss. Part of me wants to stay far away and pretend that nothing has changed. Part of me wants to believe that the further the distance the peachier the picture.

But then there is the part of me that is looking for that sense of familiarity, that small recognition that says that I belong somewhere, however slight or wishful it might be. Even in the sea of white that is Sweden, I am constantly looking for fellow dark skins. I was surprised to find that out of a population of 9 million somewhere close to 60,000 are Iranian. Thus I am constantly on the look out, looking out for others who have created their own world within another world, who keep their memories strong but far, who pretend to make a foreign land home, and who at some point have come to accept this destiny.

But I must wait, like a woman anticipating her lover’s return.

Dear Wind, take these tears and carry them across the world so that they may land on the heart of my grandfather’s grave
Dear Wind, take my cries, carry them across the world so that they may mix with the cries of my cousins, aunts, and uncles and our sorrows can meld into one united grief over an ended era
Dear Wind, take this distance and years of separation that has plagued my life and make it disintegrate so that it can’t afflict another child who sits alone dreaming of what family could look like.

mid-day prayers:

bakery:

This year, Yalda fell on the 7th day anniversary of the death of Imam Hossein within the mourning month of Moharram. As has been the case since the Islamic regime took over Iran in 1979, the Islamic calendar always trumps. Traditional Persian celebrations get overshadowed by Islamic piety, whose holidays are usually mournful or solemnly revered. The people still celebrated Yalda because it is in their blood, but only with less fanfare. As much as the government tries to erase the rich history of Iran, it is an impossible feat. At least I hope.

Islam in Iran is a very complicated and sensitive subject, too much for a mere blog post. For me, a student of anthropology and world religions, watching any religious ritual is engrossing and awe inspiring. In a time where it seems like more and more people are steering away from religion, it is important to have rituals performed, especially those focused on mourning. Martin Prechtel, a shaman of sorts, always lectures on the importance of grieving rituals. The loss of the ability to grieve, as a group, and to the show the world, can be a detriment to the self and to the spiritual world. But as I watch the young men hitting themselves and the women in chadors crying, part of me gets very angry. Millions of people gather in Iran to mourn an unjust death from more than a thousand years ago. What about the unjust deaths of the student protesters who were tortured and killed in prison, or the 17 students from the University of Tehran that have disappeared with out a trace since the post election protests? What about the unjust deaths of mothers and children in Iraq? What about the innocent young men in Afghanistan that get imprisoned and tortured for being mistaken as terrorists just because they have to capture someone? But there is also a part of me that is so happy to see such a ritual being performed. Yes, there is so much injustice in the world. There is injustice even in the lives of those women who are crying on the side who lost their brother in an auto accident last year or for the young boy performing in the procession whose mother was stoned to death for having an affair. Most people hold a lot of grief and mourning the death of Imam Hossein gives them the opportunity to release some of that grief together as a collective whole. To me, that is beautiful.

one from the following day, Ashura, in a small town in Mazandaran:

It comes three times a day. First, right before sunrise, as the beginning of the day starts to stir. Then midday as the day starts to wind down for it’s afternoon rest. And finally just before sunset as night begins to creep in. The call to prayer is like a bird song that spreads throughout the entire town, permeating each house and garden, reminding every person to be thankful for the sacredness of life. Of course most people are not listening. Just as the song of the morning birds among the tangerine trees gets lost in the constant noise of the traffic outside the garden gates, the call to prayer falls on deaf ears. And this is where religion makes a mistake.
The success of a religion should not be measured in quantity but in quality. The sacredness of spirituality and religion is only treasured by those who seek it. It can not be forced on to the people. Forcing religion on to the people creates a negative energy of resentment and deceit. It creates a false spirituality that is fabricated with mere motions of religious conduct, void of any spirit or higher intent. This is not quality. Furthermore, it creates a bad example for the young to follow. An entire generation grows to learn that it is okay to lie, that it is okay to be one way inside the home and another outside. It is hard to know who to trust out on the street. Driving in the car with my aunt, we are listening to an old Iranian singer that was popular before the revolution. We stop to ask directions and we have to turn down the music, just in case. You don’t know who to trust. Trust is no longer an attribute you can hold for a stranger. It seems to me that this would be the opposite of what a religion would want to achieve. One of the intentions of religion is to make people better human beings, to love, be kind, and trust one another. Instead because of the current government, Islam in Iran makes people act like little children who can not think for themselves and are afraid of punishment or social pressures. It is highly probable that the man we asked directions from listens to the same CD in his car or in his home. And that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t say his prayers in the evening, that he doesn’t help his neighbor, that he isn’t loved by God.

Last week Ayatollah Khamenei said that if one doesn’t not accept the words of the velayate faghi, (the supreme leader, which is him), one does not believe in God. Not only is this a huge insult to the Iranian people who do not support the current regime but still believe in God, but being a non-believer in God has serious consequences in the Iranian judicial system, namely death. From Khamenei’s statement last week, it would mean that a demonstrator that gets apprehended by police can be charged with being a non-believer for not accepting Khamenei’s statements about Ahmadinejad being the elected president. This is what religion in Iran has become, a tool for control and an embarrassment for those that are true followers of Islam.

It is tradition to gather for the 3^rd, 7^th, 40^th, and year anniversary of a person’s death. Last week was the 7 day anniversary of these young men’s death. Sitting with my grandfather in the living room, I could hear a steady drumbeat in the distance. At first I thought it was related to the Islamic month of Moharram which is a month of mourning for one of the holy imams, Hossein. I put on my coat and headscarf to go outside the garden gate and saw a procession of close to 1000 people all in black. The men are in two lines in center with chains, the women wailing on the sides. The beautiful yet sometimes uncomprehendible ritual of self inflicting pain with chains is usually reserved for Imam Hossein during this mourning month. But I found out that it is also performed for tragic deaths like this one. Even though my family had no connection to these young men or their families, watching the blanket of grief sweep through the street in front of our house on it’s way to the cemetery with a steady cadence of a heavy heartbeat was enough to fill with my eyes with tears.

It was incredibly moving to see the mothers and wives cry, screaming “why,” doubting their faiths, and questioning the benevolence of God, all as a linked unit. They are not quietly crying alone in the corner, pretending to be strong. They are falling on each other, throwing their hands in the air, grieving at the tops of their lungs.

Maybe to feel pain is to be alive.

I can laugh about this and say that it doesn’t affect me, but I can also see how it instills a striving for perfection within the culture. I am not sure whether it affects those that live in Iran or only those that have left. I am not sure if there is added pressure on those that live abroad because they were seeking a better life, because they were seeking to achieve that perfection. I am not sure if the feeling of failure is as strong among Iranians in Iran as it is outside. I am not sure if it is a culturally phenomena or one of the circumstance of immigration.

He always jokes about God and his archangel Azrael who comes to take the dying. He jokes about how he meets Azrael and tries to bribe him. Sometimes Azrael brings up the years of my grandfather not saying his Islamic prayers or not fasting during the fasting month. My grandfather says that his fines for not being a good Muslim are too high. He might not be able to stave him off much longer. He talks to God, thanking him for his life. It had its ups and downs. There were difficulties, but overall it was a good life. He had a good wife, 5 children, a roof over his head, and always food on the table. He said God was good to him and always gave him what he wanted. But he implores, “Oh God, why are you making the end so difficult? Please make the end as easy as the rest.”

All I do is let out a sigh and know that there is nothing I can do to change this. When I leave here, my grandfather will go back to taking his pharmaceuticals, my aunt will go back to putting the food with the normal trash so when the nightly scavengers come they will tear open all of the plastic bags and litter the streets. When I leave here, this world will continue to exists as it has. I can’t control it. Somehow I need to understand how this is all part of a bigger picture, that there is an evolution of thought and consciousness among humans and that it is only a matter of time until it reaches the corners of the earth.

Time. It moves quicker for some during certain periods than for others. In America we have made quick progress regarding environmentalism and animal rights since the 50′s. In Iran, it has only inched by. It will eventually happen but its time is stretched out. As my grandfather noted, the night hours used to fly by when he was young. Now, each hour seems like an eternity as he lays awake in his bed between 11pm and 4 am, checking the clock every hour with his flashlight, asking the morning to hurry and come so one more day can be done.

Food and tea are always plentiful in every house. There is a joke in America about how every Iranian-American house has 2 fridges and always has a storage freezer. In Iran, there is probably the same amount of food only it is bought fresh frequently. For example, everyone here buys fruit by the kilos and is in a bowl on the table to eat at all times of day. When it is in front of you, it is very easy to eat fruit between breakfast and lunch, after lunch, and always after dinner. The samavar, a big water urn with a teapot steeping at the top, is always on, ready to pour cup after cup of tea. Now is the season of pomegranates, persimmons, quince, and citrus.

It is interesting how much fruit is in season in Iran in the winter months. The citrus is all from my grandfather’s garden.

It is so rewarding to eat tangerines that you climbed the tree with your cousins to harvest.

The persimmons are so sweet when they are from your neighbor’s yard, unbeknownst to them. The pomegranate nourishes your soul when you sit around the table with your family breaking each one and  harvesting the seeds. I love the 2+ gallon pots for making rice and the huge dishes of  stew. I love how the men can have make-shift charcoal grills in the yard and grill skewer after skewer of chicken kabobs. Every meal is like a feast which at first glance seems impossible to make a dent in, but somehow after what seems like hours filled with stories, poems, and laughter, there is not very much left over.

I walk up to the window. Some people stare at me. I don’t know what it is that gives me a way every time. They are making more bread so there is a 5 minute wait. They open the window, people rush their hands through the window to give their money, they get their bread, leave, and the window closes. I am left there with my money in my hand and no bread. There are two women in chadors looking at me. “You should have said that you are a traveler, gotten your bread and left,” she said. “Why, are they out?” I answer. “No, you just have to wait.” That’s okay, I can wait. It will give me time to get ready.  She asks me where I am from. “Abroad.” I start to get nervous. I don’t know why, maybe because I feel embarrassed or ashamed or guilty. “Are you here to stay or just for a visit?” “I am here visiting my grandfather” I say as I point in the direction of his house. The women look at me with a look of familiarity. “Azizkhani” I say and they smile. “God bless your grandmother, she was our elementary school teacher.” I have met so many people that were my grandmother’s students. They all loved her. At that moment I feel so proud to be her descendent. They tell me about her and we chit chat a little more. I don’t feel so nervous anymore. They help me figure out how much I need to pay for how many 3 pieces of bread. The window opens and one of the women urges me to go forward, stepping back to make space for me. I look at her and smile. I give the man my money and say “three” knowing that I am 5 tomans too short and ready for him to say no. But he doesn’t mind. In less than minute I get my bread, the woman smiles at me and we say good bye. I feel so happy. I am smiling (and nibbling) the whole way home.

Yesterday, my grandfather spent part of his daily monologue energy talking about the importance of having people in your life. “Human beings are social creatures” he said. He said that it is through social interactions that we learn about life and about ourselves, that it is through each other that we further our knowledge and understanding of the world. He also observed how when we spend two days with a person we don’t appreciate it. We might have meaningful conversation with that person, but we will inevitably do something that we are not proud of. Then we spend the next two months regretting it and mulling over what was said and if it is fixable. “A waste of time” he said.

A waste of time. I know that it is a waste of time to think about the past. It is a waste of time to look back at all the things my family in Iran has done and see my empty place. I know it is a waste of time to get angry at governments and politics and the state of the world for making it such a way that a once tight knit family can be spread out across the world. And Iranian families do not forget. Once you are gone, you are not forgotten. In Iranian culture, remembrance of  people is very strong. The anniversary of someone’s death is recognized for years after they have passed on. They are visited in the cemetery as if they are still alive, only living separately. There are pictures honoring those that have passed through the houses, on billboards, on shop windows .

My grandfather’s house is adorned with pictures. There are clusters of pictures every where you look. Some are pictures of my grandmother who passed away 6 years ago. But most of the pictures are of me and my parents. There are so many pictures of me in every corner of the house, from being 6 months old, to elementary school pictures, to high school graduation, to college graduation, to my grandparents’ visits with us. So much of my life is chronicled in these frames. But I am still alive, just on the other side of the world. Sometimes I wonder if my cousins get jealous. There are no pictures of my cousins’ weddings or families or their baby pictures. I guess both sides would have something to be jealous of.

I arrived in Tehran and it was as if I hadn’t missed a beat. I walked right into this life. And it was obvious to my cousins who picked me up from the airport because I got through immigration and customs so quickly. When I first arrived in the airport, my body filled with panic once I saw the immigration control area. I quickly looked for the older man that I had befriended on the plane, thinking that if I got in a bind, he could help me. I found him, but instead I made the decision that I can do this by myself. And I did. With my body tall, I walked through, putting on an air of confidence and determination. I didn’t look at any of the men in charge, a lesson I learned the last time. I just went about my business as if I was a regular, which I actually believed that I was. The streets, the lights, the teahouses, they all seemed so familiar. I didn’t feel like I was across the world from where I usually am. I didn’t feel like I was in a world that I hadn’t visited in 2 years. I didn’t feel like I didn’t belong here.

Tomorrow is the 16th of the Persian month of Azar, which has been dubbed Student Day. It was originally set to commemorate the death of 3 students following the CIA and Great Britian’s overthrow of the first democratically elected official of Iran, Mossadegh, in 1953. In past years, it has been more of a celebration. Last year, protests broke out on this day against the election fraud of 2009. There has been word that police and basij presence has increased in certain squares and on the campuses of the universities in Tehran. It also coincides with the first day of the Islamic month of Moharram. Moharram is a month of mourning with the Islamic tradition. Because this year Student Day has fallen with the month of Moharram, government officials have said they will commemorate Student Day a day early. This has caused a lot of confusion among the people. And as most of us know, there is no central lead for the Green opposition movement in Iran. Without a lead, confusion and disorganization is easily introduced. I am not sure what will happen, if anything. My cousins all pray that nothing will happen. “It will only cause innocent young people to get killed or tortured in prison” they say. “It will not accomplish anything.”

woman iranian rapper:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5Jfz-kNtgw

iranian artists in america:  http://www.freedomgloryproject.com/

joan baez:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVCqPAzI-JY

wyclef jean:

things have changed these past 2 weeks in iran but they have also changed outside of iran. because of the courage of the protesters in Iran, we Iranians on the outside are once again proud to call ourselves Iranian. we have come together, united with one cause. yes, now there is a lot of debate about whether this is about a re-election or about regime change. but we all want a change in iran. we want to love all the aspects of our country and love it in the present. we don’t want to only love and talk about iran in the past tense.

ps-no news about anything since june 24th

I am trying hard to not give up hope but it really looks like the government is wining. They are forcing silence and its heaviness is too difficult for the people to lift off. It is starting to suffocate them. But I am still praying. Just as the events of the past 2 weeks have been a result of 30 years of repressed anger and disgruntlement, this energy will keep building and keep exploding.  I know that the people will not give up. It is not in our blood to give up. But sometimes people get tired.

I would like to share a statement from Tehranbureau.com

Tehran June 24th

“Last week, a group of friends and I organized a medical team to help the wounded and injured in the streets. As we sewed up gashes and patched up wounds on the beautiful battered faces of our dear Iranians, we kept asking ourselves, ‘What have they become? Have they no regard for the life for a fellow human being? For the life of a fellow countryman? For the life of a neighbor? For the life of a cousin? For the life of a brother? For the life of a sister?’

It wasn’t long before Basij militiamen took away our identity cards. After reporting us to the university, I was called in by a disciplinary committee and reprimanded. I was told I had put my future career and even my life in jeopardy. I was told to think about the consequences of my actions.

As I left the committee members, the events of the past two weeks fell into place:

The government had a plan. They thought their plan was perfect. They had devised a perfect fraud in which regardless of how people voted, only one name would emerge as the winner: Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

It was to be the start of an era of unopposed rule.

By creating the appearance of a free and open atmosphere, by creating hope of change, people would turnout in high numbers. A high turnout at the ballot boxes would give them an aura of legitimacy in the eyes of the world. It would give Ahmadinejad a mandate.

But they made a fatal miscalculation; they underestimated the people.

When the results were announced, nobody in their right mind believed them. Even the most optimistic of Ahmadinejad supporters didn’t believe he could win by such a margin.

This prompted widespread unrest. For the first time in the history of the Islamic Republic the ruling establishment had to contend with masses in the streets. These masses had not been dragged there by intimidation or by promise of a reward. For the first time the masses were not chanting pro-government slogans.

This was something entirely new; it was a nation rising up in defiance of all the tricks the government has been pulling over the years.

Despite their miscalculation, the supreme leader and the revolutionary guard elites were not ready to make any concessions; they knew too well. Even a single step back would have been a starting point from where things would cascade down to the eventual breakdown of their perfect autocracy.

So they took a firm stand against the very people who had brought them to power 30 years ago. History will be the judge but I believe that this was their second and most fatal miscalculation. You can never put out a fire by beating it, the flames may wane but underneath the ashes will go on burning. Wheels have been set in motion. A vast movement has started to take place. In time, the tide will turn.

In February 1979, during the time of the revolution, the army chiefs decided to prevent bloodshed and a civil war, so they refused to crack down on the demonstrators. They were thanked for this by swift executions that took place as soon as the revolutionaries came to power.

Sepah, or the Revolutionary Guard, is apparently determined not to go down the same path.

The decision of the current government to brutally crack down on the protesters and demonstrators led to the massacre of June 20, 2009, a day that will go down in history as the Black Saturday of the Islamic Republic. Thirty years ago, 17 Shahrivar 1357 [September 8, 1978], the Pahlavi Regime made the same fatal mistake. That Black Friday was the turning point from which the Pahlavi Regime never recovered.

We had hoped for a swift and decisive victory, first in the election and then through our defiance, but our high hopes were crushed with bullets, batons and tear gas. Now the mood is that of defeat, anguish and despair.

Fear has crept in and taken hold. Everybody now speaks in whispers. We are depressed and hopeless. Perhaps the main reason everyone feels so down is that before the election we had such high hopes. We flew too high and then fell down or rather were brought down by Basij and anti-riot police.

This struggle has had its toll on us all. I have never seen so many people grieving. This is a social malaise. At the personal level, each of us still feels robbed of our vote, our freedom, our friends, our brothers and our sisters.

We are disillusioned, battered and betrayed. Many are talking about leaving the country. Many young souls are looking for the first exit. Emigration perhaps. A mass exodus may be under way.

In the past few days, I have been feeling down and depressed. I had a sense that all was lost, and the frequent rains, which are extremely unusual for this time of year, added to the sense of melancholy overcoming me. My uncle, who experienced the revolution, told me however, “Evolution takes time. This was just a start; in time things will change.”

I hope so.

Politics and power are dirty things, much more so than depicted by Romain Gary in ‘L’Homme a la colombe.’ Even so, the protagonist, also a young soul, emerges victorious. We are sacrificing ourselves to make a statement, which the corrupt politicians ignore and the mass media manipulates. But people, generation after generation, pass this on from heart to heart as a slogan for integrity, bravery and freedom.

Maybe this will be our legacy. Maybe years from now, we will recount the stories of these days to the generation after us as the turning point that made all the difference, if not in our lives, perhaps at least in theirs.”

here is something from a resident in Tehran from june 24th

Were there strikes in Tehran yesterday?

“People are going to work. No one has asked the people to stay at home. No one has called for a strike. Mousavi has not asked people to do this. In fact, I was at Tehran’s Grand Bazaar yesterday. I spoke to many of the merchants. I told them I heard there was a strike today but you’ve all showed up to work. As one of them said, “Lady, I voted for Mousavi. If Mousavi asks us to go on strike, I will. But who will pay my bills?”

I also spoke to a restaurant worker yesterday. He said he also voted for Mousavi. He said if I don’t work for a week, I have nothing to live on the week after. I have no way to feed my wife and kids.

But strikes could happen. The mood is tense and the environment for strikes is actually there. There is a lot of talk about it. Everyone is discussing the possibility of strikes. But so far no one has gone on strike. The banks are open for business. All the stores in the Bazaar were open.

I’m looking over Modares Avenue. Traffic is as normal as ever.

One thing Mousavi has asked people to do however is to turn up on their rooftops at 10 pm and shout “Allah o Akbar” [God is Great]. And this does take place. It takes place in full force from about 10 to 10:30 or 10:45 every night. No matter what neighborhood you’re in Tehran, you will hear this.

People have started to scribble slogans on money that is passed around. On one bill I got yesterday someone had written “Where is my vote?”

If people are not turning up in the streets to protest, they are finding other ways to engage in civil disobedience. On Monday, for example, Mousavi had asked people to turn on their headlights in the street from 5 to 6 pm.

But this demonstration that was supposed to take place in Baherestaan was not called for by Mousavi. I don’t know if people turned out, or how many; I wasn’t there. But those things generally tend to have a life of their own. Those demonstrators are not waiting to hear from Mousavi.

Those who are middle aged are taking this a lot better than we are. They have been through something like this before (1978-79) and have a lot of patience. They are hopeful about all this. My generation is glum. They’re depressed. There is so much crying.

I wish there was a way the world could do more. Even embassies like the Italian one, which tried to open its doors and take in those who were injured, was stopped from doing so by the police here.

I can’t talk anymore. Bye.”

_________________________________________________________

UPDATE FROM RESIDENTS WHO LIVE NEAR PARLIAMENT/MAJLIS BUILDING IN BAHARESTAN

“I just talked to [X, Y, Z].  They told me about the demonstrations in front of the Majles. They are right behind Majles on Iran street. They said that a huge crowd is there.”

From Tehran, 24 June 2009

“Just to let you all know, R. was arrested last night in Tehran; I’m not sure where and why. I got a call from his phone by the police who wanted me to confirm details. I had to tell them how long we’d lived in [here], how we met, what he and I do for work, where I work, my nationality, about his family and also where I live. He was carrying his laptop, external HD and camera so I’m guessing he’s having that looked though. They told me he’d be released any minute now last night. I doubt that.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7BG4Fkm6Vk

and from protests from two other cities:

Babol june 22nd:

http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=AnxFiUlF9d8&NR=1

Kermanshah june 22nd:

http://www.bbc. co.uk/persian/ iran/2009/ 06/090623_ ir88_ugc_ vd_kermanshah. shtml

this is mostly for friends in iran to see that there are still protests happening in other cities. people in iran are so cut off from each other that it is interesting that we outside the country have a better idea of the big picture.

but i must sadly say that those in iran probably won’t be able to access these videos through these links. but i will try to figure out how i can put these videos in this post.

but i pray the momentum stays strong. as my friend told me, “something changed last week.” that no matter what happens next, the people are different. what that really means we will have to see, but it is definitely a good thing.

here is an article written by an Israeli entitled “I never thought i’d be rooting for Iran”

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1093996.html

and here is something written from today:

Tehran resident, 23 June 2009

“[Translated] I access Facebook through Yahoo! Mexico. But everyone says that’s a trap set by authorities to identify us!!!!!

[X] quarrels with me all the time. He keeps imploring me not to go on the internet. They even say the phones are monitored!!!

I’m so frightened I changed my [online] name today.

I don’t know why. Other than vote for Mousavi I’ve never engaged in a political activity in my entire life. But this is no comfort because [X]’s poor colleague was shot in the eye with a rubber bullet while driving through Vanak Square. After two operations, he’s blind in one eye!!!!!!!!

They picked up someone else too. Two days after his disappearance they released him near Shahreh Rey with his eyes blindfolded and his mouth gagged.

Neither guy attended demonstrations! Plus, they say those who come to these protests are MKO [mujahedin] members [terrorists]!!!!! Not to mention 100 other insults!

What had this poor woman Neda done that they wouldn’t allow any mosque to hold ceremonies for her — come on, wasn’t she Muslim?

Anyway, things here are REALLY bad here. We’re all scared to death.

Something has to change. We can’t go living like this.”

Tehran resident: I am just back from 7 tir square where there was supposed to be a memorial for the 7th day of the martyrs.

Drove down there at 4 ish. there were a lot of people in the square, but no one allowed to gather, so people were just walking up and down the meydoon [square]. there was a HEAVY military presence — all kinds, basij, riot police, khahki [camouflage] uniformed ones — all on motorbikes, or in pick up trucks or standing — they ALL had those batons and weren’t allowing people to stand still [ie. gather]. we walked around and tried to have a look from those walkways that cover the meydoon [square] but the police were also on them so wouldn’t let u stand still for a second.

you cannot believe it. they have turned this place into a killing field. people are frightened to death here. they have gone quiet. the stores are closed.

there were plans to go and gather at 7 Tir [earlier today Tehran time] for that poor young woman Neda.

I’m going, but I’m scared. I may go quietly.

Sepah [IRGC] has announced it will crush us. they’re murderers.

But at night from 10 to 11 pm we all come out and say Allah o Akbar [God is Great] and Death to the Dictator [on the rooftops].

Please tell the world that we protesters are not terrorists [as reported by iranian state tv]. it’s the other way around: they’re terrorizing us!

As we have seen, the Middle East is a very delicate and turbulent place with so many behind-the-scenes negotiations and relationships that it is very difficult to have a clear picture of the true intentions of any government. The people of Iran know that foreign governments only act according to their best intersts, but that is why there was the creation of the United Nations. It’s role is so uphold international dignity and enforce international law like the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, one of which is the freedom of assembly. As far as I know, they have not even made a statment about the use of violence on the protesters. How ironic is that this following poem by a famous Persian poet is written on entrance to the UN building

بنی آدم اعضای یک پیکرند
که در آفرينش ز یک گوهرند

چو عضوى به درد آورد روزگار
دگر عضوها را نماند قرار

تو کز محنت دیگران بی غمی
نشاید که نامت نهند آدمی

Human beings are members of a whole,

In creation of one essence and soul.

If one member is afflicted with pain,

Other members uneasy will remain.                                                                  If you have no sympathy for human pain,                                                     The name of human you cannot retain.

here are some updates from today:

well today is confusing … some say the protest is in ferdowsi sq, some haft-e-tir, some abbas abad (a huge mosque) … it seems central org. is waning, maybe cz camp leaders are in jail? …….  anyway, [X] & i (along w my dad & [Y] & his friends) will go around 4 pm to check it out, see if theres any action … will report back to u ….. the rumor [about Rafsanjani] is he’s still in qom rallying support to “azl” khamenei (ask to step down) and do away with velayat-e-faqih as one person, instead make it a council, so to steer away from dictatorship potential by any one all-powerful figure …  i hope he’s making headway with the qom top brass! [please note: this has not been independently confirmed]

dige [what else] … dishab [last night] was a candlelight vigil in front of UN in pasdaran for Neda, the girl who got killed, … and some clashes in valiasr sq, reportedly non-violent …

the sms is still down cz they know the MOMENT its back on, ppl will organize HUGE protests again … tehran is so quiet, no traffic, ordinary life is at standstill, or barely crawling …

i hope protests dont die out … we’ve come too far to back down …. the only problem is mobilization is so weak …

Tehran, Saturday june 20 2009 – 4.30 local time, Enghelab Street:

I meet with my students on Saturdays for a private class. We cook and eat together, then talk of philosophy. This time there is no class. We only try to keep up our morale. We are very determined but scared. That is how I can describe most of the people who came out to attend the demonstration today. After the Supreme Leader’s fierce speech at the Friday prayers, we knew that today we would be different. We feel so vulnerable, more than ever, but at the same time are aware of our power. No matter how strong it is collectively, it will do little to protect us today. We could only take our bones and flesh to the streets and expose them to batons and bullets. Two different feelings fight inside me without mixing with one another. To live or to just be alive, that’s the question.

There is another student who would have her lunch with us, but is not coming to the demonstration. She’s too scared and while pretending to be in control bursts into tears. She says she hates to see people suffer. We tell here we have suffered for years. She says she doesn’t want people to die. I tell her tens of thousands die each year on the roads in Iran, at least this time it would be for a good cause. She says we are elites and can save ourselves for better times when we can be more useful. We reply there is no difference between people when we are all in such a condition.

We finish the lunch and sit to read poems of Mirzadeh Eshgi. That’s what I suggest. He was a revolutionary anarchist at the time of Constitutional Revolution 1906-11, killed for speaking out. It fits our situation. Poems play an important role here. Nothing influences Iranians like poetry. And these days, everything is about influence and fear.

The poems we read are bitter, ironical and they make us laugh. When sorrow is more than you can tolerate, you burst into laughter. Then we get going. It’s a quarter to four. But the following hour proves funnier than we expected.

In the bus everybody is going to the same place. All the streets to Enghlab Square are blocked. Guards tell you where to go and where not to go. They show us a small street that leads to Enghlab. I panic: Why have they left it open? Do they want us to go in and surround us? Two demonstrations were taking place, one in Enghelab and the other in Azadi, respectively meaning, ‘revolution’ and ‘freedom’. I tell my students, ‘We’re recycling the names.’

Enghlab is busy, very busy, but there is no demonstration. People show the V sign with their fingers but walk in silence. In front of Tehran University, I see the students inside, clutching the rails of the gates, as if behind bars. They shout. But I can’t hear them. In front of the students on the sidewalk, on the other side of the bars, there are two rows of anti-riot police and a row of Basij militia holding posters insulting the demonstrators of the previous days. One says, ‘The trouble-makers pertain to MI6’. An hour later, when the street is no longer so crowded, I go to the guy holding the poster and ask him, ‘What is MI6?’ ‘Britain’s intelligent service’, he replies. ‘Is it different from Scotland Yard?’ I ask. ‘No, they’re the same thing.’ ‘Oh, I see.’

We walk up and down. We’re a group of four. We find friends, but don’t join them. We don’t want to change the mood by changing our companionship. We’re enjoying ourselves.

Then comes the attraction of the day. Two water-spraying machines. They’re huge, the size of a bus but taller, with fenced windows and two water-guns on top of each. We burst into laughter. They don’t know how to use them. They shoot second floor windows, anti-riot police and the people, including girls in tight manteaus. It’s more Zurich than Tehran. One machine is stuck. They don’t know how to drive it. It’s a hot day, the sun is intolerably shiny and it feels good to become wet. Much of the time, the sprays are not powerful. It’s as if they’re watering grass. And it just does not fit the horror that’s in the air, the aggression with which the people are hit with batons. A beautiful day. It has been beautiful throughout the past week. You wonder whether nature is ironical.

They push the crowd back and forth, from here to there but soon realize people are on all sides. We hear bullets, but people don’t rush away. They’re fake. Nobody’s shot.

Then in a couple of minutes, the street is not crowded as before, the anti-riot police leave, and the students are gone. We don’t understand why. Deprived of communication, you never get the big picture. Maybe they have attacked the university from the back.

We hear in Azadi Square there’s a huge crowd. So we get going. As we pass the fences, a student, his face covered, smiles bitterly, ‘They’ll storm the dormitory tonight.’

We have to walk. We feel awful. There’s a demonstration somewhere and we can’t get there. We wish we were in a crowd. That’s the only way we feel better. We have joked for hours now, but we need to shout. Something is pressing from within.

Then at Towhid Square the scene changes drastically. The streets to Azadi are blocked. But this time, people don’t change their path. They fight for it. There’s a shower of stones. Tear gas. Fire. People jam the sidewalks. The battle scene is huge. We cannot see the limits but it extends to nearby street. My student is keener to go forward than I am. Her mother could persuade her to stay home for two days, but now allows her to go out on the most dangerous day. The people shout, ‘Down with the dictator’. The anti-riot police are also throwing stones. People don’t run back anymore. I grab a broken brick and throw. I’m amazed. I never thought I’d do it. I should practice. It was a very bad shot. I grab another one, the size of a pomegranate and keep it with me, hiding it behind my back. My feeling is a mixture of a university teacher and a hooligan.

If we want to go forward we need to pass through tear gas. So we ask a car to give us a lift. Then there is an attack. They cannot tell enemy from other people although they want to show everything is fine and they’re only after trouble-makers. There is a woman who is being beaten. She’s horrified and hysterical but not as much as the anti-riot police officer facing her. She shrieks, ‘Where can I go? You tell me go down the street and you beat me. Then you come up from the other side and beat me again. Where can I go?’ In sheer desperation, the officer hits his helmet several times hard with his baton. ‘Damn me! Damn me! What the hell do I know!’

I ask myself, ‘how much longer can these officers tolerate stress? How many among them would be willing to give their lives for somebody like Ahmadinejhad?’

The driver tells us that he did not vote but he has come out to the streets to beat the Basijis. At each intersection he is guided by officers in a different direction and after a while we realize we are back where we started. We see officers load people in a van used for carrying frozen meat. Then a couple of minutes later, a new scene unfolds. We get out. Here’s a true battleground. And this time it’s huge. Columns of smoke rise to the sky. You can hardly see the asphalt. Only bricks and stones. Here people have the upper hand. Three lanes, the middle one separated by opaque fences, under construction for the metro. The workers have climbed up the fences and show the V sign. They start throwing stone and timber to the street to supply the armament. I tell myself, ‘Look at the poor, the ones Ahmadinejhad always speaks of.’ But the president’s name is no longer in fashion. This time the slogans address the leader, something unheard of in the past three decades. It’s a beautiful sunset, with rays of light penetrating evening clouds. We feel safe among people moving back forth with the anti-riot police attacks.

Two Basiji motorcyles are burning. People have learnt how to do it fast. They lay the motorcycle on its side, spilling the gasoline and lighting it on fire. We climb up a pedestrian bridge and watch. People shout from the bridge, ‘Down with Khamenei’ and ‘your aura is gone for good’. A Basiji is caught: He soon disappears under the crowd beating him. As if in a roman coliseum those on the bridge shout, ‘Beat him up!’ I shout with them before coming to my senses. What is with me? He staggers away as a group of ten people kick and punch him.

At Gisha, there’s a similar scene. Again the people have the whole crossing in their control and you can hear the uproar and horns. Motorcycles are burning in smoke. But I’m suddenly stunned. I see a red object, which later proves to be a man, about 50, his head covered with blood, crouching, people passing him by as if he was a garbage can. Then comes a guy with a long stick who wants to beat up the already beaten Basiji. People gather and stop him. He’s furious, ‘Why should I not? They beat tiny girls! They beat everyone! Bastard!’

I shout at him, ‘But we’re not beasts! We’re not like them!’ Somebody takes the Basiji away as people curse him. I think, ‘But the bastard deserves it. To come out of your house in the morning, just to beat up people you don’t even know.’ I don’t recognize myself and my feelings anymore.

You can get in any car to go back home. People trust one another now. The woman in the back seat sitting next to me says, ‘It’s no longer about Mousavi or election results. We have suffered for thirty years. We didn’t live a life.’ An old man next to her offers me fresh bread. They tell jokes about the political figures and laugh out loud. They feel victorious. ‘I had waited thirty years for this. Now I feel relieved.’ She writes down my phone number to send me news. ‘Send it to The Guardian!’, she says.

I will. I promise.

but even still, sometimes it is hard to remember my hopes and dreams. in the hectic and busy life of an american, it is difficult to remember the jasmine and the beautiful verses of poetry. it is difficult to remember the smell of fresh baked bread and rice on the stove. it is difficult to remember afternoon tea after getting up from your afternoon nap. it is difficult to remember the love and dedication of family. but i am determined to not let those things fall away. flowers all have their season of bloom. but even after they are done, they don’t die. they either bloom again next year or spread their seeds so that the flowers continue.

but other than that i feel like i am adjusting well. i feel motivated to get my life started again here. i am bringing my experiences from iran into my life here and trying to meld these two worlds. it was a completely different life for me in iran these past couple of weeks. this experience was a little similar to my life as a child where i have one face inside my home and a different one once i leave the front door. as i grew up, i latched on stronger to my outside world face, trying to make the other disappear. but it will never disappear. now, i am trying to fuse the two. i am trying to understand that it does not have to be one or the other. i am trying to understand that it is not either a life here or a life there. i can live in both places. i don’t have to straddle and wobble as i try to walk one foot in each world. i can have both feet in both worlds because they are really one world. maybe this is why i have had pain in my feet for so many years.

here is a video of the music that i talked about earlier. enjoy.

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/sasy-mankan-ninash-nash-ft-radin-band-music-video/2392454777

When I landed in Amsterdam, our plane of camaraderie began to disperse. I saw tall bodies, white skin, blonde hair. English was being spoken. It was beautiful because I felt like I was experiencing the outside world for the first time. but I was gaining these new eyes at a price. Pretty soon, I could not hear any farsi no matter how hard I strained to listen. There were no striking women in beautiful head scarves. There were no people talking on top of each other. I felt so incredibly alone.

Back in the States

I have lived a lifetime but it was only a dream. There is a recollection but it seems out of reach, like I fabricated the entire experience. though the calendar proves a time lapse, so it must be real. But it is still hard to fathom. It is hard to fathom that on the other side of the world, those same people that I was with 24 hours ago are still there, going about their day, living their lives. It is hard to fathom that I was there sharing their days with them, that I walked on those streets with them. When I was in the airport, CNN broadcasted a piece on Iran. It was incredibly surreal. There I was, sitting in Amsterdam, watching footage of the streets that I was a part of only hours earlier. A mere six hours earlier, that was my home, and now watching it on the screen made it so far away. A distance was born and it grew wider and wider by the minute. And now on the other side of the earth, my heart is heavy as I try to savor the taste of my trip. But it is fleeting as it flaps away into the wind like a butterfly. And I stand there, my hand stretched out, empty.

I am sure he can. He is a strong bodied man. But it is his will that sometimes waivers. As he ages, his passion for life deteriorates. Family members come over less and less often because he has less tolerance for kids and commotion. It is difficult for him to go outside because of the wind and cold. He thinks too much because there is so much time and not much for him to do. He thinks about what this person did or what someone else said. He has had a full life with few regrets. In the end, he is happy with his life. But this last segment is the hardest for him. Thus the bitterness starts to show. I try to mend relationships but it is difficult. There are too many grudges. There is resentment today but there will be regret tomorrow. So many people take what they have close by for granted. This family has lived within 30 miles of each other their entire lives, and yet the last time they all saw each other was when I visited last. But I trek half way across the globe just to catch a glimpse. Everyone has their own lessons to learn in life. Everyone has their own fate. Mine is to come and go. When things are not good, I come to make it better, and then I leave. Just like what I have here, I too am impermanent.

I have to practice saying goodbye.

I had my first soda in 17 years the other day. It is because the water here is so difficult for me to drink. I am just not used to it. The soda was orange mirinda. Before I decided to quit drinking soft drinks, orange soda was always my favorite. As I was picking tangerines today, I remembered how I always preferred orange flavored candy, drinks, etc… Orange gummy bears, orange runts, orange Sunkist, orange high-c, anything that had a flavor option would be orange. I realize now that it was not just the flavor, but that it reminded me of home. It is interesting how things like this carve their way into your subconscious and soul.

but there were once many young people who were committed to political change. maybe they are too scared to write music about it. or maybe they have turned apathetic, seeing that the obstacles to change are too great. when i came here in 2001, people quietly criticized the government in the safety of their homes. now, they curse and criticize out in the open. bus drivers blame the government for the road conditions, shop keepers blame the government for lack of sales, passersby blame the government for the state of the youth. it has become so commonplace to blame the government that people joke that no matter what is wrong, you can blame the government. as far as political discourse, critique of the current regime is all that i hear. people are not considered about the politics abroad. i hear very little about statements from the US, or anything about Israel. people only talk and satirize their own government. there are still daily jokes about the satellite that Iran sent into space more than a month ago. these jokes get sent over text messages like rapid fire. every day, there is a new one. the wife of Khomeini died 2 weeks ago. now there are jokes floating around about her. the possibility of war does not seem to be an issue here. people go about their own lives, upset with the deterioration of their beautiful country, but they make the most of what they have. maybe this is why there are no underground songs about the wrongs of the government. people are focusing on the positive, they are focusing on what they feel blessed to have.

Growing up, I loved the Persian new year, but I would dread it for one reason. My mother would make me write cards to every family member. I only dreaded it because it took me so long to write the cards in Farsi. I would make drafts, my mom would correct them, I would rewrite it and then copy it onto the card. As a 10 year old, you have very little patience for that. But tonight, tears filled my eyes as I saw every card I had sent for those 20 some years saved. The letters in the drawer were endless. Letters that told all the little details of our lives. Pictures of my basketball games, of my birthdays, of my pet birds. My entire childhood was well chronicled in this drawer.

One by one I went through the pictures showing my grandfather. He would take his time with each one. Seeing them with new eyes, asking me the year, what we were doing, etc. He would shake his head mumbling something about how time goes by so fast. Yes it does but it also doesn’t. Here at his house, time has seemed to stand still. Everything is the exact same as I remember from 25 years ago. One of my most vivid memories of this house as a child is sitting in the guest room watching the ants go up the crack in the wall. Yesterday, I found the exact same scene. My grandfather still has the same orange car that I threw up in when I was four because I would get car sick so easily. He still sits in the exact same chair that is in the exact same place as 25 years ago, where he can look out the big glass doors onto the orange and tangerine trees that flower and fruit with every year. He can sit there and watch the spring and summer turn into fall and winter. The clouds turn into heavy rain and then the sun comes back out to shine. Time does go by fast in the outside world. But for him, it moves so slow. He just sits, every sip of tea, every bite of rice, every morsel of sweets, savored.

For every new year’s celebration before my grandmother’s death, the entire family would gather at my grandparent’s house. My cousin told me that my grandmother would always light a candle for every one that was there and then add three for my parent’s and me. She told me that they would always take a family picture around the table with our pictures sitting on the table. Then they would take a picture of our pictures. And there we were on the other side of the world celebrating the new year alone around our table, spending the hours after the new year trying to get through on the phone lines. Sometimes it would take hours sometimes minutes. One by one each one of us would talk to everyone on the other side. It is so interesting that these heart strings can extend so far, almost circumnavigating the earth. These strings are like silk, soft but incredibly durable. As time passed, some of these strings tore a bit but with every visit we made, they were well repaired. There are so many families split and scattered around the globe. Once the revolution of 79 hit and the war started, people took off in any direction they could, trying to save their own life and that of their family’s. at the time it was the only option. Who would have thought it would have been so difficult? Who would have thought there would be so much lament? Who would have thought there would such a feeling of estrangement?

I had to leave the festivities early to come visit my uncle who lives a couple of towns away, in Babol. He has been suffering from migraines for most of his adult life and has been having one for 2 days straight. I came over to help relieve some of his pain. It has worked so far and he is sleeping soundly.

The other day I experienced something that I have wanted to have happen for so much of my life. I ran into family while out in the town. These are the kinds of things that most people probably take for granted, but for me it is a treasure. The first was at the cemetery. It is tradition that every Thursday families go visit their deceased loved ones. The cemetery is filled with activity. Since this was the last Thursday of the year, it was exceptionally packed. We made our way through the tombstones, which are stones that cover almost the entire length of the coffin with poems or etched pictures. Some are more like shrines with places to plant flowers. We first stopped at my great grandmother’s grave and sent our prayers. Then we went to my grandmother’s. the entire experience is so beautiful to me. I love how people that you have never met will walk up, bend down, touch the grave, send their prayers for the deceased, say hello to you and walk away. They could have been one of her students or an acquaintance that we had never met. It didn’t matter. There is such a feeling of camaraderie in the fact that we are all there because we have lost someone special to us. We all mourn our losses together. People walk around offering sweets to each other, to remind each other of the sweetness that life has to offer. You walk up and exchange condolences to acknowledge the other’s loss. It is such a healthy way to grieve. There is no feeling of being alone.

The washing of the tomb is also a beautiful ritual. As you meticulously scrub the dirt from the etched writing, your tears mix with the water flowing down the sides, cleansing the tomb and your spirit. You feel like you have done something special for the deceased and feel much closer to them.

As I was there, one of my uncles and his wife also came to visit my grandmother. It was such a surprise to see them there. Later that day, my cousin and I went into the town on a hunt for ice cream. There were rumors that the first ice cream of the year was here so we went 2 kilos for the house. Unfortunately, no one had started to make any yet so we bought cheese puffs and cookies instead. But on our way, a car stopped and it was another uncle and his wife. Again, I was so happy to see them. I felt like this was my town and I belonged here. Seeing them seemed so normal and comfortable, like I have lived here most of my life.

Actually it is hard for me to remember my American life. This writing is the only thing that takes me away from being here, that reminds me that I speak English most of the time and that I really live in Portland, Oregon. Well, there was one other moment when the satellite TV was on and there was a commercial for an American movie. I got completely engrossed in the preview, the only American thing I had seen since being here. I looked up and saw one of my cousins staring at me. He later said I looked like I was in another world. When I looked up at him I had a moment of confusion, the kind where you wake up suddenly from a dream and need a moment to adjust back to reality.

I recognized him but I had completely forgotten for that moment that I was in Iran and that I had to put on my headscarf and coat so that we could go on a walk. But I adjusted quickly and we were on our way.

It is worse here because I am in a small town where everyone knows everyone. It is obvious that I don’t belong although many people already know who I am. Most of the women here wear chadors if they are married or they are much younger than me. There are very few single women in the their twenties here, let alone out buying groceries or bread. If I was in Tehran or even the neighboring cities, it would not be as bad. For in those places, the women who play into this back and forth game are plenty and are more obvious. I am very simple looking compared to them.

But I have to admit that I welcome the challenge. I used to just divert my eyes to the ground with my head down, but I decided that not only was that not right, but that was not me. Now I walk proudly in front of the line of men sitting in front of their stores with my head up and back straight. I like for them to wonder who I am and where I am from. I like to stare back, saying “yes? What are you looking at?” with my eyes. I like to have comments deflect off of me, and as my farsi gets better, I would like to have sassy comebacks. This is an opportunity for me to be more powerful instead of feeling like my power is being taken away. Flirting can be fun and light, but here it is different. Here, not all the time but most of the time, it is inappropriate and feels too invasive.

Rostami, an old classmate of my father’s whom my grandfather hires to clean up the orange grove, launched into a tirade about the bleak future of Persian culture. He was out working in the garden today when an accident between a motorcycle and car happened right outside of our garden gate. He heard the yelling and fighting. As he recounted the story to me, he was shaking his head, disappointed by the behavior of the young people involved, especially on the eve of the new year.  He sadly asked, what has happened to our virtue? We were once highly respected for our principles and honor, now where is our culture headed? What has happened to this society?

My answer of course is the Islamic Revolution of 1979. It has suppressed, it has smothered, it has muddied the water, it has discouraged, it has demoralized. The revolution dismantled social structure by casting out intellectuals and others of higher social standing. In their place, uneducated, reactionary, bigoted people took positions of power. Out went any regard for honor and virtue. The kind that comes to mind when one pictures the stately images of Reza Shah (the king of Iran in the early 20th century), or the elegant pictures of his son Mohammad Reza Shah with his queen both adorned with jewels, or the exemplary stature of Mossadegh.  No those pictures went out the door. And in came adherence to religious rhetoric on the surface, with corruption and immorality hidden underneath. Even though pictures were burned, palaces destroyed, the history taken out of school books, that memory still exists for some. Unfortunately, it is not being widely passed down to the younger generations.

Even though I felt more like I belonged, it was obvious to some that I didn’t. The guy checking the baggage who looked like a thinner, not as friendly version of Drew Carey, quickly singled me out and gave me a hard time about our luggage. I later thought it was because I was wearing a red shiny headscarf, my cousin’s husband joked that it was because I looked Israeli. He sent me to the guy who looks through the baggage. He looked through my passport and made up some story about how he was giving me a fine because I have made two trips within one year. I argued to no avail. There was nothing contraband in our luggage. We didn’t even have very many gifts. After the fighting, I started to cry. I had no control over my tears. They were tears of feeling powerless, of knowing that no matter what the truth was, injustice would win. This man had power and he could abuse it however he wished. That’s the way it goes. And to top it off, he said he went easy on me, expecting me to thank him. I wanted to spit in his face. Instead I just looked at him and walked away, knowing that if I said anything that I was feeling, he could raise the fine or doing something more. Powerless. It’s actually worse than powerless. It is not about never having power. It is about having your power taken away. But I walked away with a straight back, not letting those two men taint my excitement.

The air was cool and crisp, the night sky clear, the moon beautiful. I was so glad to be back. The streets were so familiar, the round about “squares,” the men doing street repairs in the middle of the night, the stop lights with timers showing how many seconds left until green, the small side streets fit for either only one line of cars or a game of soccer, the gated apartment buildings. That I night I truly felt, as they say in farsi, I was “a child of Tehran.”

though this time i make a conscious vow. i vow to look at this world with new eyes. i vow to be grateful to be part of a culture with so much beauty, warmth, richness of history, and elegance. And i vow to feel blessed to have the opportunity to leave the ugliness, the turmoil, the desperation, and the hopelessness which has come to plague the land. i vow to believe that my path is actually beneficial for me. it has become one where i can appreciate the beauty of where i come from, of where my blood streams from, without having to see it deteriorate little by little everyday. with my new eyes, i see that i am preserving something special in my heart. i am preserving a time and space that is extinct for so many people. i am preserving the rose scented gardens, the countless games of backgammon in the courtyard, the afternoon tea while listening to the setar being played.

so i will walk into and out of this world, grateful for being a woman of two cultures where i can effortlessly shift from one into another depending on my mood and what is beneficial for me at the time.

i got to the trail and it was beautiful. so serene and peaceful. there was no trash littering the sides of the river. but there also were no families picnicing along its sides. there were no kids running in and out of the water, no stoves with food being cooked, no young 20 somethings doing the rounds, no music playing. so i went on with my hike, only saying hi as i passed by others. it was a very solitary experience. it was good because i needed the solitude after a month of none but i don’t know how much more i will need. sitting by the waterfall, i enjoyed it for what it was, beautiful and pristine. and so so quiet. i drove home listening to persian music in the car, a favorite traditional iranian singer of mine whose lyrics are the poetry of Rumi. with the sitar setting the stage, he sang about the liminal space between this world and the spiritual world, about how to relay an experience that has no words, that can not be portrayed for someone else. it was so beautiful that i had goose bumps on my entire body.

When I traveled from my grandfather’s town to my great aunts place in Bandar Anzali for a couple of days, I took the bus. Along the way, the bus drops off and picks up passengers. The driver picks up a young boy in his pre-teens. His mother is with him and says, “Please drop him off in so-so place in Bandar Anzali. I will call when you guys get close” The driver replies, “yes, mother.” (this is endearing here and not at all insulting.). She has entrusted her son to the bus driver and his crew. They have the boy sit right in front so that they know who he is and offer him snacks and tea along the way. As we approach the town of Anzali, the mother calls and the boy gives his phone to the bus driver. She gives him detailed directions on where they should drop him off for his aunt will pick him up there. After he gets off the phone, it seems as though the driver is not familiar with exact place. We take a couple of side roads and he asks someone directions. Finally he drops off the boy where he promised. A bus driver takes an entire bus load of people off route to drop off a young boy safely. To me that is the beauty of the people here.

There is such a disconnection between the people of Iran and the government. After 30 years, everyone has lost hope. Those who sincerely had expectations for improvement after the revolution were either killed or quickly realized their misguided dreams. But I think it has taken this long for the masses to finally throw up their hands. Unfortunately, they have also learned how to live with it.
Walking down the streets, people are no longer whispering their disdain. They openly curse the new regime and hail the days of Reza Shah, who truly brought Iran up to par in the industrial world back in the early 1900’s. They also praise his son, Reza Pahlavi, who took over his reign. They only criticize his naivety. Most say that he didn’t have the street smarts to run the country like his father. Instead he was too nice of a person. When he was advised to kill to squelch opposition groups, he did not. When danger was at his front door, he did not fight. He fled instead. People joke that his sibling, Afshar, should have been a boy. She had the cunning intellect it took to run a country they say. It is sad that it takes low morals to be a ruler. Afshar is usually credited with introducing all sorts of illicit drugs into the country. There was period of 30 years, where Iran had 2 respectable and intelligent rulers, Mossadeq and Pahlavi. Both were brought down by the US. And now in their place is a corrupt, uneducated, immoral government. Even though everyone wants this regime to end, people don’t want to make it 3 regimes in a row that were  changed by the hands of America.

Grief is such a part of Persian culture. I will never forget the day an Iranian friend and I realized that the sadness was not from us but deep in our blood. All the love stories are sad. There are no “happily ever after’s” in the Persian repertoire. Like I had said before grief and strife seem to come with the territory. But it is not all bad. People accept the bitterness of life sometimes with a smile. Two men get into an argument in the middle of the street because one was about to hit the other’s car. They yell at each other, insulting each other’s families, etc. but one says something that makes the other laugh. He smiles over at his friends, puts his hand up, apologizes and goes on with his day. Everyone gets a good laugh for the day. Also, there is such a reverence for the dead. It is not something that gets brushed under the rug. It is in plain view. The streets are plastered with pictures of  the deceased. Usually young men and women. In rituals of the dead, people gather for the first 3 days, the 7 day anniversary, the 40th, and the 1 year anniversary. Some of the posters reflect these anniversaries. Some of them show pictures of the young men that died in the Iran Iraq war. Billboards ornament roadsides and busy streets by portraying scenes from war. The pictures of the young long gone men in front with pictures of dead bodies in the background. There is no concealing of the dead victims of war like in America. Here it is in the clear and no one is afraid or insulted by it. Usually the billboards are part of the some type of political propaganda. But even still, it reflects something deep about the cultural. When you have a culture that is so old and has so many wars and loss in its memory, it becomes so commonplace.

In the 1950’s my grandfather was exiled to the small working town of Shirgah, maybe 200 kilometers northeast of Tehran. He was forced out of Tehran because of his political involvement with the nationalizing movement of Mossadeq, the most honorable elected official in the history of Iran (in my personal opinion.) In Shirgah, my grandfather marries my grandmother and has 5 children. My grandmother’s brother has a big beautiful villa in Shirgah. It is the classic Persian garden, with fountains and fruit trees surrounded by stone walls and a metal gate. In the 70’s the government wants to build a bigger road that bypasses the downtown of Shirgah. Unfortunately, it cuts through the villa. My grandfather buys the severed section filled with walnut, orange, and fig trees and builds his own home. Throughout the decades, this road has become a major thoroughfare. As I lay in my bed, the sound of the speeding vehicles brings feelings of anxiety and stress. This is in stark contrast to the peace of the birdsongs emanating from the trees in the brief moments of stillness between trucks. Great memories of a beauty and grace that once existed are shattered for me. So much so, that I want to carry my grandfather away to the Virginia suburbs where it is quiet even though sometimes it is too quiet, like a coffin.
Yesterday I drove the same orange car that he had when I was little into the downtown. We walked a little on the main street looking at shop after shop. It is a very small town of about a couple hundred people. The men of all ages are sitting in front of the shops talking about whatever they talk about. We go into one of the produce shops to buy some watermelons. There are 3 generations of men sitting in there, the youngest being ordered to carry the heavy melons for us. I felt it was such an old scene. If they were drinking lemonade, then it would have been a candy shop in the south 60 years ago. I could feel every minute stretched to its fullest length. But inside of the pockets of those men, were cell phones with Bluetooth ability to connect with their PC’s at home. Their PC’s connect to the internet through dialup and most have digital cameras with 10 megapixels. Sometimes this meshing of old and new does not bother me. It is actually beautiful to see the embracing of technology with the reverence for the old style of life. Most still open their shops at 9 or 10 in the morning, take their lunch and nap at noon and reopen at 4 until 9, 10, or 11. They have introduced the speed that modern technology brings into the slow pace of traditional life. Sometimes it works, but sometimes like the trucks that fill me with anxiety, it makes me very sad.

There has been no talk of war. No talk of Iraq, no fear of an impending attack on Iran. People just go on about their own lives. They work, get married, have fun. If it wasn’t for language, it would be like anywhere else.

7/01/08 still in the air

flying over turkey and the middle east has been a powerful experience. The lakes are so rich in color and the land so rich in texture. Even though there is a scarcity of trees that are clustered in little pockets, the land seems so comforting and inviting. Perhaps it is due to the warmness of the oranges and reds that paint the land. Like the rivers that swirl, the colors weave their way down the mountainside, like honey.

It was very emotional to fly south along the border of Iran and Iraq. First as an Iranian, I felt it necessary to recognize the land as a continuous flow, that the mountains of Iran lead into the lush valley of Iraq. I felt it necessary to recognize that the border mandated by the earth herself has initially estranged these peoples but that mankind has taken it to unfathomable extremes. I felt it necessary to recognize the humanity and mortality of both sides, that both want the same things in life: to have a family, do some work to provide for the family, and enjoy life with tea and napping in the afternoon and Fridays in the park. The sad part is that very few on either side have been able to accomplish even that. Secondly, as an American, I felt it my duty to fly over Iraq and survey the land where my countrymen and women were responsible for such a slaughter. I gazed over to Baghdad and could feel the pain and grief deep in my heart. Appropriatly enough, the country was clouded over by a haze, the reality still being obscured. I felt it my duty to witness the blood on the land. even through the haze, it was unavoidable, for really some of it is centuries old. I look at this beautiful land and I wonder why? Why has there been so much violence and bloodshed? How could such a magical landscape bring out the worst in mankind? Is it because it reminds us that there is something so much bigger than our lives at play and that creates fear? I am sure this is also a centuries old question. All I know is that I am here to help my grandfather and not solve the area’s problems.

Later…

This was the second time that I was sitting next to a soldier. The first time, was years ago and I actually liked the soldier. In the months following I would look on sites with the names of killed soldiers to see if that was his fate. He was a good person. He was part of the army before the wars started. He didn’t want to be there. But we chatted a lot. He told me about the green zone and the Iraqi children. We avoided politics. It was unnecessary. This time, I couldn’t do it again. This time I was too inflicted with thoughts of the atrocities. I had too many visions of innocent men and young boys shot in front of their mothers sometimes on purpose. I had too much rage and I was too prejudice to have a normal discussion. So I moved to an empty row. To give him credit, he was friendly and chatty. When we landed, I looked over at him and he had his face in his hands. My heart went out to him. Across from him was another soldier. I was instantly afraid of him. He had a look of vacancy and unresponsiveness on his face. It made me think that that is the feeling the powers within the military conjure up to get young men to kill so many people. They try to produce robots, unemotional and ready to follow orders. He never looked at anyone, not even his fellow soldier. Maybe they had said their greetings at the airport prior to sitting next to eachother. Maybe they had a conflict and no longer cared for each other. Or maybe he was no longer able to relate to the outside world, his psyche wounded for life.