8/28/19

My time in Greece has come to an end and as with every international trip I have made, I have come to two conclusions. First, there are many ways one can live life. There are so many places on this earth, on the coast close to the crashing waves, in the woods surrounded by trees, on top of a mountain with a panoramic view, in a city with high population density, in a suburb with big houses and and long neighborhood streets, in a dry climate, in a wet climate, somewhere hot, somewhere cold, close to other people, far from other people, in a stone house, in a concrete house, in a wooden house…etc… The earth and the civilization humans have created is so vast and varied, providing us with a multitude of possibilities but we are the ones that are limited. We limit ourselves by national borders, by identification with certain languages and cultures, by desires for certain material objects, by preferences for certain conveniences, by placing importance on what others think, by emotional attachments to family or friends, or a big one for me, by emotional attachments to certain places. As with any aspect of our lives, sometimes we just limit ourselves by what we think in our own minds about what is possible. We forget that the world is bigger than what we see in front of us. We forget to dream.

Sometimes our limitations come through no fault of our own. Sometimes we are imprisoned by greater powers like governments and other law enforcement. Sometimes that is the consequence of our actions and sometimes it is not. Sometimes it is due to bureaucracy, politics, or greed by those in power. I dream of a world where one day those in power care about the people not in power and people of all nationalities are able to live in harmony in their own land and with others. Because this leads me to my second conclusion.

Most people just want to be happy. People all across the world want to have a life they enjoy. Some want families, some want to be alone, some want to lay in the sun, some want to run and be active. Whatever it is, everyone should have the freedom to just be. They should have the freedom to live and travel wherever they want, the freedom to be able to work and provide for themselves and their families, the freedom to take care of their themselves as they need, the freedom to spend time relaxing with loved ones or alone, the freedom to laugh and be light, the freedom to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. 

All life is sacred and equal. 

8/21/19

Last night I was starbathing. I arrived on the Greek island of Naxos around 9:30pm on a ferry from Athens. As we traveled the Aegan sea, stopping at different islands along the way and witnessing a crimson sunset over the water, I was reminded of the rich history of this land. I thought of all the Greek myths centered around water. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty and vastness of the sea, it all made sense. Culture is a product of the environment. But even though it is influenced by place, somehow it traverses time and space. How is it that I have an Iranian culture in my veins even though I live across world? How is it that I can still smell the rose and jasmine scented gardens of old, even though many no longer exist? 

It seems a shame to come all this way and not go to Iran. I tried to make it happen but passport issues and US/Iran tensions made it difficult. On the plane’s flight tracker map I kept looking at the cat shaped land of Iran. I am so close I would think. With this close proximity of land, I have noticed many similarities in culture which has been heartwarming for me. The streets of Athens, the busses, the stores, and cars seemed like a cleaner, less crowded, and not oppressed version of Tehran. There was a familiarity for me. 

Arriving late to the island last night, I was immediately struck by the amount of activity. The streets were bussling with people walking, eating, hanging out. Restaurants and stores were open well past midnight. The sounds of laughter, music, and chit chat were backdropped by the sounds of crashing waves. The aliveness of the streets and it’s people were also very familiar, something I miss very much living in the US. For me, the US is more of a solitary place and there are times when I am grateful for that. But it’s easy for me to feel a dimming of the light of life when I am there. Visiting Iran would always ignite that light for me, making it bigger so that my connection to people and the beauty brought by human civilization was palpable. I am grateful to have caught a glimpse of that last night. But even still, I eventually retreated, found a wooden lounge chair, bathed in the star light, soaked up the smell and sound of the sea, and was grateful for this life.

8/19/19

I am about to travel to Greece so it seems appropriate that I want to start up my blog again. I don’t know why traveling prompts me to start writing. Maybe it’s because I have time away from everyday distractions, my to-do lists, and the general busyness of daily life. But maybe it’s because I find a slight sense of belonging while I travel. 

Sitting at JFK airport, I am amidst 1000’s of people who for a short time may feel like how I feel so much of the time, 1000’s of people not in their home but making themselves as comfortable as possible with what they have, 1000’s of people dependent on others’ permission to be able to go where they want to go, 1000’s of people longingly waiting in a place that is neither here nor there.

I have written about my love of airports before (sans the recycled stale air and funny taste in the water) and the sense of comfort they bring to me. Airports are like nation-free zones, people undivided by country lines where people are just people. It seems like more of an even playing field. No nations, just people.

“Go back to where you came from.” I have been avoiding talking or writing about that sentiment expressed by Trump a few weeks ago. It took me a while to realize that I didn’t want to broach the subject because it is so deeply painful. Thinking about it in this moment makes the pain creep up into my throat and tears well up behind my eyes. It makes me want to cry and scream amidst these 1000’s of people with a feeling of utter hopelessness. “Don’t you see???” I want to ask. “I would love to go back to where I came from….but I can’t. I don’t belong there anymore.” And for that, I will always have a deep hole in my heart. It is a hole for the loss of a language that was my first and only language for my first 5 years, a hole for the family I never got to spend time with and the roots that I did not get to know, a hole for the loss of culture and history that ran through the waters of the land I was born in. 

And what is worse is that this hole was completely preventable. It was a hole that was gashed out by foreign powers and governments who were hungry for money and control, governments who wanted to create instability in the Middle East for their own interests, governments who had and have zero empathy for individual lives and their stories. Don’t you see that most people don’t willingly leave their homes, their families, their culture that runs so deep in their blood? Most only leave when their choices are to leave or to stay and suffer or die. Those immigrants who take that journey for a strange land because they are left with no other choice, do it at price far greater than any money that can be paid. They have to live with a deep hole in their heart and soul. 

And I carried that hole with me across the Atlantic Ocean on that summer’s day in 1984 and have lived with it for 35 years knowing that as much as I fill it with American soil, it will never bloom the same flowers.

Don’t you see?

6/4/17

Three ex-fighter jet pilots together again after 40 years. They each shared their story about how they escaped the revolution in Iran in 1980. Each story was unique but the feeling was the same, the sadness of a sweet golden era gone. Each was scattered across the globe, each was ridden with heavy burdens, each had to struggle to rebuild a life again. 

What would have happened if the revolution did not happen, Iran flourished in the world market, and our 3 families stayed close? It is so sad to think about but easy to daydream.

What would have happened if any of the dads were killed on their journey out? Two had very treachourous journeys across the eastern desert and mountains of Iran with no food, little water, under the sun, and amongst gunfire. They entrusted their lives, futures, and families into the hands of the smugglers who at multiple points could have took the money only to leave them stranded to die, and no one would have ever known. I don’t know if that was the fate of some trying to flee Iran in the late 70’s and early 80’s, but thankfully it was not the fate of these 3 old friends.

Immigrant is such a loaded word these days. It seems like the negativity against immigrants can go in to two ways. Either people don’t want foreigners in their land and they cite multiple reasons like taking away jobs, increase in crime, terrorism. But there is another misconception. They are ok with people coming in but they look down upon them as inferior or feel sorry for them.

First, what would have happened in our world if everyone just stayed within their borders? Would someone be eating tacos or Indian food in Portland, Oregon? Would there be English  written on every T-shirt I have seen in Belgium? Would there be New Zealand sheepskins for sale in a home store in a small coastal town in Northern Belgium?

Ideas, goods, and culture spreads. But it spreads with people through trade, immigration, and now the Internet. If we stopped immigration, it would put an end to not just the exchange of ideas which helps evolve our race, but an end to some of the fun parts of life like having delicious new foods like pomegranates and falafel. It seems like western countries want parts of other cultures but not the people.

People from all over the world have a rich and unique culture. Some have been eradicated or oppressed. Some have just pieces that have survived, but holding strong. Some come from very wealthy and educated backgrounds. Some have a lot of class. Some speak many languages and dialects.

If a brown person speaks broken English and is washing dishes in a restaurant, it does not mean they should be pitied or the host country should pat themselves on the back for helping these poor uncivilized people find a bettter life and new opportunities. While it is true that some of these people were looking for a better life because of war or the effects of neocolonialism, but they are not any less of a person. Some of these people could have been captains in the Air Force flying Phantom F4 and Tomcat F14 fighter jets, something that only the truly exceptional candidates are able to do.

6/3/17

I may have left one homogeneous place for another even less diverse one. I shouldn’t complain as much about Portland because at least it is better than northern Belgium in regards to ethnic diversity. I am sure there is more diversity in the big cities of Brussels and Antwerp. I have just been spending most of my time in the Flemish territory of the northern coast. And to be honest, I am not good at being able to distinguish based on looks between the Flemish and immigrants from its neighboring countries, France and the Netherlands. I would assume they make up a good chunk of their immigrant population. 

The few non European immigrants I have seen, seem to be Arab and maybe Eritrean. In a sea of white they definitely stick out here much more than in Portland. Spending about 2.5 hours today in the shops in the coastal town of Nieuwpoort, I saw only one brown family. Then I started to think about how I am being viewed right now. 

I think most people think I am Indian and not Middle Eastern or Muslim. I don’t know what their view is of Indians vs. Middle Easterners. Yesterday was the London terror attacks. I wondered if people would be looking at me differently today. But I was with my mom who is very light skinned and the wife of the family we are visiting who is Flemish, so everything was fine. People were more interested in us being from America and what we thought about Trump.

Yesterday, I saw a young Arab couple on the boardwalk. The woman was wearing a hijab, the man nice conservative clothing. I wanted to follow them to see how they were treated. I wanted to hear their story. Where did they escape from? Where is the rest of their family? Have the people of Belgium been kind and accepting of them? 

Islamic terrorism is not Muslims killing white people. It is extremists killing everyone else. They don’t care if their victims are white, brown, Muslim, or Christian. Although they get much more publicity when their attacks happen in white Western countries. 

The Muslim world experiences the most amount of terrorism, their families are torn apart, and they live in daily fear of being attacked when doing even sacred things like attending a funeral. 

My heart breaks for anyone killed. It breaks for animals. It breaks for the Earth. I can’t even kill ants or use chemicals anywhere because I think about the consequences and don’t want to hurt anything. But I have a special place in my heart for Middle Eastern families that live in terrorist territories: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan. 

Maybe it’s because I escaped and I have survivors guilt? Maybe it’s because I understand how so many Middle Eastern dads just want to work so they can provide for their families and give their children a good future? Maybe it’s because I know how scary it is to be forced to hide underneath furniture with the lights off when there are explosions outside?

It’s not fair. Most people don’t want to leave their home countries, their culture, and their families. But they want to be able to survive to see the next day. And to do that, most of those people have no choice but to try to immigrate.

6/1/17

I am on a beautiful farm in the countryside of Belgium. There are sheep, chickens, horses, and pigs to name a few. It is beautiful and life feels good. But today we went to the grocery store and I am reminded of a cancer that has spread thoroughout the world. It is that of capitalism, consumerism, and greed for money and power.

I am not an economist or even knowledgeable on the subject. I just have my humble observations. But it seems to me that this cancer started in the US, metasized to Western Europe, and is trying to take hold in the rest of the world.

Some places put up a good fight, like Cuba and Iran, but then they were overcome by their own secondary diseases.

As I walk through the grocery store of the small town of Nieuwpoort, close to the northern coast of Belgium, I am struck by its emulation of Costco, a place that advertises buying more for less. I am torn because in some cases, it is good to buy in bulk since it can cut down on packaging, fuel costs, and energy. But it is contingent on the American idea of buying more and more and bigger and bigger. And where all of these things being produced? The shelves are packed with American companies: Kellogg’s, Mars, Hershey’s, Quaker Oats, Lay’s. And the non American products look just like their American counterparts.

A place known to make some of the best chocolate products is selling Twix on its shelves.

As an anthropology major, I accept the societal and cultural changes that happen over time with exposure and trade. But because I am who I am, it makes me mad that American junk, the products and ideas, have spread across the ocean and secured a stronghold in so many other countries.

There is an entire room in this grocery store that is refrigerated. It is packed, floor to ceiling, with different kinds of animal products. It is overwhelming. My first thought was a young child who just immigrated from Yemen or South Sudan, countries experiencing famines. I imagined her standing in the middle of that refrigerated room. How would she experience a sight of so much food in one place that could probably sustain her entire family or tribe for years? “All this food has been here this entire time???” I imagine her thinking.

But those countries that are experiencing famine are not poor because they don’t have natural resources or are lazy or stupid people. Their countries are war stricken and exploited and kept that way because of the hunger for amassing wealth and power by the economic elite, the corporate giants and ruling governments.

One of the world’s most valuable resources, oil, is concentrated in the Middle East and North Africa.  Saudi Arabia and the UAE are the richest countries in the region and they have very close business ties to the US government and different corporations. A lot of the other countries in the region are in havoc or not allowing themselves to be controlled by the US government or corporations and thus not on the good list.

The richest governments and individuals involved in these international businesses don’t care about taking care of the people in these other countries. They don’t care about giving a fair sustainanle price to the countries they are exploiting so that everyone wins. (British Petroleum’s history in Iran is a great example of this.) They don’t care about the well being and development of these countries. Their goals are short term and self serving.

This type of control and desire to keep people in developing countries oppressed and struggling crushes me inside. The West steals their culture, goods, treasures, and natural resources and continues to keep them down?

I just pray that we move into a different way of being, that what all the new age astrologers say about entering a new stage of awarness in consciousness is true. I pray that my idealism of equality and even distribution of wealth across the world will one day no longer be a hope but a reality. I pray that if there is a God or karma or some similar force, it will wash over the world like a mighty stream, filling the empty pockets of despair scattered across the landscape with the rich clay of the hillsides and sparkling abundant rocks of the mountains to even out the playing field.

5/29/17

It’s hard to describe my new love for Dulles International Airport. Usually when I fly to DC, I prefer Regan National. It is smaller, easy to navigate, and in the middle of the city. But going to Dulles is a different experience that I cherish.
Airports are a liminal space between worlds. They are a transient place created by those that are occupying it only at that time. And those occupants give it its defining characteristics, but only temporarily. But that feeling of nonpermance is constant.

Walking into the building from the curbside drop-off, I am instantly aware that this is a place with characteristics not existing in my everyday life. The 1/4 mile radius of space surrounding me is filled with the entire spectrum of human skin tones.

Ahh, I can breathe a sigh of relief. I feel at home.
My favorite game that I play inside my head is “Persian or not?” I always love when I overhear people speaking Farsi. A lot of times, Persians are not the most friendly people when they encounter each other out in the normal world. This should be explored in a series of other blogposts. But even still, hearing Farsi spoken by strangers is music to my ears, like a sweetly sung lullaby. And even before people speak, I love to try to pick out the Persians. It’s a game I am very good at.
My second favorite game to play by myself is to try to guess which country people are from either by their appearance or by their language. I usually can’t verify my claims, so I think I am very good at that game too. 
The term liminality was coined by one of my anthropolgy professors and her husband, Victor and Edith Turner. It is a temporary and fluid space created between two more permanent realities. One reason that this is so important for social anthropologists is that this place of uncertainty and malleability gives rise to new creations and ways of being, new social structures and instructions. 
As an immigrant, I feel constantly stuck in a liminal space between two more concrete structures, Iranian on one side, American on the other. Maybe the airport gives me a sense of solace because I see there are others like me. Do they struggle the same way I do? Do they need to alter or even hide pieces of themselves to be able to live comfortably on one side of the world. Do they also have issues with feeling a sense of safety, understanding, and belonging? Is the airport the closest we can get to that feeling of home?

Again, something new is supposed to emerge from the place of in between. And those of us that immigrated at a young age are in that perpetual inbetween stage. But maybe others have created a new world that takes the good from both sides and gave that merger a foundation with walls, a roof, a fireplace, and kitchen table. I feel like mine looks like a house that was bombed where I scavenge through the rubble strewn about to figure out how to put my blender back together.

2/6/17

What is an American? This might be a deeper part of my constant question of where is home. Is an American someone who believes in the Constitution? Is an American someone who was born on American soil? Is an American someone who has become an American citizen? Is an American someone who eats hot dogs and celebrates the Fourth of July?

My answer is the same as it was to the question of home. I don’t know.

Am I American? I don’t know. I became a citizen when I was 7 when my parents became citizens. I wasn’t born in America. I am ESL, but I don’t have an accent. I don’t agree with everything that was written in the Constitution. I don’t like celebrating the Fourth of July. I don’t believe America is the greatest country on earth. I believe all people of this earth are one. I don’t celebrate Christmas or Thanksgiving. I am not a Christian. My skin is not white. But I do love hot dogs and I definitely love burgers. I miss certain things about America when I am abroad and I wish some things were different when I am in America.

A couple of years ago, I was talking to one of my friends about how I felt like I was an underachiever and a fraud. I felt like I figured out how to beat the system and that was how I did so well in school. I felt like I got into a top college because of Affirmative Action. I felt like I didn’t really own my house because my dad helped me buy it. I felt like I owned my own business but I didn’t do a good job with it. I was not smart, I was not talented, and I was not successful. She then told me about imposter syndrome.

Simply stated, imposter syndrome is when a highly achieving individual attributes their achievements to luck rather than ability. She told me it was very common among minorities. Her words resonated with me and in that moment, I felt like the past 3 decades of my life all made sense. I spent so much of my life feeling like an imposter, a fake.

Am I a fake, an imposter posing as an American? I know that I have spent most of my life feeling like I didn’t belong. But do most people feel that way? Don’t most women feel that way because of body image issues? Don’t most teenagers feel that way as they traverse their school years? Do most alternative medicine healers like myself feel that way in the medical field? Do I have all of that plus the added factor of being an immigrant?

I don’t know what it means to be an American. In the past week, there has been an outpouring of love and acceptance to counter the rhetoric of hate towards and dismissal of immigrants in America. It feels good to be seen by others in that way. It feels good to have people say “You belong.” But I don’t know if I do. I feel like an outsider.

After 33 years in this country, I feel like I am finally seeing me. But the image is not clear. I am trapped inside of the house with locked doors and windows. I can only see out and observe the neighboring houses. I know my house is different because it doesn’t feel like how I would imagine the other houses to feel. But for a second in my heart, I caught a glimpse of what my house looks like in comparison to the others on the street. Its like I had access to google street view and they came and snapped pictures on the day when the garden was getting overgrown by weeds, the Japanese maple was spilling over the fence and blocking the view, the forsythia was limiting space on the sidewalk, the cherry tree was branching in all different directions and starting to cover the roof. It looked like a mess.

And compared to the neat and orderly houses next to it, it did not belong.

2/3/17

I am Iranian. I am a refugee. I am an American citizen.

For the first time in my life, I feel completely devoid of home.

For years in my adult life, I felt like I was walking a line between two cultures. As the years went by and the place of my birth sunk deeper and deeper into my past, I felt more settled in America, my new home. My fervent desire to keep the culture within my blood alive lessened. My constant effort to surround myself with Iranian immigrants reflecting my own experience diminished. I began to accept myself as American, a melding of cultures, and it was beginning to look beautiful. I began to see myself as American, a conglomeration of different ideas not beholden to a culture or sets of values that was centuries old. I felt fresh and unencumbered by the burden of history.

This was until my last trip overseas just a few weeks ago. Unexpectedly, I was overcome by a feeling of instability. I was sideswiped and felt like my foundation crumbled. I envied the multiculturalism of Europe. I relished in being just one color in a sea of different shades. I found solace being such a small piece in a rich and diverse fabric of millions of people. I started to question my seemingly ordinary life back in Portland.

Interestingly enough, Trump’s travel ban went into effect on the same day as my reentry in the United States. I did not think much of it at first because I had a US passport. I am US citizen, I thought smugly. As the days went by, I read more and more hateful anti-immigrant comments online. And after 33 years of living in America, it finally hit me. And it hit me fully. It hit me in my entire being, my body and soul. I am an outsider.

Even though this land does not belong to the whites, it has become the land of the whites. And I am not white. In my 33 years here, I have never to the best of my knowledge personally experienced any outward racism. This is new to me. My insides are still getting rearranged in this aftermath and I am not able to fully describe how this has effected me. All I know is that I can only cry. I cry for myself and my lack of feeling at home. I cry for other refugees who have experienced much worse conditions than I have. I cry for children that have lost their families. I cry for mothers whose children were killed. I cry for fathers who watched as their hopes and dreams were bombed. I cry for people who fled to save their lives and then were turned away.

I cry for anyone who felt like they weren’t welcomed. It’s awful to feel so desperate and have nowhere to go.

1/28/17

I have begun my journey back.

I still have one more stop before I return to my home in Portland but today I start my descent back to the US. I feel like so much time has passed. I feel like I have experienced so much that is hard to express. And even though I am beyond happy to see my sweet pup, Ella, I don’t feel like I want to go back. I feel an emptiness inside with the thought of being back.

I have been in Portland for 13 years. That is longer than I have been in any other place. I lived in Iran for 5, VA Beach for 12, and Charlottesville for 8. For that reason, I felt like Portland was my home.

But what is home? Is it where the house that I own is? Is it where my parents are? Is it where I have the most friends?

There are so many things that I love about Portland that are hard to find in other places. There have been so many times on this trip where I have felt how lucky I am to live in the States. They are usually for things like lack of litter, care for dogs and cats, importance of local and sustainable foods. These are not small things. I really appreciate these kinds of priorities in America. But the lack of diversity is getting increasingly hard for me. The lack of tolerance for and even fear of different cultures and languages is disheartening. The lack of exposure to the millions of different perspectives and ways of life is deadening to me inside. It’s like America is becoming a monocrop. I don’t want to be in a melting pot. I want to be in a salad bowl.

So where is my home? I don’t know. I am still looking for it. I lost it somewhere along the way.

 

 

 

1/27/17

Walking on the stone sidewalks along the Seine River in Paris, I can’t help but think of the many feet that have been here before me. Throughout the centuries, there have been millions of people where I have stepped. And each one with their own story, stories of love and betrayal, stories of conquests, war, and famine, stories of the deeply devout and those of the faithless. There have been celebrations and heartaches. And these don’t belong to just the native French, but to the immigrants, the invaders, and those that are only passing through. So much history has happened within these city borders. Paris is a 2000 year old city where for half of that time, it’s been a cultural capital attracting visitors far and wide.

I am overcome by the heaviness of all of those lives that once walked but are no longer here. I am overwhelmed by the grief of knowing that their names and stories have long been forgotten, but whose descendants still run and frolick free. At the sculptures in the Gardens of Trocadero facing the Eiffel Tower, I am reminded of the picture of my mom and her mom at this same place on one of their visits to Paris.

My grandmother, a woman I had never met but who had so much influence in the way that I look and act, once stood in this same area, possibly even this same spot. She too looked up at the magnificence of the Eiffel Tower and did she feel the same grandeur as me? I wonder what she was like then, a divorcee and a widow, with two girls in tow, buying the latest Parisian fashions and bringing them back to Iran for resale. Did she have fears of the future? Was she anxious about being able to provide for her kids? Did she have trouble sleeping at night? Did she have pain in her feet and knees after walking these Paris streets?

They say a person dies twice, once when their physical body stops functioning and then when their name is mentioned for the last time. Anise Khanoom, thank you for the gifts and blessings that are my life.

1/25/17

Today my parents and I leave who is left of our family in Ankara. Afterwards, my parents and I part ways. Only those of us who live outside of Iran do not know when we will see the others next. The others see each other on a daily or weekly basis. We are the ones that went abroad. We are the immigrants.

There is a feeling within some political and social groups and some of the media, that immigrants are eagerly trying to migrate to the country in question. In some ways that is true. Some people have no path for economic growth due to their government’s position within the world’s economic system of which they have no control. They need to support themselves and their families. Some people are escaping war and slaughter sometimes due in some part to the big world powers. Again, they have no control. So yes, they are eager to leave whatever awful conditions they are in. But it is not without reservation. 

They must leave a place that has familiar  sounds and smells. They must leave the traditions, customs, and language they know. They must leave their home.

I don’t think most people would eagerly leave their homeland if they didn’t have to.

Then they get thrown into an unfamiliar world, a stranger in a strange land. It’s already difficult to leave your home and enter a foreign land scared and alone, but then they must deal with the stigmatism of being an immigrant. They must deal with people sometimes saying demeaning things, or being rude or racist to their face. We immigrants must develop thick skin. 

I can definitely say that I have never been treated with anything less than respect when I have travelled in developing countries. Here in Turkey, I did not know the language nor did I even try to learn (I felt very typically American) but no one was ever rude about it. They always tried to help me. Ankara is not a tourist city and most people do not know English. Despite the huge language barrier, they were always patient, always tried to help, and always tried to get me to understand what they were saying. I got phone numbers in case I needed help with anything. I got business cards for me to come back and visit their establishments. I never felt discriminated against.

Most people did not know where I was from but they knew I spoke English. Maybe it was obvious I was from the US. I don’t know. Maybe it would have been different if I was a Syrian refugee since unfortunately, there is much discrimination within the Middle East. I don’t know. But I know that even though I was not white skinned, I was a foreigner and it didn’t matter to them. 

Due to the terrorist attacks within this past year, there is increased security in Ankara. When entering the airport, they check your luggage right away and have metal detectors. And that is just the first round. There is additional baggage checks and passport checks along the way. When entering the shopping mall, there are guards and metal detectors. All indoor public places have guards or metal detectors to walk through. This what happens in a country whose government is not heavily lobbied by gun enthusiasts. 

Before coming to Turkey, I was definitely scared for my safety given this past year’s events and all of the unrest surrounding Syria. But once I arrived, my fears melted anyway. Not only did I not see any signs of violence, but I felt so safe with all of the additional metal detectors and security personnel. I don’t know the statistics, but I bet I have a higher chance of getting killed by a gun in the US than here.

1/22/17

Today was a sad day. It was a feeling that I knew all too well. It’s a feeling of deep loss mixed with helplessness. It’s a feeling of regret, guilt, and a yearning for what could have been all wrapped into one. Today was the day that half of our 13 adult 2 children family unit left. Slowly over the next couple of days, others will trickle away back to their everyday lives.

On our way to our family reunion in Ankara, my parents and I had a layover in Munich. There we accidentally ran into my cousin who was flying in from Helsinki. My cousin was in his early 20’s. Like his sisters, he was someone who knew my dad, had his pictures up, and would talk to him regularly. But they had never met. I could see the tears well up in my father’s eyes as they hugged.

In 1980, my father fled Iran. In 1979, there had been a revolution and Iran subsequently got involved in the Iran Iraq war that lasted about a decade. There are many theories about the reasons behind the revolution and the war. Maybe in 50 years, classified documents will be leaked and the real reasons will be revealed.  But in the meantime, I can only speak about what I know.

It is no secret, that the US had a lot of interest and influence in Iran starting from Mossadegh’s time in the 50’s. The Middle East is an oil rich region and between the US, Great Britian, and The Soviet Union there has been no rest for its inhabitants as the superpowers try to establish a stronghold in the area.

It is my understanding that the Iranian Revolution in the late 70’s and the Iran-Iraq war that quickly followed, pertained more to the fight for power between the US and the Soviets following the Cold War. There is so much to learn about the area from that time period and I do not pretend that it can be that simplistic, but in my opinion, US and Soviet relations are the main reason for the unrest that spread through all of the Middle East at that time.

My dad was a Captain in the Iranian Imperial Air Force under the Shah. When the Shah seceded and the Islamic State took over, military personnel had a couple of options: convert to the new regime and risk being killed in the senseless Iran Iraq war, flee and risk being killed en route through the dangerous mountains of southern Iran, or stay put and risk being killed because he worked for the Shah. As one of the few F-4 fighter jet pilots of that time, he was well known by the Shah and within his family. That was reason enough to be killed.

In the middle of some night in 1980, my dad fled. His story of the days that followed proved to be chilling and one miracle after another. Within a short amount of time, he managed to gain political asylum in the US. He was a political refugee and over the next couple of years, he worked in bringing my mom and I to the US. It was not an easy couple of years for us, but by the summer of 1983, the three of us were reunited in the States.

But sadly as a result, my dad can not go back while the Islamic Republic of Iran is still in power. For 37 long years, he has not seen his homeland. There were so many nieces and nephews and grand nieces that he never saw. He wasn’t able to see his dad while he was bed ridden at the end of his life. He wasn’t able to rush his mother the emergency room when she got sick and died. He wasn’t able to attend their funerals and the other ceremonies Persian culture has for helping the grieving. But I pray one day he’s able to visit their graves.

1/21/17

It’s interesting that I spent the first day of Trump’s presidency learning about the great revolutionary achievements of Turkey’s first President, Atatürk. As millions worldwide marched in protest of Trump and in support of the marginalized groups in America and their rights, I was protesting in my own way. I was in awe and being inspired.

Here was a man that had a vision for his country. He wanted his people to rise, stand tall, and succeed. He did no campaigning, there was no empty rhetoric, and he was described as humble the entire time.

Atatürk freed his country from the oppression of different European powers following WWI. Previously they were under Islamic control with the monarchy of the Ottoman Empire. At around the age of 40, he fought for the independence of the Turks and established the Republic of Turkey.

Here was a man that cared for his people. He reformed and modernized the education system. He reformed and modernized and improved their alphabet. He reformed and modernized their political system and even encouraged multi-party elections. He established equal rights for women. This is just a snippet of the ways he revolutionized his country.

In the end, he ignited a spirit of pride and unity among his people. He was an exemplified leader and well respected and liked by many heads of state. Reza Shah emulated his ideas of reform and instilled his policies when he took control of Iran around the same time.

There is much I do not know about Atatürk and Reza Shah or about the histories of Turkey and Iran from that time. But I can’t help but feel the kinship between these two men. They shared the same vision for building up their people, unveiling their rich history, and taking pride in the beauty of their culture but at the same time keeping up with the changing tides of the modern world. They were more interested in advancing their countries than their own personal gains.

I can’t help but wonder how things would be different had their successors shared their progressive visions and their respective countries were not assaulted greedily by foreign powers for the decades that followed. The Middle East is a special and very complicated place. Like other parts of the world, it has had its period in the limelight as the most powerful region. Sadly that time of power has passed and as promising as the earlier part of the last century looked, there was not a resurgence.

So I am here today, the first day of “Trump’s America,”painfully aware of the rise and fall of powerful countries and regions. I am aware of a political narrative that expands centuries. I am aware of the multitude of incompetent or narrow minded and self interested leaders that many countries had to endure. But I am also aware of the sprinkling of just, more altruistic leaders that brought real change, hope, and growth to their people.

Today I celebrate them.

1/19/17

I forgot about the beauty of the Muslim call to prayer echoing through the slowly awakening streets. It’s 7am and the sun is just beginning its ascent. The streets are still dark and quiet. The foreign but familiar words ring through the stillness and settle into my being.

It’s interesting. Islam has had a negative connotation for me for most of my life. Being the child of a revolution and a political refugee, I would blame Islam as the reason for being ousted from my home. The Iranian adults that were in similar situations to us in the 80’s always had plenty of negative things to say about the Islamic political leaders that took over Iran. But as a child, I didn’t differentiation between religion and politics.

As a child, I didn’t know that adults could say one thing and do another. I didn’t know that adults could use a religion as a means to gain political power. I didn’t know that adults could be so corrupt and self serving in their interpretation of a religion to use it to control masses of people. I didn’t know that adults could hide behind religion as an excuse to kill each other. 

Especially today admidst the post 9-11 War on Terror world and its terrorist attacks and its rhetoric, it’s hard to separate the two. I have to admit that even for me, a child born in a Muslim country, a child born with the prayers of Islam whispered in her ear and her Islamic name etched into her own copy of the Koran, a child born that grew up to study major religions and anthropology and began her own study and experience of Islam, it is hard. It is hard not to have the beauty of a religion tainted by the media and fear inducing language of politicians. 

As an adult, I have the conscious ability to  not believe certain things and see through propaganda. But just like in the court room when a lawyer deliberately says something suggestive that is deemed dismissive and stricken from the record, it can not be unheard by the jury. I do my best to undo years of words of hate towards Islam by Iranian political refugees and years of words of hate and fear by American media, politicians, and citizens. It is work to undo something, like trying to take out a stain on your white shirt or trying to unravel the knots in your earbud cord. It requires a constant tending to. But I still try. In my mind, I do my best  to clean and polish a religion that like most religions holds the sacred and spiritual union with God as its central root. 

1/17/17

It’s already beginning. From the minute we drove up to departures at Dulles airport, it was a sea of brown and a chorus of intonations. There were so many different countries, different perspectives, different life experiences being represented in such a small space. I could feel my excitement build.

As I went through ticketing and security with my parents and we were among others speaking different languages, I felt like we were walking through a passageway. It was like we were entering  a portal into a different time and space where English is spoken as a 2nd, 3rd, or even 4th language and usually with a heavy accent, where life has a different flow, where streets are alive and vibrant admidst economic hardship.

My heart is heavy. I wish I was going to Iran, but I am not. I am going very close instead, to the bordering country of Turkey, a country that is so different but yet so similar, a country that has a shared history filled with shared empires, culture, ethnic groups.

I am excited to be close to a place where my heart feels at home, where I can fully exhale, where my spirit feels light. But as is my lot in this life, I will be so close to that feeling but not fully there.

Throwback 2

Traveling day 11/29/16
Flying at 30,000 feet above the earth, above the cotton ball clouds and with the blue expansive sky surrounding me, I feel like I can breathe. Usually when I fly, it feels surreal, as if I am looking down at a picture or watching something on tv. But today, I don’t feel like just a spectator. I can feel the reality of being above the world below. The world seems so much bigger from here. The little people with their stress seems minuet. Minuet but not trivial. Everyone feels like they are the center of their world and their issues are important. That is true. Their issues are important. But from up here, I feel how all of this, the expansive sky, the rising and setting of the sun, the existence of clouds, all of it will go on no matter what happens 30,000 feet below. 

It doesn’t matter if I don’t have enough money for my credit card bill this month. It doesn’t matter if I’m happy or sad or my body is in pain. It doesn’t matter if I can heal my parents or that I was uprooted from my family so many years ago. It doesn’t matter if I die today. This universe will still go on. 

Realizing that and being up here, surrounded by expansiveness, I can take a huge breath of relief. The world is not dependent on me. I don’t hold it on my shoulders. I have no obligation to keep things running. Something else is in charge and it’s not me. What a relief.

Throwback 1

Thanksgiving break 2016
It’s 3am. As I lay in the guest room of my parents home, I am reminded of all the people that have slept in this room throughout the years. Zenatjoon, my grandmother. Babajoon, my grandfather. Khale Iran, my great aunt. Amu Reza, my uncle. I am sure even Rosy has snuck up here a couple of times. All of them are no longer living. 

I think about how my dad’s arms and shoulders have become exactly like how my grandfathers were. I think about how when my dad was sitting on the couch leaning on the arm rest with his face resting in his open palm, staring out deep in thought was exactly what my grandfather used to do. I wonder if my mother’s mom had not died before I was born, would I see those similarities in her now? I have already noticed how my feet are starting to resemble her feet. Even the bunion on my right foot is exactly like hers. I wonder if we both have my grandmother’s feet. And whose were those feet before her?

Earlier today, I stared at my grandmother’s pictures. There are only a few. And other than the stories that I glean out of my mom and other relatives, pictures are my only way to get to know her. I stared deeply to see if I could see my mom, if I could see me. It’s intersting. Over the last couple of years, people have been saying how much I look like my mom. No one used to say that before. When I was younger and people say my mom and I together, they thought I was adopted. But I see how I am now turning into her. 

Was it because I was still taking shape? The clay was still trying to mold. The potter was kneading and adding water, shaping and reshaping and I expanded and contracted, and now it’s time to put me into my mold. A mold that is centuries old. 

Why will I never know? Why did she and others before her die? Why did my other grandparents and relatives and dog that I knew so well have to die? This is not fair, it is not right. I understand that we are born juvenile and we grow and blossom and mature. Why can’t that growing, that aging, that falling apart not happen? Why can’t it stop at a certain point. Forever 38. That would be a perfect age to stop at. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that we have to say goodbye. It’s not fair that there are people that we are shaped after, people that were integral in forming us that we will never know. 

I become overwhelmed by incredible sadness. I instantly have a very familiar feeling in my chest. Somehow my chest feels both heavy and completely empty at the same time. I don’t know how to describe it other than it feels suffocating. I can only cry to release the pain and tension. 

I lay there, warm tears running down my face into my ears. What do I do? I miss them, my heart aches.

I think of my breath, The only thing I have control over. I try to focus on my breath.

I remember a conversation with my dad from earlier that day. He asked if its better to inhale from your nose or your mouth. I said nose because that’s what we usually do in meditation. He said he’s been experimenting and you can take in so much more air with your mouth. I open my mouth and try to take a deep breath and fill up my entire chest. He was right.

2/11/12

Iran is a like a cage. And it is filled with heartache. It is filled with potential that will never come into being. It is filled with longing for simple pleasures like being able to choose what to wear and what website to visit. It is filled with the desire to choose what career to have, to travel abroad for school or vacations, to know that you can work hard and be able to provide for your family, to be able to use your education and intellect to it’s fullest capacity.

But the iron rods are thick and close to impossible to cut through. The blanket of despair draping the cage is heavy. What is fairness? For this is not fair. I have escaped along with millions of others, but what about the other 80 million people who are forced to live a life dictated by the government? I leave Iran and go back to a life that I sometimes take for granted, but what about those that I leave behind?

What do you do with a cage that is rusting away in front of your eyes? How do you tend to the ailing canaries inside who no longer have the strength or desire to sing their song? How do you cure a plague that has been running rampant for 33 years?

2/5/12

Even though I sit amidst all of the chaos taking place in the Middle East, those of you reading this in the States probably know more about what is currently going on around me than I do. In Iran, the internet and news agencies are heavily censored.  

The one year anniversary of Tahrir Square, the escalating violence in Syria, the continued conflict spreading through Bahrain, Yemen, Pakistan, Iraq, and Afghanistan all have less air time on Iranian news stations than the latest round of soccer games and the inches of snow that have fallen on Tehran and northern Iran. I know more about the occupy protesters in America, those that have died due to the cold in Europe, and the lantern festival of Taiwan than I do about the neighboring countries.  

The anniversary of the 1979 Iranian revolution is this weekend, Feb 11th. The streets and televisions are littered with Islamic and anti-west propaganda and  footage of the 1979 revolution used to emphasize the brutality of the Shah’s regime and mourning for the martyrs that died in the protests. I wonder what the effect of these images really is. I wonder if it will backfire when Iranians compare these protest images to those from the 2009 elections. I wonder if it conjures up feelings of regret instead of victory. I wonder if Iranians feel ashamed of replacing their reputation of class, education, and progressive thinking with that of close-mindedness, disorder, and religious fanaticism. The sermon of this last week’s Friday prayers was given by the Supreme Leader of Iran, Khamenei where he constantly criticized America. He said that a war with Iran would be detrimental to the infrastructure of America and that Iranians are not scared because the protests across the Middle East have proved that the people choose Islam, that the Arab Spring is an Islamic revolution.  

But people aren’t listening. They are more concerned with the rise of the dollar against the Iranian currency. They are more concerned about the doubling price of bread than the threat of global Zionism. They are more concerned about their wages and the future of their children than the spread of Islamic ideals and it’s proposed influence on all of humanity.

They don’t care about the religious rhetoric and most have no respect for the government leaders. They don’t buy into America and Israel as the enemies and they don’t chant “death to” anything. Yes, the American government has done plenty of deplorable things in Iran and the Middle East that does not go unnoticed. But the average Iranian would not be ready to go to war for the sake of defending Islam. Most Iranians are very nationalistic and not necessarily religious.

2/1/12

Our Iran is a place where facebook, youtube, this webblog site, wordpress, and even the website for Vafa, Iran’s first animal shelter, is blocked. It is a place where my cousin goes to a birthday party that has both men and women of all ages mixed together, but the police get notified and arrest all the people. She spends 4 days in jail where the authorities succeed in striping her of every ounce of self-esteem and sanity she had. She awaits her court date which could be months away where her sentence will most likely be 80 lashes and 3 months of jail. The lashes she may be able to buy for $10 a lash but not the jail time. All the while, she is unable to leave the country even though she has her green card.

Our Iran is a place where the conduct police raid a home with mixed men and women and rape the women in front of their husbands. Our Iran is a place where an engineer who has been working for a company for years hasn’t been paid for the last 3 months, forcing him to borrow money for his bills. Our Iran is a place where the anniversary of the revolution of 1979 is celebrated by emphasizing the 10 days of “agony” prior to the regime change and mourning the deaths of the soldiers that died for this freedom. It is a place where any opportunity for success or happiness is dimunitized or crushed completely. Our Iran is a place where most of the young people dream of going abroad just to be able to have normal job and social life.

From what I have seen, most people don’t want to leave a place that is home. They don’t want to be far from their families, They don’t want to leave their friends and what is familiar to them. But this is not living. This is not what people want out of life. This is not what brings joy to people. But this is our Iran.

1/31/12

I am falling out of love with Iran. The internet connection is painfully slow. All of the streets are in a state of decay, with crumbling sidewalks, fallen pieces of buildings and cracks in the walls. It feels like a house that has been sitting empty, untouched for 30 years. There is a film of dirt and soot on every surface. Trash litters every curbside, every ditch, and even every bend of the river that once made the town an oasis. People walk with scowls on their face, not apologizing for hitting your car with their ladder as they walk by. The attention to detail and appreciation for beauty that I attribute to centuries of jasmine and rose gardens surrounding ponds and fountains is lost in the hopeless emptiness of everyday life.

But on the contrary, I am falling in love more and more with my family, those living and those that have passed. I have heard stories of aunts and uncles, of great aunts and uncles, of grandparents, great grandparents, and even great great grandparents. I have heard stories of Iran in the 60’s and 70’s when extended families would spend entire summers together in vacation homes on the Caspian. I have heard about the weddings and funerals that would gather more than a hundred family members and would last for days. I have heard about the ease of life that would allow for family members to spend time together and actually get to know each other. It was a different time and it was a different Iran.

1/29/12

The emptiness is thick.

The garden walls and tangerine trees have witnessed another death, an end to a generation, an end to a collection of beautiful poetry, of stories spanning from the beginning of time to my grandfather’s life, of advice on love and life, of ruminations on the purpose and meaning of life. I remember my grandfather once telling me how we spend so much of our life filled with regret. I am now living in those moments. There are so many more questions for me to ask him, so many more poems for him to interpret, so many more stories for him to tell. I didn’t get to ask him about his uncles or his childhood in Tehran. I didn’t ask him about his wedding or about the birth of any of his children. I never asked him if he met Mossadegh or what happened when he was arrested for being a leader in his nationalistic movement. There are so many details about his life that I want to know and more importantly that I want him to know that I care about. I didn’t get to recite the poems that I had been memorizing for him. I didn’t get to show him my hands that I had been moisturizing everyday because he would tell me that they were too rough. I didn’t get to hold his hands in mine for the last time.

He would also always say how two hearts have a path to each other, that even though we are not sitting next to each other or speaking with each other, that our hearts are connected. This connection defies space and time. And I hope that it also defies life and death.

1/26/12

As my time in Sweden comes to an end, my eagerness to get to Iran dwindles. Am I ready to make this venture? Am I ready to put on that armor and fight my way through lines and pretend that I am a lot tougher than I really am? Am I ready to face the reality of my grandfather’s passing, to experience that emptiness, like a suspenseful story with no climax?

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.

1/19/12

The Amsterdam airport has become a familiar place over the years. On my trips to Iran and back, Amsterdam is my usual layover city. E2 is the gate. Today when I got off the plane and entered through E2, my heart skipped a beat. I looked around for other Iranians sitting at the gate but saw none. At that moment I truly felt a loss, a heaviness in my heart. I realized how the airport and that gate in particular represents a liminal space for me, my transition into and out of another piece of me.
Today I felt my loss even greater because I wasn’t heading directly to Iran. I have a week long training in Sweden beforehand. Even though I have been looking forward to this training and know it will be healing for me in many ways, I felt eager to get to Iran. I felt eager to get to a place which is the most familiar and yet so foreign, a place that opens my heart and unites with my soul and yet makes me feel like an outsider.

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

1/18/12

One by one, people and beings I love drop from my world
One by one, the years go by as I lessen my grip on what I dreamt my life to be
One by one, the tears fall from my face and are swept by the wind like leaves on a cold dark empty street

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.

12/23/10

My trip to Iran has ended. I now sit in my home back in Portland where everything is the same as it was before I left. It is hard to believe that just over 24 hours ago that I was on the streets of Tehran, walking amongst the hippest dressed men and most beautiful well-dressed and made-up women. I was part of the chaos of the streets filled with cars, buses, motorcycles, taxis, bikes, and pedestrians all trying to squeeze on the same road, doing what they each want to do without hitting or hurting each other.
i usually don’t consider myself a city person. In the states, I prefer a quieter small town or country setting. But Tehran makes my heart dance. I love being out in the street, smelling fresh bread on every corner, hearing all different types of music from cars, getting fresh squeezed juice, and crossing paths with so many different kinds of people. Tehran is a beautiful city.

mid-day prayers:

bakery:

12/22/10

Iran is a country with two calendars. Each calendar represents a different lifestyle and ideology, sometimes conflicting. This is a representation of the inner conflict of the modern Iranian person. The first calendar is one from ancient Persia with solar months named after Zorastrian gods and symbols. It uses the equinoxes and solstices as its markers and is filled with many celebrations connected to the natural cycle of the year. The other is the Islamic religious calendar. It is a lunar calendar with holidays focused on different events from the Quran, usually tragic. Sometimes these calendars clash, as was the case this week. Yesterday was the Winter Solstice, or Yalda in Persian tradition. It is a celebration of the return of the sun, as the daylight hours begin to increase the following day and has been celebrated in Iran for over 2000 years. It has become tradition to gather with family, spending the longest night of the year eating pomegranates, sesame candy, and watermelon kept from the last of summer. But most importantly, people read from the poetry of the great Persian poet, Hafiz, using his ancient wisdom to make divinations for the following year. It is a festive holiday.

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.

12/16/10

The night air was crisp and the darkness translucent. The half moon hung brightly in the western sky with Venus, the evening star, settled underneath. The outline of the mountains surrounding my grandfather’s town and the nearby towns could be clearly seen with their snow capped tops. I closed the garden gates, venturing outside, to follow the sound of the mourners’ song echoing through the valley.
Many different mosques in the region have been holding ceremonies the last couple of nights in honor of the holy month of Moharram. Moharram is a mourning month observing the death of Imam Hossein. Ashura and Tasua are the two peak days of the ceremonies. Tonight was Tasua, the day Hossein and his 73 traveling companions were denied water. To commemorate, different mosques gather their people to grieve. There is a procession of men, all dressed in black, hitting themselves with chains or with their hands. Their ritual is choreographed to the mourning song emanating from the loudspeaker, rippling through the night air.
I start walking into the town, keeping my ears tuned to the sorrowful song. The streets are almost vacant, just small groups of guys hanging out in pockets or driving around. I have to be careful not to get harassed. After walking to the other end of the town of Shirgah, I find myself walking up the mountain to the neighboring town. I have found the mourners. Different groups come from different mosques to visit each other. Each procession is followed by their wives, mothers, daughters, friends. The mosques give out food for the participates, their families, or anyone in need.
One of the visiting processions is leaving the mosque, but the “home” procession is still going strong. I make my way through the crowd, trying very hard not to touch any of the men. I pull myself up onto some stairs and pull out my camera. I notice one of the young boys next to me looking at me in disbelief but with a smile. I look around and see a sea of men surrounding me, dressed in black, and there I am a woman, with my white headscarf. I try to pretend that I know exactly what I am doing and that i meant to be there. I watch the mourners, my heart pulsing to the beat of their drums.

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:

12/15/10

I love to hear to hear the sound of the azan, the call to prayer.

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.

12/14/10

Grief is an undisguised component of Persian culture. It is also very strong in the Islamic religion and thus perhaps the entire Middle East. A couple of days before I arrived in my grandfather’s town, three young men in their late twenties, newly married with young children, were killed in a car accident. The rumor was that it was such a bad accident that they were practically unidentifiable. Their pictures have been plastered through out the town, in shop windows, in cars, on billboards. Everywhere you go in this town and the next one over, you are reminded of their deaths and of the families they left behind. There is no shame in revealing the ugly face of tragedy. It is in plain view for everyone to try to swallow as they fill their car up with gas or chit chat with shopkeepers.

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.

12/13/10

I am beginning to see that one of the most important roles of family is to keep you humble. You can count on them to tell you that you’ve gained weight, that your hair is gray and thinning, that you need to take better care of your skin, that you are getting too old to have children, that your medicine will not be widely accepted in your lifetime, that you would make more money as a regular doctor, etc…Yup, I feel pretty humbled after spending an afternoon talking over tea and seeing everyone for the first time in 2 years. Even though Persian culture is filled with formalities and good manners, it is no holds barred within close family. I guess you have to count on someone to give you a reality check every once in awhile.

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.

12/12/10

Yesterday I spooned my grandfather. Out of all the blankets in the house, he prefers my baby blanket, the one I had to begrudgingly leave behind when we left almost 30 years ago. It doesn’t fully cover him, but he curls up underneath it, making himself easily spoonable. A once strong and authoritative Iranian man whose word was the law of the house now lays in his bed for hours, pressed against the heater for warmth. Feeble, tired, and sometimes scared, he now only wants what we all desire on the deepest level, the touch and love of our loved ones.

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.”

12/11/10

Last night, I made Jello and chocolate chip cookies with Crisco. I have never done either of these things nor have I ever imagined that I would do such a thing in my life. But here in Iran, I just go with the flow and try not to think about these things. I try not to think about the quality of the water and how it leaves a film on my hair and skin, of how it feels like I just came out of the ocean, or how it leaves thick sediment in the tea kettle, or how it has a strong flavor and odor. I try not to think about the trucks that pass leaving you in a cloud of thick smoke that settles on the oranges and tangerines in the garden and on the patio furniture. I try not to think about the air pollution in Tehran that was so bad that it closed down the city of 8 million people barring driving and killing over 2,000.  I try not to think about the trash that is strewn on the side of the road laden with plastics and household chemicals as the shepherd brings in his flock of sheep and goats or as the neighborhood chickens and cats pick through the rubbish. No, I can’t think about any of this.

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.

12/10/10

I am making it a goal to get fresh bread every morning by myself until I feel completely comfortable doing it and I get it right. So far I have been twice. The first time, I stood in the wrong line and waited unnecessarily too long. This morning, I got the wrong bread because I got rushed and I chose the easy to grab bread that was already packaged. There are four types of bread that Iranians eat. Each bakery only makes one kind of bread. Three of these bakeries are close to our house and each morning I rotate between each one. Everyone has one that they like the most. Tomorrow I will go to my favorite one.

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.

12/9/10

I finally got up early enough to get fresh bread this morning. As I have said before, I think every Iranian exile has fond memories of crowding around the baker’s window to get fresh bread in the morning. I went by myself this morning. I think I could get better at it with time. You have to be thick skinned here in Iran. If you want something, you have to make sure that you go for it. And while this is true, there is definitely a kindness among people. Usually it is reserved for those within the same family or are some how connected to each other. Walking up to the bakery window, I was very apprehensive. Was I ready to fight for three pieces of bread so early in the morning? Even before getting there, was I ready to risk my life crossing the busy street, pushing my way through cars going erratically in both ways, making u-turns and wide turns from every direction? That is what life is like here in Iran. You are a human being, made of flesh and bones, but you are put out on the street with tons of steel and asphalt. Somehow you have to make your fragile body give off an air of strength that matches the cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, etc. so that you can cross the street safely. Otherwise, you will never be able to cross or you get hit. But something that I realized today is that those cars and trucks are not on the street to get me.  The people huddled around the bakery window and the bakers are not out to make sure I don’t get any bread. Everyone is going about their own business. I just have to make sure that I am heard.

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.

12/8/2010

I feel like the time is going by so fast. Even though I spend every waking minute with my grandfather and every minute that he is asleep with other family members, I still feel like it is not enough. We have thirty years of time to make up for. It was thirty years of not going out to the country on a nice day, thirty years of not going to one of their houses for the lunch break if I had to do something close to their house, thirty years of not carpooling back to Tehran at 11pm at night, thirty years of not relishing over the Azizkhani family tangerine favorite. There are so many little things to make up for and yet I know I can never make up for that lost time.

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.

12/6/10 Arrived

It seems that I am getting better at melding my worlds. Every time I fly back to Portland, I look for Mt. Hood and my heart feels relieved once I find it. “Home” I think to myself. When I fly back to Tehran, I look for Mt. Damavand. Again, “home” I think to myself. But arriving in the middle of the night, it was hard for me tell where I was going. I had to keep reminding myself that I was going to Tehran, that I just flew across the world and left my everyday life behind.

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.”

july 5th 2009

For the past week, the streets have been quiet. the police presence is still felt on the streets, though less. but as everyone has been saying, things have changed. fortunately people are finding more and more ways to participate in acts of civil disobedience. there is a lot stirring underground so underneath the heavy cloud of depression and hopelessness, there is creativity being born. i am so proud of my iranian brothers and sisters. this is a true revolution of thought. we might not win in the political arena, but the evolution of consciousness and thought is unstoppable. i am so inspired by what the young people of iran are doing. i have attached two videos of songs made by iranian performers. the first one is from iran the second from america. i am also equally inspired by the amount of support that has poured out for the iranian people. it is such a beautiful thing. yes, with every passing day, i begin to believe more and more how things have changed.

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:

june 26th 2009

it is so beautiful to see Iranians all around the world uniting with protests and vigils in support of the protesters of Iran and in remembrance of those who died. I just got back from one in portland. there was a funeral procession with coffins for those who have died followed by 15 minutes of silence where 100’s of portland Iranians were sitting with their hands holding the peace sign. it was so beautiful. then they played Joan Baez’s song for the Iranian people, “We Shall Overcome” with words in Farsi. it made me cry. this was followed by old nationalistic Iranian songs. at that point my tears were like rivers. these songs are so touching because they are about the country of iran minus politics and religion. in our hearts iran is not about these things. it might be hard to convey this idea to americans because the US is such a young country whose history and image has in a way been defined by its politics. but for Iranians, the name of our home country, ‘vatan’, conjures up a rich history and civilization. It brings the beautiful poetry of Rumi, Hafez, Sadi, it brings the scent of tea, roses, and jasmine flowers, it brings memories of sitting by the caspian sea with your family, it brings the songs of the famous singers–Heideh, Vigen, Dariush, it brings the sound of the tombak and setar. every single iranian at these protests has so much love for iran. i have said before how Iran gets likened to a beautiful woman, so endearing and easily able to sit in your heart. she is the loving mother that is always so respected. but in the last 30 years, another metaphor is used more frequently–that of a caged bird that tries to sing but only cries.

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

June 25th 2009

There seems to have been some protests today in Tehran and other cities namely Kermanshah, Shiraz, Esfahan. But with extremely heavy riot police and basij presence, gathering was almost non-existent. also, anyone seen filming is arrested immediately. i saw one video where the young man was pretending to talk on his cell phone while he was using it to film the rows of police lining the streets. So basically the situation is like this– all foreign media have been expelled, avenues of communication for Iranian citizens have been diminished, their cameras and phones have been confiscated,the outbreak has been blamed on foreign influences, violence has been denied by the government, protests have been completely squashed, and fear has been instilled into the hearts of all the people. All the while, Iranian TV shows blockbuster movies including the entire Lord of the Rings Trilogy. There must be some authoritarian manifesto that outlines the steps to suppress opposition from your own people. And I am sure that all world leaders have read it.

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.”

June 24th in Tehran

foreign involvement in Iran does not sit well with the Iranian people. The first half of the 1900’s saw a lot of resentment against British control of Iran’s oil production. Britian formed the Anglo-Persian Oil Company (APOC) where Iran was only entitled to 16% of the profits.Not only was Britian controlling Iranian oil, but they were strongly influential in the politics and internal affairs. They were responsible for taking the king, Reza Shah, out of power and replacing him with his more agreeable and less nationalistically minded son, Reza Pahlavi. Then came the British and American involvement of the overthrow of the icon of Iranian nationalism, Mossadegh. This overthrow is widely recognized as the CIA’s first attempt to overthrow a foreign leader. The reason for Mossadegh’s overthrow? When the APOC (which had then changed to the AIOC Aglo-Iranian Oil Company) refused Mossadegh’s negotiation of dividing the profits 50/50, he became the leader in forming the National Iranian Oil Company (NIOC). This would have made the oil company strictly run and owned by Iranians. The meddling of Britian and America continued through the decades that followed, where the Shah (Reza Pahlavi) followed in his father’s footsteps by modernizing Iran through opening it up to the west. Events surrounding the revolution of 1978 are still unclear but it is well known in Iranian circles that foreign forces were involved, whether American or Soviet. Something that IS clear is that the Shah refused Carter’s 50 year contract of selling Iranian oil at $8 a barrel and Carter had a idea in place called the “Green Belt” which called for a line of religious governments in the Middle East to ward off Soviet communism. Whatever the case, most of the 1900’s saw a lot of foreign involvement because of Iran’s hot commodity, oil, and it has been well noticed by the Iranian people. So what happens now? Many are disheartened with Obama’s speech yesterday, wanting him to take real action. But this is a delicate situation. On one hand you have a population that is tired of foreign meddling but wants to see real change and on the other hand you have a country, America, that is dependent on Iranian support to bring stability to the region and does not want to rock the boat any further. Of course there is so much more happening behind the scenes with the split between Obama and the right’s adamant push for tough action. Will this just die down or will something really change? As much as i wish i could say it is up to the people, i have to admit that even now it is still in the hands of foreign powers.

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.”

june 22nd protest videos

here are 2 videos from the protest in Tehran at 7-tir square

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.

june 23rd

protests were non-existent, i believe. there has been very little word about anything going on today. it might be because a silent drape has been cast over tehran. phones, cameras, and the internet have lost their ammunition. it is getting more and more difficult to get word out of tehran. so it is hard to know or get images of what happened today, if anything at all. the government is getting really good at monitoring, blocking, and censoring. tomorrow begins the first of three days of mourning for the protesters that have died. that is such a beautiful part of persian culture-remembrance for the dead. but i wish that we had just as good of a memory for history. there are many facets to this comment but one of them is that what the people of iran are fighting for is not new. democracy would be a new occurrence but most of the freedoms that the people want are not new. they had them pre-1978. people could wear what they wanted, go to bars, dance and sing, hold hands, and most importantly be whatever religion they wanted. what was suppressed was political dissidence. that was one of the reasons for the Shah’s downfall. but thank goodness, the current regime does not remember that lesson. they are following the same path and hopefully it will lead to the same end-regime change. but as one of my friends from iran keeps saying is that things need to go slow so that the same mistakes are not repeated. yes, that will lead to more stability and less death, but the momentum for regime change is strong right now. instead of “allahu akbar” (god is great), “marg bar khamenei” (death to khamenei) can be heard from the rooftops at night. if things went slowly, then we all settle for reform within the current system. it is hard to say what the people really want. after 30 years of constriction, censorship, and religious and political propaganda, a lot of people have forgotten that they used to have different lives, that this way of government has not always been the way of governing iran, that this flag has not always been the iranian flag, that what they are fighting for is what they used to have.

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.”

:( more from June 22nd

Update: Monday 8 pm Tehran time

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.

people were also gathering in the koocheh’s [alleyways] off the side of the square too see what was going to happen and if we could gather in one place. there was not just young people, but all kinds of age groups and people from all walks of life. then the police would start coming to an alley where a lot of people were and shout at them to move along/disperse. they would then get aggro and start chasing people down the alleyways, hitting with batons. people would run but then gather in another alleyway… very resilient.

we moved through the various  alleyways too until shouted at to leave. these police are very intimidating. like animals really as u just dont know if they are gonna wack you (which they would). i wanted to take photos of the military presence, but it was way too scary. honestly people who manage to record or take photos are incredibly shoja (brave). then we saw that they had blockaded one alleyway (koocheh mina) and people were getting trapped and beaten up with the batons. there were people on roofs/windows looking so i hope they managed to record some stuff. we moved around the meydoon and streets. after hearing/seeing that they were blockading people in alleys.

we decided it was safer to stay in the main square and move around. over the few hours it was getting busier with protesters, but i think they needed someone like mousavi or another figure so as to gather around him. it was v v difficult to gather.

then we moved to another side of the square and the police started chasing and tear gassing people — it really spreads… and though i wasn’t too close it went up my nose and had a strong burning/stinging sensation. people were now wearing those surgical masks but there eyes were all red. people were lighting cigarettes and blowing the smoke into peoples eyes as it helps get rid of the stinging. i gave several people cigarettes to help and blew smoke into a strangers faces to help them (something i would of course never do!!). then the police started chasing people down a street and smashing windows and following protesters into bldngs which was quite scary (no where is safe then).

we kept moving around the meydoon and streets, as were other people, which were definately in their thousands. people were breaking into sporadic chants of ‘allah akbars’ on the meydoon — which i managed to record.

then around 6 ish we were standing near an alley entrance and the police on motorbikes with batons started chasing us badly. we could only run up the street and they are chasing u on these bikes about 5/6 mtrs away shouting at u to disperse — it is absolutely petrifying. we were running on the sidewalk. they also had whips with them. there were so many of them just riding and shouting at you. then we heard shots and u just don’t know whether they are going to even shoot (as we know they have done before). i am not sure whether it was guns or firecrackers or what but at the time u all think is that it is guns, and that u are about to feel a bullet hit u in the back or something as u run. all i did was run with my hands clasped (like i was praying) and just trying to make eye contact with them so that they could see the sheer fear in my face! then a door opened in the street and some people were ushering us into their garden to hide in there in case the motor police guys came back (honestly there must have been like 50-70 of them chasing us).

we then hid in this grdn for a bit with like 20 or so other people but it really wasn’t the best idea. i thought as i had seen them go into people’s houses and smash doors etc minutes before and then there is no escape for u. so we waited like 10 mins and crept out. it was really quite scary. anyways. let us see what else comes out of the news this evening. i hope no one was killed but i do know pple were beaten up for sure.

also, on another note, i heard (god knows if it was true) that hashemi-rafsanjani has just come from qom with 40 signatures.

more from June 22nd Tehran

Dispatch from Tehran (22 June 2009) 2:45 pm:

“no protests [today] … streets dead … no one dares mess with sepah [IRGC] …

mobilization is the problem.  i’m sure if MILLIONS came out like they did last week, we would outnumber the forces and stand our ground… but with people retreating indoors, parents begging children not to go out, and no center-of-command to rally around, mobilization is virtually impossible…

moussavi had declared three days of public mourning for Saturday’s victims, so perhaps things will pick up after… they can’t keep up martial law indefinitely….

anyway, a lot of older people who lived thru 57 [1978-79 revolution] say this is not over.  they say the protests against the shah started in 42 and it took that many years for the people to topple him, and that today’s version will be quicker… back then there was only bbc radio; now there’s TV and internet and mobiles, so ultimately all this will come to fruition more rapidly …

the important thing is this election fiasco de-masked the IRI for what it truly is. it exposed the internal fissures as deep rifts. showed khameni is willing to kill rather than concede, or even to reform from within the system. flexed the sepah muscle, known to the outside world as a terrorist group, in turning against its own people. ahamdinejad’s reputation is shot to hell. so this was an earthquake really, after 30 long years of stagnation. and the effects won’t fade with a few thousand troops terrorizing the citizenry.”

____________________________________________________________

WATCH OUT!

police/basij are pulling cars over to inspect at checkpoints …
they will seize any cameras along with the owner’s ID card

pls be careful and keep your cameras at home — or well-hidden … !

Note from Tehran, 22 June 2009 (2 pm Eastern): They have cordened off about 20 metres of road in Vanak Square, I was there at 7pm tonight.  They are stopping and searching cars and peoples bags. They are taking peoples ID cards and cameras.

Note from Tehran, 22 June 2009 (8:00 am Eastern):

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!

A friend of mine in Iran said that the Iranian people stand alone. That is one of the saddest things I have heard. It is true. The whole world watches as they go into the streets with their flesh and bones as their weapons. The foreign governments keep a safe distance. This sounds like a familiar scenario-there have already been chants on the streets saying “Iran looks like Palestine.” But there is much much more news coverage of the streets of Iran than there ever have been of Palestine. Though the action is still the same, watching and waiting.

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.

6/22/09

the protests usually start at four everyday usually in a certain square, but with communication heavily impeded, it is getting harder for people to gather. In Iran, text messages spread like rapid fire and people have the ability to send to large groups at once, like an email list. but this has been down for the last 10 days. it didn’t stop the movement in the beginning but now with so many leaders jailed and morale down, it is beginning to show its impact. so far, there is little about the events of today. it is still early, 8pm in tehran. but even if there are little people in streets, the masses of people chanting “Allahu Akbar (God is great)” from their rooftops into the middle of the night certainly makes the presence of the resistance known.

here are some updates from today:

Note from Tehran, 22 June 2009 (7:35 am Eastern):

today is quiet, there are police everywhere and basij patrolling the streets with batons. ‘Ma hamamoon boghz too galoomoon moonde’ (we all have lumps in our throats)

Note from Tehran, 22 June 2009 (7:30 am Eastern):

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 …

6/21/09

Like most Iranians living outside of Iran, I am so moved by the events in Iran from the last week. I am completely glued to the internet, constantly searching for updates that are sent out sometimes hourly. I have been following the protests day by day, my heart completely in the streets with the people. One of the most beautiful things that i have seen come out of this is the unity among Iranians. When I read personal accounts of the protesters on the streets, one of the sentences that gets repeated over and over again is that “they are killing our children” or “our sisters and brothers.” People cry for the dying as if it was their own child. A very popular protest chant is “don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, we are all together.” When i first heard that, it brought tears to my eyes. Amidst all the horrors that the people are experiencing on the streets, they are keeping their trust in each other. People are saying how you can ask anyone for a ride anywhere, that people are all willing to take others to the protests even if they themselves don’t want to go. They are saying how people will leave the doors of their houses open so that protesters can seek refuge running from the police. there is a strong feeling of camaraderie. I would like to share a first hand account from a professor who was in the June 20th protest in Tehran

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.

5/2/09

it has been 3 weeks since i have returned from my journey. i have been back almost the same amount of time as i was in iran. my return this time was not as difficult as the first. the transitions of first getting there and of getting back seem much easier. am i feeling more comfortable with this idea of having two homes? am i feeling more comfortable with blending two personalities? since i have been back i have spoken farsi or done something persian every day. i have either spoken with friends or relatives, listened to classical persian music, read rumi poetry, or played the persian drum. i also have persian tea every morning.  i have not forgotten my persian life. instead i have melted it into my american life, very unconsciously. it slowly bloomed by itself inside of me like the flowers outside. the wind came and scattered some of the petals so that they beautifully landed on different parts of my internal landscape.

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.

the importance of place

In Chinese Medicine, we talk about the importance of a person’s first breath. with that first breath, a baby takes in the energy of the universe at that specific time and at that specific place and makes it its own. nowadays, we don’t put very much relevance on a person’s birth place. we think it is more important to think about where they grew up, what kind of local culture or customs they grew up in. after going back to iran, i can not deny that Tehran, my birthplace, is in my blood. In Iran, there is a common saying that one is a child of a certain region, “bacheye Esfahan (child of Esfahan)” for example. and it is true that most likely where you were born is where you grew up. but it mostly refers to where you were born. in Iran, the importance of place is still there, perhaps not in people’s minds but in the language. when i was in Tehran, my body felt great. My skin was not even slightly dry, my hair was not frizzy but smooth and shiny, my water metabolism was working great. it is interesting because the weather is more dry in Tehran than in Portland, OR, but i look at my skin now and it is flaky and my hair feels so dehydrated. even after a week and a half, my body still has not adjusted to this place where it has lived for the past 5 years. but in Tehran it was so easy. it was as if my body let out a sigh of relief as it exclaimed “This is familiar, I am home.”

4/18/09

i am excited to see what this new world will look like. it is my unified world where my two lives as an american and as an iranian will meld and i can just be me, one product out of two cultures.  will i vacation in iran like americans go to the bahamas? will i have a house in both places like americans who have a beach house? will i work part time in iran like a visiting professor? i don’t know what it will look like. i don’t even know what i want it to look like. it is a dream i haven’t dreamt yet. in the meantime, i am going about my life here. getting my work started, starting classes, excited for each night, waiting for my dream to come to me.

4/16/09

yes, i am definitely back in america. in iran, it was so nice when the bus driver would say my name without hesitation. it was so easy for him. it was just like all the other names. actually some people had names much more complicated than mine. it was so nice when someone would say Ms. Azizkhani and they didn’t mean me. they were calling my cousin. every time something like this happened, i would be taken aback. i would pause for a moment and revel in the fact that this was an unusual occurrence for me.  in america, i must constantly spell my name for people, sometimes multiple times. and i am the only one with this name. now, i am back to the world of feeling like i am different because of my name. it is interesting that in iran, it was only my name that belonged 100%.

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

4/11/09

i had a huge realization today. I recognized that the Iran I hold in my mind is that of the war stricken years. even though i have blocked most of it from my memory, i was born admist the war between Iran and Iraq. i was born admist the bombs, the mandatory blackouts, the after sunset curfews. although we were far from the majority of the fighting, i still grew up experiencing the panic, the distress, the ugliness of war. then i left when i was five, so lucky to have escaped. today, i realized that i hold so much guilt for being able to leave. the years that followed my flight were some of the hardest for the Iranian people. they truly had nothing. i hold guilt for being able to have had a normal life filled with lots of dolls, watching cartoons, and having food on the table. but the significant part of my realization is that today’s iran is so much different from that of the 80’s and 90’s. the oppression of the islamic regime still exists, but people are enjoying life. the younger generations have fun, they can have good jobs, they are able to buy anything we can here in the US. there are a lot less restrictions now. so there is no need for me to feel guilty for leaving. infact, people there might be overall more happy with life than people here. whatever the case, i must accept the path my life has taken and rid the guilt from my body. i realize now that it is a self destructive act that only i have put on myself. and only i can free myself from it.

4/10/09

my tears started to roll as our plane started to move from the gate. I was really leaving. As we took off and I was no longer on Iranian soil, my tears were like two rivers. I had no control. These tears were coming from so deep inside. I looked over into the distance at the lights of Tehran. I was so sad. I knew that I was leaving my heart within those city walls. Those surrounding mountains were housing my soul. I kept my headscarf on, I listened to Iranian pop music on my ipod, anything to keep me connected.

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.

4/6/09

the sadness is slowly starting to creep in. I have only 3 days left. I feel like I can stay here forever. I am surrounded by family, I have found friends, I have acquaintances. I have a cell phone filled with numbers. Within this last month, I have slowly started to build a home here. And now, I must say goodbye. Some say it is see you later, but that is not true. It is undeniably a goodbye. My grandfather is well aware of this. Everyday, he reminds us that he may not be here for the next new year. he knows his days are numbered. Sometimes he holds on and sometimes he lets go. The other day I told him that when Master Wu read my astrology chart, he said I would get married at 32. My grandfather smiled big, threw his head back, put his hands up in the air, and thanked God. He said “I can make it until then.”

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.

4/2/09

I never thought that a city could be so beautiful. This morning I watched the sunrise over Tehran from the 8^th floor of my great aunt’s apartment building. I have never experienced Tehran so calm and peaceful. Usually it is bustling with activity, but this morning, on the 13^th day of the new year’s holiday, it was so  quiet. Most residents of Tehran escape to the countryside or smaller cities for the 13-day holiday. They go visit family or take vacations. So during this 2 week period, Tehran takes her much needed yearly rest. I was so happy to experience Tehran in this way. Nonetheless as the day progressed, the streets became more and more lively. It is custom for everyone to spend the 13^th outside picnicking with family. The parks are packed with people spreading their rugs specific for sitting on outside. They put up tents, bring their camp stoves, and a lot of food and tea. People are playing ball, soccer, badmitton, cards, backgammon. It is such a festive day where the family gathers outside, eats, takes a nap, plays, and enjoys each other’s company.

4/1/09

it has been a whirlwind of activity the last couple of days. I have been in Tehran with my mother’s side of the family. Her side of the family are mostly all women. All once beautiful and powerful women, who all married very noble and truly kind men, and who 4 out of 5 of them have outlived their husbands. Some by 25+ years. These women have so many memories together. They have spent their entire lives connected to each other. They have seen so family members come and go. They have seen some family members go abroad and disperse. They have seen each other’s heartache and suffering. They have seen each other’s weddings and helped take care of each other’s children. Every single one of these women has seen their share of hard times and good times. They have laughed together, fought together, danced together. No matter how difficult it gets to tolerate each other’s flaws as they age, they still stay connected. Even though it is difficult for them to travel from their homes to get together because of their age, they still convened. Even though they always argue when they are together and find faults in each other, they still spend days straight together. Why? Because they are of the same blood.

3/29/09

Today I picked tangerines for what seemed like hours. I remember as a child being so excited to come over to my grandparents’ house  so that I could pick oranges and tangerines. Even if they weren’t ready to be picked, my father or uncles would humor me, lift me up into the trees so I could pick just one. I would be so proud of my little feat. Today, I went from tree to tree, seeing the garden as I did when I was a child. It was a huge  grove where I could get lost and spend an eternity. Each tangerine was a meditation. it was as if I was picking one for each day that I missed these last 26 years. So many memories flooded my being while I was out there. These trees have witnessed all of it. They have seen story of the Azizkhani family. They have seen the coming and the going and the not coming back. They have seen birth and death and everything in between. So many emotions are held firm within these garden walls. These trees have become our anchors.

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.

3/28/09

i have discovered the world of underground iranian music. i am impressed with most of it. everyone calls it rap but it is more a mix of electronic dance and pop. some of the artists are quite talented and entertaining. others not so much. i am just happy to see that the young people are occupying their time creating something rather than getting addicted to drugs or not accomplishing anything. the only answer to destruction is creation, right? all of the artists are guys, who write songs and make videos. then they send their videos to the satellite TV stations abroad who broadcast them. on satellite TV there are about 30 iranian stations. i have been slightly addicted to watching them, and am considering getting one ;). anyway, most videos are beastie boy-esque. they are a lot of fun to watch. what i find interesting though is that all of the songs are about love. usually underground music, especially in developing countries, takes on a political overtone. but i have not heard one slightly political comment. every single song is about a woman or a relationship. it is true that the majority of the young people here are over focused on love and sex. so this would come out in the music.

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.

3/25/09

I feel like I am falling in love with Iran. Now I understand why Iran always gets likened to a beautiful woman. She is so charming, so amiable, so welcoming. She quickly makes a warm cozy space for herself in your heart. Her streets are always lit with liveliness, her people speak in endearing dialects, her landscape is easy on the eyes. And as with anyone you love, you must look past their flaws. You look past the trash and pollution, you look past the occasional rude behavior, you look past the unawareness of nature and the environment. You look past all of these things, because you know that who you truly love lies underneath all of this. And you know that the aspects that you don’t like will be corrected through time.

3/23/09

it hasn’t even been a week since I have been here, but it already feels like a lifetime. I feel like I have dropped right down into my spot. I feel like I have my place here. But as I walk I try to remember that I am a woman of two cultures, that I am not staying here. Luckily I get reminded by others. Yesterday as I passed by a store, the 2 guys inside waved and said “Hello!”  I laughed to myself, thinking they know who I am, that I am from America. I was a little saddened. But it is the truth, so I must accept it.

3/22/09

I found my grandparent’s stash of pictures and letters from America. Every letter my mother had written, every new year’s card, every picture she had sent had been neatly put away in a drawer. I remember my mother always getting duplicates of pictures when we would develop them. I remember that it was a hassle because we would get the pictures, then go back to drop off our duplicate order, and then pick them up again. We had to walk to the photo store.

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?

3/21/09

I think everyone has given up on me getting married. I am the oldest out of all the cousins on both sides. Everyone else that is 21 or older has already gotten married or we are about to attend their wedding in the next week. There is a common saying that says something like “hopefully we’ll meet again at your wedding” or “hopefully your wedding is next.” The elders on both sides used to say that to me all the time with an insistent tone. Tonight my great aunt said it to me with a laugh. Everyone was once excited for me to get the trend started. Then it started, went full speed and left me behind. In Iran, 30 for a single woman is old. I try to explain to my family how different it is in America, but no one listens. They just think that I have my head in the books too much, that I am focused too much on my career, that I don’t live life. Maybe they’re right. To a certain extent.

3/20/09

happy spring equinox! This is the Persian new year, an ancient pagan ritual that is rooted in the original religion of Iran, Zoroastrianism. This was my first new year celebration with my extended family since I left 26 years ago. I felt so blessed to have spent the turning of the year with my amazing grandfather. He joked that this would be his last. It was not so funny for us. It was a beautiful spring day as we ate oranges from the yard around the traditionally decorated table. Family members came to visit since my grandfather is the oldest member of the family, and we all sat around eating fruit and sweets, drinking tea, and telling stories. It was such a warm atmosphere but my grandmother’s presence was greatly missed.

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.

3/19/09

I forgot what it was like to walk in the streets as a woman. I forgot how you have to build an iron wall surrounding you. Actually not all the women want the iron wall. Not only do some women have no boundary around them, but they try to suck in the attention. It is interesting that even though religious laws persistently attempt to curb sexual temptations, the situation between men and women is much worse here than in the states. People in Iran always criticize American culture for its lack of morals and ethics in regards to sexuality. They refer to pornography, the movies, the divorce rate, the affairs, the promiscuous youth, etc. But at least I can walk down my street and not feel like the eyes of most of the men between the ages of 16 and 40 are looking through my clothes. And mind you, my clothes are a headscarf covering most of my hair, a black trench coat, jeans, and boots. The only skin that shows is on my face, neck, and hands. My attire is only slightly risqué because my trench coat is about 2 inches above my knee, is belted, and some of my hair peeks out from the front of my headscarf. But still, the comments, the suggestive stares, the stopping cars, come my 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.

3/18/09 Arrived

Here I am again at my grandfather’s home, trying to sleep to the constant hum of traffic outside of his home. But this time it has a slightly sweet taste of familiarity. In fact, my entire trip has this same taste. I have finished my first full day here in Iran. Strangely enough, it does not seem as foreign as I had expected. I seem to be well accustomed to the atmosphere here. I am not as phased by the driving, the mannerisms, the way of life. I even actually liked the taste of the water. I liked it because I remembered the taste. Speaking has come more easily to me. I was not afraid to speak at the airport. It helped that I had my mother with me to take care of things if I needed it. And I did.

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.”

3/14/09 the excitement builds

wow, i can’t believe i am going to Iran! I am getting goosebumps, i am so excited. as i have been packing my bags, i’ve been dancing to persian radio in my room. i am catching the fever of persian pop music. it is so much fun. underneath the heavy cloak of suppression, the people of Iran are alive with so much joy. music pours from cars in the streets with young people hanging out the windows. the streets are always bustling with activity at all hours of the day.  no matter what the circumstances, everyone wants to have fun and enjoy their life. with adventures out in the streets and parks, to dance parties, to big dinners with extended family, socializing is an integral part of the culture. tonight i say goodbye to my solitude, to my peaceful even keel life. it is not without some woe, for i have come to savor my moments of calm and solitude, but i welcome the spirited and animated weeks that are to come. with all the mixed feelings that surround my trip, i know that inside my spirit will be brightened.

3/13/09

here i am, getting ready for another go around, another trip to iran. i am incredibly excited, but equally nervous. i feel like i was just getting over my dilemma. i was just getting over the fact that i have two homes. i was just forgetting that i don’t truly 100% belong to this land that i have lived on for the past 25 years. and now, in less than 48 hours, i begin my journey in stirring everything back up again. by this time next week, i will feel fully immersed in another world, a world which will seem so distant but so strangely familiar, a world which i will desire so badly but will be caged behind glass. a world which i will be cast out of in 4 weeks time. and so i will begin a second round of my version of a paradise lost.

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.

8/10/08

I just realized that what i am going through is like coming down from a high. it is that feeling of loss, when you are standing in a doorway, struck by the warm yellow glow on the other side, but just as you are about to walk through, the door slams and shuts. I am left there, by hand still gripping the door knob. now i must turn around and go back to my life, knowing that i have seen other things. i am weighted by the necessity of integrating what i have seen into my normal life. that is always the most difficult part. how can i go back into my regular life, doing the same thing i was doing just 45 days ago, but bring in the new pieces? i don’t think the way i have been doing it has been working. it is as if i have been hiding my treasures. i have a little box inside where i have put everything. it is my secret. that is really how it has been my whole life here in america. i have never learned how to integrate these two worlds. it’s always one or the other. and right now more than ever, it makes me want to hole up and retreat. only peeking my head out when i absolutely have to, sometimes for air and sun. i feel like that is the only way i can keep my secret pristine and uncontaminated. i am not interested in melting.

8/07/08

it has been more than a week that i have been back in America but it feels like a lifetime. my trip to Iran sometimes feels like a dream. the kind of dream that you feel like you never really woke up from. the kind of dream that you felt was so real that you could have sworn it really happened, yet it still carries a distance and unfamiliarity that makes you realize that it is not from this world. that is how i feel. and because of it, my days are like that morning after such a dream, hazy and ungrounded. i am so distant from my life here. sometimes not really engaged in it. sometimes it feels like the scenery on a set, like my life here is made out of cardboard, held together by tape. every time i move from place to place, the cardboard scene changes. there are very few permanent cast members. this does not provide me with the stability that i seek. ah yes, that is what i miss-the stability, the security, the feeling of home.

7/30/08

well, I am back in the US, back in my sweet little house, back laying around with my sweet little dogs, making oatmeal in the morning, talking english, going to the grocery store where you don’t have to ask someone for what you want. I have been enjoying the solitutude and calm atmosphere of my life here. it has helped me with my transition. i try to stay in the present and love what i have here: my dogs, my friends, my garden, the mountains, good water, clean air. i realized i still carry my aversion to water. in iran, i dreaded drinking the water because it tasted so bad. i could taste the heavy metals and no one knew what i was talking about. they were so used to. my family plans on getting it tested but just like everything else there, the testing system is corrupt. the government doesn’t care about improving the water for the people. it would mean that the government would have to go out of their way to do something. so today, i drank some water and i was so surprised. it tasted like nothing. i couldn’t believe it. i finished my whole bottle. today i also drove out to the colombia river gorge to go hiking. i drove in my lane, feeling secure that i just needed to pay attention to what i was doing in my lane. it was easy. i was relaxed sitting behind the wheel. it was not like in iran, where the driver is completely alert, sometimes gripping the wheel tightly, eyes and ears completely open, ready for anything coming from any directions. in iran there may be 3 lanes on the road, but these 3 lanes will accomodate 4 cars sometimes 5 if there is a shoulder on one side. cars pass by each other with inches to spare, its passengers getting a close look into the happenings of the car, boys making eye contact with the girls and vice versa. it becomes a very intimate affair. sometimes dangerous, but always lively. it is not like here where as you sit in your car, you are in your own bubble. there is no bubble surrounding a car in iran. its windows are down, the back seat packed, sometimes people hanging out the window, the music loud, and everyone is checking everyone else out. sometimes cursing each other out. even though it is stressful to drive there, there are no restrictions and rules. there is looseness in the tension. you can pull out and block traffic, you can cut in front of people, everyone works together for traffic to move forward. so i drove today down the highway. i didn’t make eye contact with anyone and if i had, i would have pretended not to. i stayed in my lane and signalled when i wanted to change. i merged with others safely.

 

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.

7/24/08

my final days here are drawing near. Tomorrow will be the last whole day with my grandfather. I feel very sad about it. But I know that I have done the best I can. I have brought laughter into the house. That was probably the best medicine I could give. I can truly say that I am leaving this home and its inhabitants in a better state than when I arrived. I reminded by aunt who lives with him to not take these days for granted. She is quick to get frustrated and impatient with him, as can be expected when constantly side by side with an 87 year old man that still shows glimpses of his olden powerful and commanding presence. I hope that I have given my grandfather new hope and stoked his desire to keep living. Everyday he talks about death. He recites poetry and tells stories about death. It is near but he does not seem afraid. Sometimes he jokes about the beautiful angels that are promised up in heaven (in Islam). Sometimes he is more serious when he talks about his physical health. Tonight he told me a story about the route Israel (the archangel?) has taken in this town. House by house, he has come hailing his call of death. But when he reached this house, my grandfather was able to bribe him to take  a detour down the street. One by one, my grandfather named the neighbors that have passed in last couple of years. But he said that Israel has reached a dead-end street and has to make his way back up. This time, he says laughing, he has no more money to bribe him. I don’t think Israel will be going very fast back up the street. I think he is taking a leisurely stroll, giving my grandfather and I more time. Our time together has been very short, only since 2001 have we gotten to know and see each other. We still have more poems to read and he has more stories to tell. He knows it too. Even though he is not afraid, he is not ready to give up.  I will make another visit soon to sustain his progress, increasing his appetite for life.

7/21/08

there are so many things that are different here in Iran than in America. I want to portray these differences but I don’t know where to begin. It must be very similar to other countries but I haven’t not traveled to many places to begin to compare. When I went to China, I expected it to be similar to Iran. It was not at all. The only other place I have been is Central America. The one thing that is probably similar is how fun the busses can be if you have a fun driver. They play music and joke around, making the best of the several hours this group of people are together. I can’t remember if it was common for them to nap after lunch like they do here in Iran. I do remember that our workday was pretty much over after lunch and the rest of the day was for play.
Here, the bakeries open at 6am. There are usually 3 men in a store front, handling the dough and putting it in a clay oven (tanoor). Everyone who wants to buy bread stands around a little window. It is usually packed with people. They serve fresh bread until about 9, close, then reopen in the afternoon at 4 until 6. I think every Iranian has fond memories of standing in line, and nibbling on the fresh bread as they walked home with an armful of 3 foot long pieces of flat bread. There are so many things that are such a part of life here that it is hard to explain. I can just give glimpses of some of the things that I love.
Here people love to take their dinners to the park or beach. Every family has some type of old rug or blanket that is their outside blanket. No family is without one. Everyone sits on their piece and has their picnic. There is always a thermos of tea and fresh fruit. When people buy fruit here, they buy by the kilo, Costco style. No one buys 2 or 3 oranges. When guests arrive, even unexpected or just for a moment, out comes the tea and the platter of fruit. The kettle is usually on the stove for most of the day, ready for tea at any moment. The teapot is sitting on top, steeping a day’s leaves. Tea is served to “rid you of your tiredness” when you awake from a nap or come in from an outing. Long bus trips stop at teahouses for tea breaks. Most people make their thermos of tea to have with them when they go on such trips. These are cultural norms that people just do. They are not burdened by these expectations in any way. It is just what you do. I think that is what is so different from life in America. There is so much individuality in America.

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.

7/20/08

it is as if time stopped 30 years ago. Everything was moving along. It had a stumbling start back in the 50’s but by the mid 70’s, Iran was about to hit a new height. And now, it is so sad to see the remains. Buildings that have never been repaired. Cars still running but without front bumpers. Parks still reflecting a dream that once was. People constantly complain that this new regime has no regard for beautification of the country. They complain about the trash that piles up on sides of the roads for years, until finally nature herself moves it. Iran once was a metropolitan center-the international dateline once was the line that cut through Tehran to Shiraz. The architecture of city buildings reflected the art and science of a civilization that was thousands of years old. The streets reflected a culture that was rich in history and human achievement. But now, what do I see now?  I see only trash, polluting smoke, and bad graffiti. I try to look past it all, past the cracks. I try to put the pieces of the beautiful hand carved tiled ceilings together but as the years pass, it gets more and more difficult. I become reliant on my memory and national geographics.

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.

7/19/08

I am well past the point of being able to stay here forever. There is such a feeling of familiarity wrapped inside of all remoteness I feel at the surface. So much of my parent’s mannerisms and some of my own make more sense now. There are many cultural norms that are so deep rooted that they never disappear no matter how different I think I am. My differences are merely superficial. Despite the loss of many of my daily activities back in America, I can see myself perfectly happy here. Of course I miss my dogs, my friends, and many of the little things like swimming in the ocean with everyone else (here women have to swim in quarantined areas that are far from others) or laying around in the grass in a tank top getting sun. But right now, all of that seems so trivial. I love how many times I get to talk to my different family members in one day. They are so close and accessible. They call when they are 20 minutes away to see if they can stop by. Or they call just to ask a simple question. It is so endearing because they are a part of my daily life here. That is enough for me to forgo the pollution, the wearing of a monteaux (some type of coat like covering) and the head scarf. Actually I like the head scarf because it is excellent at preventing wind invasions (Chinese medicine lingo). On the other hand, the amount of clothing a woman needs to wear to go out in public or even in the home is hard at times, but still minor. I love the taxis and the busses here. I love how alive the streets are. I love all the music. I love the comments and the jokes that strangers make. I love how strangers will call each other father, mother, brother, or sister. I love all the formalities in greetings and goodbyes. Even though they are not always sincere, it is nice to hear.
It is so interesting because before I left for Iran, I thought that this trip would be the last. I thought that should my grandfather pass away,  I would no longer be tied to this country. I felt as though he was my only true connection, but now I see that that was far from the truth. I think that now I feel more Persian than ever. I see that my grandfather was the fire that lighted the darker places that I didn’t know what to do with. I assumed that it was all him. But now I clearly see that he gave me a gift that transcends his life. He gave me my home again.
It is getting more and more difficult for me to write and even think in English anymore, so I apologize. The other day, I met a very affluent family. The father was educated at oxford and he spoke English to me with a thick British accent. I found it difficult to answer him in English. I would reply in Farsi, but then realized that it was rude. As I spoke English, it felt so foreign. It did not seem right that those words were coming of out my mouth. I felt like I was in a dubbed movie where everything is about half a second off. Even though I look forward to returning to America, where I can see my darling pooches, friends, and plants, I am also very reluctant. This past week especially has stretched out to months. I have one more week left which I hope will make it a year.
I plan to return once year to practice for 2 or 3 months. I met a very nice doctor and acupuncturists whom I think I can work with. I feel that I have a duty to fulfill here for my family and my country, but most of all for myself.

7/10/08

the cemetery is such a peaceful place. But it is very different here than in America. In America it is peaceful because it is quiet with few people and big trees. Here there are always families visiting their deceased loved ones, strangers walking around praying for deceased souls, others reciting passages from the Koran as they weave their way around the tombstones. Today we went to visit my grandmother in the town’s cemetery. It is Thursday. The custom is to visit the deceased every Thursday afternoon. Here the dead are very much a part of the living. They are still part of the family. You make a weekly visit, bringing sweets, fruit, and your prayers.  We walked in and it was filled with families, though fewer than expected since we were going later in the afternoon. The tombstones are not just a headstone. They cover the entire grave. There are so many rituals around visiting the grave. My favorite is the washing of the tombstone. It is very meditative and thoughtful. My grandmother’s tombstone was beautiful, reminding those who passed by of her life as a mother of 5 and beloved teacher of the town. As we sat there next to her, she had many visitors. They would walk up, touch her grave and send a prayer. Then they would tell us that they were her student and recall a story from the past. It was such a beautiful exchange. It was as if we were her gate keepers. The cemetery is quite a social place. As people mourn their loved ones, they pass out sweets and other treats to passersby and friends. They say exchange condolences and a story or two. Within the bitterness of life, their exists a sweetness. So we sat there, by my grandmother. The minutes turned into hours. We watched families come and go. Some wailing, some quietly crying, some happy to enjoy the beautiful day. We washed my grandmother’s tombstone, talked to her, and said our prayers. On her tombstone was written a poem from my grandfather. To paraphrase his beautiful words-you have gone from our sight, but we will always see you in our thoughts and hearts until the day that we too will call the earth our home.

7/10/08

the fluorescent lights, plastic plates, aluminum and Teflon cookware, the kettles with heavy sediment sticking to their sides, the 1970’s carpet, lemon juice in a thin plastic bottle, the loud TV, the constant noise of cars and semi’s, so many things that are poisoning my grandfather’s home and body. But I don’t dare say anything. I don’t want to bring that into their consciousness. My aunt is living with my grandfather, taking good care of him. They have been living a certain way for many years. I can’t come in and tell them that this or that is bad. That is worse than what is actually bad.  I go with their flow, being grateful to be there and spend this precious time with them. I secretly want to whisk my grandfather away to my place that is full of healing intentions. Even though a healing space can be extremely helpful, I don’t think it would be very helpful for my grandfather. He has his rhythm here. That is what has kept him alive for so many years. Amidst his chaotic environment and what I would consider poor lifestyle habits (smoking, too much sugar, salt, meat, etc), he keeps his peace. He does what makes him happy. I would never tell him to change anything. With his same routine and habits he moves through his day. I accompany him to keep him engaged in conversation and revive his passion for life. Together we read the poetry of the great Persian poets-Rumi, Hafez, and Sadi. We talk politics, philosophy, and Chinese medicine over games of backgammon. He tells me stories of his life over afternoon tea and cookies. About once a day, I do acupressure and moxa on him to warm and relax him and relieve him of his stomach problems. Together we daydream about the clinic we will open on one side of his house and debate whether I will give him 20 or 30% of what I make. Even though I am not used to so many things here, I could stay here forever with him.

7/8/08

I have succumbed to the pressure of my Persian peers and elders. My eyebrows have been cleaned up and shaped and I have no more fine hairs anywhere on my face. It’s funny how you think you are semi-normal in one place but you completely stand out somewhere else. I guess in Portland everyone is considered normal. But I have noticed that as I have gotten older my tolerance for other’s comments and my desire to stand apart has decreased. It is much easier to look like everyone else on the outside. I hope that I am still holding true to my beliefs on the inside. I hope that is not something that I also let go of as I age. But I like my new eyebrows. At least I look more Persian. This has been a constant grievance of mine for many years now. I knew that some of it had to do with my “alternative” points of view but also how I looked on the outside-basically void of pounds of makeup. But now I am not as self-conscious when I walk down the streets. I am sure everyone still can tell I am different-from my walk, my talking, etc. but now my eyebrows are not also the topic of conversation and worthy of comments in the streets. We’ll see. I am interested to see how quick people are to think that I am a foreigner.
All of that aside, it was actually a good experience in the little beauty parlor. It felt so old. My aunt and I went to the young woman’s house. She had a room on the side of the courtyard. We went in and it was the 3 of us, with the young woman’s mother and sister. They all said their greetings, asked about different family members, and started talking about other town news. It was such a pleasant and for some reason familiar atmosphere. The beautician used an old Persian technique for pulling fine hairs with thread. Using such an old system made the whole thing justifiable.

7/5/08

it’s almost 2 in the morning and I am sitting in my bed at my grandfather’s house. It is exactly as I remember it, from 8 years ago, from 13 years ago and from 25 years ago. It is the same house that I spent my early years until I left. It has the same ceramic kitten I would play with, the same orange 1970’s metal cabinets, with white and red wallpaper. Each room is painted a different bold color. If the paint wasn’t chipped in so many places it would look like a modern PDX home instead of the same paint from the 70’s. it is hard to sleep sometimes because of the sound of the semi-trucks and cars that speed down the road outside of my grandfather’s home.

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.

7/02/08

as soon as I could see the lights of Tehran below, my heart started to pound. Fear began to build inside of me. Fear of what, I am not sure. After landing, I wanted to throw up. I want to vomit up all the constrictions, the oppression, the lack of moving forward, and the grief. Basically I wanted to purge the last 30 years since the revolution. Even though I had not lived in Iran for those 30 years, those feelings had taken a strong hold on me. Perhaps it was because I had no daily context for them. I had no opportunity to get used it. You usually just forget what you get used to. As I walked off the airplane, I felt so incredibly alone. Everyone was talking farsi all around me, but I felt so misunderstood. I didn’t dare open my mouth. I wanted to walk back on the plane and go back. “what have I done?” I wondered. “why did I come all this way alone?” I desperately tried to find the friends I had made on the plane, but they were nowhere to be found. I had to walk strong on my own. Finally, I didn’t do it on my own. Some people helped me, but many people cut in front of me. Though I willingly let them. As I rounded to corner I saw the immigration lines. At that point, I decided that if I just stayed on this side of the immigration barrier for the duration of my stay, I would be perfectly happy. I didn’t want to go through. My heart was beating faster and louder. Thankfully I found my friends and they practically held my hand through the process. I made it through all the checkpoints with no problem at all. I saw some members of my family, tears rolled, we got into the car, and drove the streets of Tehran home. I realized that it was not as heavy as I remembered. The air was cool and crisp, people were smiling, all of my cousins had good jobs. The women’s dress was hip, tight, and short. Everyone looked good. “What is my problem?” I thought. It is only day #1 but maybe I am holding too much for a society that doesn’t need anything to be held??? But maybe that is the only role I know as a half outsider/half insider. Hopefully it will become more clear as the days pass.

Greetings from Iran

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.