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.