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.”