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.