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.”