I've been away from an internet connection for about a week and a half, so I have way too much to write about for one blog.
We went on a little trip to Esfehan and Shiraz and tried to see both cities in ten days, and nearly accomplished our goal. The trip was worth it, but the stress of the trip had made itself manifest in the shape of fist-sized blisters, gashes, rashes and aches, and that's just what happened to my sister's feet.
Whoever landscaped Esfehan was keeping in mind the comfort of tourists. Mr. Landscaper took the majority of landmarks and placed them in a little area. Meydan-e Imam (Imam's Square) - which was once called Shah's Square, but, for some uknown reason, was given a name change - has The Shah's Mosque, Esfehaan's biggest bazaar, another notable mosque, the list goes on.
The moral police were up and about more than usual in Imam Square because a three-day event was taking place in the mosque where thousands of Muslims gather round, read the Qur'an, fast, listen to someone preach, etc. The name in Farsi is itikaaf, but it's basically Islam's version of Woodstock, minus the music, mud, LSD and orgies. Well, my sister was stopped once again because her hijab wasn't being worn properly, but being a bit more experienced than the last time, we both acted really confused and started speaking quick English. The women just pointed at my sister's hijab, my sister fixed it and we were off. In actuality, my sister nearly wet herself. When we went to go into the mosque my mother and sister were quickly shooed away. But I, who prosper in this phallocentric country, told someone outside the Mosque that I had came all the way from America to see the inside, and seeing that I was interested lent me his backstage pass and I got a sneak peek.
The inside of the mosque was spectacular. Not only was it sublime in stature and size, it was also filled to the brim with people. Four thousand devout Muslims had gathered together for [insert reason here]. The man who let me in, afterwards, told me that each person has his own philosophy for why he participates. His was to get closer to God. A politician couldn't have answered better.
Well, soccer moms have their tupperware parties, and then there is this. In the end, a social gathering is just a social gathering. I can read, fast and pray at home.
Seeing Esfehan's people interact with eachother gave me a whole new perspective on my father, who was born there. Esfehani's are stubborn, argumentative and stingy. If it takes a village to raise a child, my dad didn't fall too far from his tree, but, fortunately, far enough to be tolerable. My dad understands Esfehan though, and he told me something someone had told him. "If you were to grab Esfehan, flip it around and dump out all its people, you'd have heaven in your hands."
All of Esfehan's attributes can be seen in the bazaar. The vendors in Esfehan's bazaar are ten times more likely to rip you off than the bazaar in Tehran. I was buying a souvenier for a friend and I asked a nine-year old kid who worked there what the price was. He said a dollar. I asked again and he said two dollars, and when I started bartering he said I'd heard wrong. A nine-year old kid. They grow so fast, don't they? I ended up giving a dollar and walking off.
The women we stayed with during the few days we were in Esfahan was a distant relative of mine, but she was something else. At first glance I'd realized she was in mourning because of the large shades underneath her eyes. (My mother had also informed me.) She had recently lost both her mother and her brother, her mother died at an appropriate age, but the brother was still too young for his death to be justifiable. Before the mother had passed her foot had caught against a leg of a table in the kitchen and she fell and hurt herself. At first diagnosis the doctor had told her she was fine and gave her vicodin, but a few weeks later she learned that she had actually broken her hip. Her mother eventually died, and the experience left such a strong psychological imprint that she sold all her furniture. Everyone said that her apartnment was like a mosque, and it was.
She was zany. She wore little hand-made, thatched slippers and spent a half-hour in the mornings doing stretches and aerobic excercies that would make the Fonz look goofy. She had a stash of money stored in the bank, but refused to spend a penny of it. And she left a knife in the back of almost everyone she met. But her personality was counterintuitively likeable. She was hilarious, but she left me wondering.
I also saw my grandmother for the first time in who knows how many years. Since I had grown and she had shrunk, the size difference shocked me a bit. But she was spicy, when she saw me she kissed me, called me a son of a gun, and told me to sit as she went to get me, my mother and my sister a drink. She walked slow, her back naturally hunched fourty-five degrees, her left eye drooped a little, she was telling me her life story and half-way in the middle of it she laid on the ground and fell asleep. She had reached that age where in conversation she either laughed or just blankly stared. And while she talked to me she kept saying, "I used to do so much." It seems like the people who have regrets in the end are those who are always wanting to experience more. I hope I'll have regrets in my dying days.
Next Stop: Aliabad/Shiraz
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Backwashed Ideals
We went to see family we hadn't seen in a decade and seventy-five percent of the night was spent listening to old men yelling about old ideals.
The theme of the night was mislabeling. What was titled a debate was really two men either blindly attacking each other (Why didn't YOU become a martyr in the Iraq-Iran War?) or passing the logical reasoning exit and moving straight towards the reiteration of contrived ideas. (The Ayatollahs are FASCIST, DICTATORS, PUPPETS OF PINOCHET, THIS ISLAM IS CORRUPT!)
The "debate" was between a fundamentalist Muslim and a non-religious expatriate. But ninety-percent of the party had left the room by the end of the slaughterfest, and no conclusion was reached.
I too am guilty of getting sucked into the debate, and the one question that had the fundamentalist at a loss for words was the question of whether Iran is or isn't a democracy?
The man brought up statistics about the extraordinary amount of people who had voted in the elections, and stated that Khomeini had been chosen by the people, the law had been chosen by the people, the presidents had been chosen by the people, but democracy is more than a high voter percentage, it's also about a variegated spectrum of candidates.
Two hundred million people can vote on the following: A male Shi'a, a male Shi'a, a male Shi'a, a male Shi'a or a male Shi'a. I asked the man once again if Iran's a democracy and he refused to say yes. I asked him if I could be president if I was Baha'i, the answer was No, a Jew, the answer was No, a woman, the answer was No, a Sunni, the answer was No.
But the definition of democracy that he knew stated that Iran was, in fact, a democracy.
After that debate went unresolved my cousin asked a hypothetical question: If a referendum was given Friday for the will of the people to change the law, would the law remain the same?
The man said Yes, the people have voted on the law.
But here's where America can be praised: the ability for change.
Iran's constitution has been written in such a way that the ideals of the generation that wrote it are preserved, no matter what the people of this age want or don't want.
Iran is a country stagnating in a Puritan quagmire, and the muck that has stopped the people from moving is fear. No matter how difficult the process western nations allow for change through diplomacy, change in Iran is made through blood shed. (See Islamic Revolution in Iran.)
Yesterday I was walking down the street and my cousin had to walk in front of me so that the logo on my t-shirt wouldn't be seen by the police. If I follow the steps of the greatest advocates of liberalism (Thorough, King, Gandhi) and achieve change by transgressing the law, I could possibly find myself with a noose around my neck, or, what is more likely, I would find myself being whipped.
Iran's system of government is a democratic dictatorship. If a Shi'a wants to survive as a government official in Iran, in order to be a success he must, or will, adhere to the fundamentalist Shi'a values, which means, though appearances change, ideas don't. One can say that a single person hasn't been in power since the Islamic Revolution and that single person doesn't have the power, but each official and the government body he is a part of is governed by the same isolated revolution of ideas, and for the sake of survival in the political game the ideas are backwashed into society.
The theme of the night was mislabeling. What was titled a debate was really two men either blindly attacking each other (Why didn't YOU become a martyr in the Iraq-Iran War?) or passing the logical reasoning exit and moving straight towards the reiteration of contrived ideas. (The Ayatollahs are FASCIST, DICTATORS, PUPPETS OF PINOCHET, THIS ISLAM IS CORRUPT!)
The "debate" was between a fundamentalist Muslim and a non-religious expatriate. But ninety-percent of the party had left the room by the end of the slaughterfest, and no conclusion was reached.
I too am guilty of getting sucked into the debate, and the one question that had the fundamentalist at a loss for words was the question of whether Iran is or isn't a democracy?
The man brought up statistics about the extraordinary amount of people who had voted in the elections, and stated that Khomeini had been chosen by the people, the law had been chosen by the people, the presidents had been chosen by the people, but democracy is more than a high voter percentage, it's also about a variegated spectrum of candidates.
Two hundred million people can vote on the following: A male Shi'a, a male Shi'a, a male Shi'a, a male Shi'a or a male Shi'a. I asked the man once again if Iran's a democracy and he refused to say yes. I asked him if I could be president if I was Baha'i, the answer was No, a Jew, the answer was No, a woman, the answer was No, a Sunni, the answer was No.
But the definition of democracy that he knew stated that Iran was, in fact, a democracy.
After that debate went unresolved my cousin asked a hypothetical question: If a referendum was given Friday for the will of the people to change the law, would the law remain the same?
The man said Yes, the people have voted on the law.
But here's where America can be praised: the ability for change.
Iran's constitution has been written in such a way that the ideals of the generation that wrote it are preserved, no matter what the people of this age want or don't want.
Iran is a country stagnating in a Puritan quagmire, and the muck that has stopped the people from moving is fear. No matter how difficult the process western nations allow for change through diplomacy, change in Iran is made through blood shed. (See Islamic Revolution in Iran.)
Yesterday I was walking down the street and my cousin had to walk in front of me so that the logo on my t-shirt wouldn't be seen by the police. If I follow the steps of the greatest advocates of liberalism (Thorough, King, Gandhi) and achieve change by transgressing the law, I could possibly find myself with a noose around my neck, or, what is more likely, I would find myself being whipped.
Iran's system of government is a democratic dictatorship. If a Shi'a wants to survive as a government official in Iran, in order to be a success he must, or will, adhere to the fundamentalist Shi'a values, which means, though appearances change, ideas don't. One can say that a single person hasn't been in power since the Islamic Revolution and that single person doesn't have the power, but each official and the government body he is a part of is governed by the same isolated revolution of ideas, and for the sake of survival in the political game the ideas are backwashed into society.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The Golden Calf
In a place colloquially called The Capital a mall of computer stores fully exploit Iran's lack of copyright laws. A single store sold Windows Vista, Microsoft Office 2007, nearly every language of the Rosetta Stone, complete collections of classical musicians' works, Photoshop, Dreamweaver, game after game and more each for a maximum of twenty US dollars. The owner of the store had travelled to Malaysia, purchased copy after copy of software, hacked it, copied it and sold it for massive profits. And the republic is in a perpetual struggle to impede the flow of information.
Welcome to 1984.
In The Islamic Republic of Iran there are no memorials for any of the [insert number here] prophets, no structure praising neither Ali nor Mohammed, no tower of Babel reaching for Allah, but within Tehran lies a multi-acre shrine with four golden-plaited minarets, a helicopter pad, a hospital and a post office in praise of Ayatollah Khomeini. (See Idolatry.) The Imam himself had personally asked for no shrine to be built in his name, but the republic insisted. And with his face printed on every piece of currency and his portrait pinned up in the depths of Alisadr Cave to the walls of skyscrapers one can't help but become reminiscent of a Kim Il Sung.
In an absolute non sequiter from the last paragraph, the Shah was critiqued for squandering millions of dollars on celebrating Iran's 2,500th anniversary in Persepolis. That money should've gone to the poor. Oh so useful the four golden minarets. (See The Quran, The Cow.)
Right now the internet I'm using is filtered by the Islamic Republic of Iran, satellite television is illegal, (See Hugo Chavez.) newspapers are edited to be biased for the Islamic Republic, statements against the republic and its representatives are felonies, and a radio tower that can be seen from every corner of Bigger Tehran is being built that will take over all radio frequencies in the city.
Earlier tonight Tehran's chief-of-police, in an interview, stated that as of tomorrow the military and police will go at great lengths to make sure the law is being abided. The interview was in two-segments, the first segment had taken place yesterday and was focused on hijab, modesty, relationships, etc. Tonight's interview was about the drastic cutback on crime and drug trafficking in Tehran. Twelve criminals were being sentenced to death by way of the noose, and the crimes ranged from rape to murder to the selling of 5 kilograms of heroin. The criminals were ruthless, one blatantly stating that if anybody were to touch his mother or sister he would, in all honesty, behead them. The crimes were worthy of a prison sentence, but strategically made tantamount to the wearing of a tight manteau or loosely-worn hijab. Welcome to a black-and-white world. The chief stated a statistic gathered by way of phone stating that 90 percent of the 90 people called advocated the law. In a population with 15 million citizens, ninety advocates are revolutionary! (See Statistics and, if time is available, Common Sense.) Before ending the interview the chief stared into the camera with shifty eyes thanked the people of Iran for helping keep the city "clean."
About a month ago, after the gas sanction was set in, thirty-two gasstations were attacked and about fifteen were destroyed. The taxi cab I rode to the computer supercenter had a cracked windshield from the protesters and the driver, in desperation, rigged the meter to pull more money from us. And the number of taxi's have taken a drastic drop causing a fifteen minute wait for a taxi to come to pick my family up to take us across town to a friend's house. All repercussions of a cleansing of Iran.
And the most horrible repercussion of all is the uber European styles adapted by the young. Some kids look so European they'd make a European blush. But as of tomorrow, tight manteus, loose shawls, flared hairdos, designer jeans, skintight tshirts and all that is couture will be deemed punishable, in the name of Allah, most benificient, ever merciful.
Welcome to 1984.
In The Islamic Republic of Iran there are no memorials for any of the [insert number here] prophets, no structure praising neither Ali nor Mohammed, no tower of Babel reaching for Allah, but within Tehran lies a multi-acre shrine with four golden-plaited minarets, a helicopter pad, a hospital and a post office in praise of Ayatollah Khomeini. (See Idolatry.) The Imam himself had personally asked for no shrine to be built in his name, but the republic insisted. And with his face printed on every piece of currency and his portrait pinned up in the depths of Alisadr Cave to the walls of skyscrapers one can't help but become reminiscent of a Kim Il Sung.
In an absolute non sequiter from the last paragraph, the Shah was critiqued for squandering millions of dollars on celebrating Iran's 2,500th anniversary in Persepolis. That money should've gone to the poor. Oh so useful the four golden minarets. (See The Quran, The Cow.)
Right now the internet I'm using is filtered by the Islamic Republic of Iran, satellite television is illegal, (See Hugo Chavez.) newspapers are edited to be biased for the Islamic Republic, statements against the republic and its representatives are felonies, and a radio tower that can be seen from every corner of Bigger Tehran is being built that will take over all radio frequencies in the city.
Earlier tonight Tehran's chief-of-police, in an interview, stated that as of tomorrow the military and police will go at great lengths to make sure the law is being abided. The interview was in two-segments, the first segment had taken place yesterday and was focused on hijab, modesty, relationships, etc. Tonight's interview was about the drastic cutback on crime and drug trafficking in Tehran. Twelve criminals were being sentenced to death by way of the noose, and the crimes ranged from rape to murder to the selling of 5 kilograms of heroin. The criminals were ruthless, one blatantly stating that if anybody were to touch his mother or sister he would, in all honesty, behead them. The crimes were worthy of a prison sentence, but strategically made tantamount to the wearing of a tight manteau or loosely-worn hijab. Welcome to a black-and-white world. The chief stated a statistic gathered by way of phone stating that 90 percent of the 90 people called advocated the law. In a population with 15 million citizens, ninety advocates are revolutionary! (See Statistics and, if time is available, Common Sense.) Before ending the interview the chief stared into the camera with shifty eyes thanked the people of Iran for helping keep the city "clean."
About a month ago, after the gas sanction was set in, thirty-two gasstations were attacked and about fifteen were destroyed. The taxi cab I rode to the computer supercenter had a cracked windshield from the protesters and the driver, in desperation, rigged the meter to pull more money from us. And the number of taxi's have taken a drastic drop causing a fifteen minute wait for a taxi to come to pick my family up to take us across town to a friend's house. All repercussions of a cleansing of Iran.
And the most horrible repercussion of all is the uber European styles adapted by the young. Some kids look so European they'd make a European blush. But as of tomorrow, tight manteus, loose shawls, flared hairdos, designer jeans, skintight tshirts and all that is couture will be deemed punishable, in the name of Allah, most benificient, ever merciful.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
The Ayatollah of Oz
A fast-paced conversation was brought to a halt as the car's wheels went over the corpse of a dog, the disgusting crack of bone snapping could be heard and a silence took over. Night had set in, we were on our way to Qom and struggling to keep up with the second car in line we had no time to swerve or stop. To my left my cousin's friend Majid's eyes filled with tears. We eventually reached Qom.
The Vatican is to Italy as Qom is to Iran. But the city is dirty. Scattered about the city are mosques lit up like Oz with emerald green lights. Since the majority of the inhabitants are impoverished there is an abundance of motorcycles, and since, for the prevention of terrorist attacks, motorcycles above 200 cc's are illegal the city sounds as if it's being besieged by African honey bees. Mullahs walk around calmly in the open, women especially cautious of wearing their hijab loosely and vendors sit barefoot on the street beckoning passerbys to purchase their products in between the crack of sunflower seeds between their teeth. Women with reversed hijabs, their seams visible to the eye, beguile the police with their hidden symbol of prostitution.
We stayed at my uncle's father's cattle ranch. The gated land held fifty female cows separated into catagories: children, ready to mate, pregnant, ready to milk, milk expended and troublesome. An poverty-stricken family sat on a rug resting in the shade before getting up to work the ranch.
My uncle's father had surpassed the ninety-year mark, he wore yellow and red striped pajama bottoms and a white wifebeater that hugged his decrepit torso revealing the pale white of his arms. His eyes emoted sadness and compassion and in the latter stretch of his life he found refuge in silence.
His three sons were feuding over a parcel of land, one having outwitted the others by exploiting wisdom's tendency to numb one's odyssey towards possession. My uncle repeated, "I don't even care about this, it's trivial!" and his father just sat and listened.
My mother told him a story: A father planning ahead decides to give his land to one of his three sons. He calls the eldest child to his room and says, "Son, you are the oldest and wisest, the land belongs to you when I die. Here is a key that will open a safe holding the deed to the land." The next day he calls in the middle child and says, "Son, your older brother has his head too far in the clouds to see and your younger brother has his head too far in the dirt to see as well. Here is a key to a safe holding the deed to the land, but you may only open it after I die." He then calls in the youngest, flatters him as well and gives him a key. For the next month the three son's become exceptionally benevolent and kind towards their father, and at the month's end the three become impatient. A week or so later all three sons find their selves at the safe, all keys in hand, furious that the other brothers had keys as well. They decided to open it to see what's in it. On opening it they find a leg of lamb and a note that says, "God damn the man who wills his possessions prior to death!"
The only time my uncle's father laughed was after hearing that anecdote.
The day sped by. We played cards, an illegal act in Iran, and, as a consequence of losing a card game, Mehrdad had to paddle himself across a mucky quagmire-esque pond in a tin tub. My cousin and another friend conspired to spin him in the tub and on doing so the tub tipped. Mehrdad grasped the eldge of the pool and struggled to get out dry. Wet from the hips down and with a flare of vengeance burning in his eyes, he grabbed a fully clad family friend and pulled him in. A scuffle broke out, eventually ceased and the day came to and end. As the sun began to set we headed back to Tehran.
Seconds after pulling out of the ranch three soldiers clad in army green outfits stopped the car, asked the driver to get out of the car and open his trunk. Another soldier stuck his head in the car, pointed at a green bottle and said, "Is that Shom-pahyn?" Majid retorded that it was water and offered some to him. They eventually, and disappointedly, let us go and we were on our way.
The Vatican is to Italy as Qom is to Iran. But the city is dirty. Scattered about the city are mosques lit up like Oz with emerald green lights. Since the majority of the inhabitants are impoverished there is an abundance of motorcycles, and since, for the prevention of terrorist attacks, motorcycles above 200 cc's are illegal the city sounds as if it's being besieged by African honey bees. Mullahs walk around calmly in the open, women especially cautious of wearing their hijab loosely and vendors sit barefoot on the street beckoning passerbys to purchase their products in between the crack of sunflower seeds between their teeth. Women with reversed hijabs, their seams visible to the eye, beguile the police with their hidden symbol of prostitution.
We stayed at my uncle's father's cattle ranch. The gated land held fifty female cows separated into catagories: children, ready to mate, pregnant, ready to milk, milk expended and troublesome. An poverty-stricken family sat on a rug resting in the shade before getting up to work the ranch.
My uncle's father had surpassed the ninety-year mark, he wore yellow and red striped pajama bottoms and a white wifebeater that hugged his decrepit torso revealing the pale white of his arms. His eyes emoted sadness and compassion and in the latter stretch of his life he found refuge in silence.
His three sons were feuding over a parcel of land, one having outwitted the others by exploiting wisdom's tendency to numb one's odyssey towards possession. My uncle repeated, "I don't even care about this, it's trivial!" and his father just sat and listened.
My mother told him a story: A father planning ahead decides to give his land to one of his three sons. He calls the eldest child to his room and says, "Son, you are the oldest and wisest, the land belongs to you when I die. Here is a key that will open a safe holding the deed to the land." The next day he calls in the middle child and says, "Son, your older brother has his head too far in the clouds to see and your younger brother has his head too far in the dirt to see as well. Here is a key to a safe holding the deed to the land, but you may only open it after I die." He then calls in the youngest, flatters him as well and gives him a key. For the next month the three son's become exceptionally benevolent and kind towards their father, and at the month's end the three become impatient. A week or so later all three sons find their selves at the safe, all keys in hand, furious that the other brothers had keys as well. They decided to open it to see what's in it. On opening it they find a leg of lamb and a note that says, "God damn the man who wills his possessions prior to death!"
The only time my uncle's father laughed was after hearing that anecdote.
The day sped by. We played cards, an illegal act in Iran, and, as a consequence of losing a card game, Mehrdad had to paddle himself across a mucky quagmire-esque pond in a tin tub. My cousin and another friend conspired to spin him in the tub and on doing so the tub tipped. Mehrdad grasped the eldge of the pool and struggled to get out dry. Wet from the hips down and with a flare of vengeance burning in his eyes, he grabbed a fully clad family friend and pulled him in. A scuffle broke out, eventually ceased and the day came to and end. As the sun began to set we headed back to Tehran.
Seconds after pulling out of the ranch three soldiers clad in army green outfits stopped the car, asked the driver to get out of the car and open his trunk. Another soldier stuck his head in the car, pointed at a green bottle and said, "Is that Shom-pahyn?" Majid retorded that it was water and offered some to him. They eventually, and disappointedly, let us go and we were on our way.
From Tehran to Alisadr Cave
The Iranian countryside can be described, in one word, as sublime. Driving on a slightly disintegrated tw0-lane concrete stream, the arid desert quilt surrounded me. Far off in the distance the purple Alborz mountains flaunted its peaks and the rest of the landscape was a quilt of earth tones slightly reminiscent of a medley between the burnt-orange hues of Arizona and sparce groves of trees emulating a Florentine panorama.
Thick clouds nearly covered the sky taunting its below with an imminent rain, the air was thick with moisture, strikingly sharp rays of light breached through the pillowy crevaces in the sky, and a thin sheet of moisture metamorphed the highway to a mirror reflecting the white of the sun.
We were on the road that goes from Tehran to Hamadan, and our destination was Alisadr Cave, one of the largest water caves in the world. As we moved away from Tehran, the urban mega-oasis, the grasp of the Islamic Republic loosened and very small villages held rule in the area. The structures were simple cubicles holding conservative, self-sustaining villagers surviving with the ebbs and flows of their sheeps reproductive rate. Mehrdad, my cousin's bestfriend and the driver, pulled off to the side of the road so that I could take a picture of the shepherders.
"Naveed, If I tell you to run...run," my cousin half-jokingly, half-seriously told me as we neared a shepherd. He was young, maybe 15 years old, his hair was shaggy, his mustache was thin not because he had recently shaved but because puberty had just set in, and while shooting inquistive eyes in our direction he ran circles around his flock with stick in hand rounding up the sheep. With self-made moccassins, muddy brown draped pants that became wider towards his feet, and a white rough-cut shirt with rolled sleeves, he stood in place as we walked up to him and asked him for a picture. His posture became erect, he clasped his stick with both hands and bore it into the ground, and stared. I set my view on him, he was staring at the camera as if he was seeing one for the first time and clicked. We gave a thank-you, he nodded, and once-again he set out to round up the sheep.
On exiting Tehran there was a mandatory stop that doubled as a tollbooth and a protective buffer. After paying the ten cents necessary to get through we were asked to pull-over as a power-hungry soldier looked over every piece of documentation. He nodded us to go as if he'd done his job, but we, with nervous laughter, mocked him for not noticing the driver's home-made driver's lisence.
The conversations were endless. After sharing a mirthful verbal dual of curse words in our native tongues, my cousin began with the jokes. An Iranian joke is hard to translate because it is embedded with culture. The jokes are usually about a group of people, Turks and Rashts being the most popular to rip on.
"A Turkish man is walking across the street when a car swerves out of control and hits him. The Turk, bruised and battered a good six-feet away from the car gets up and yells, 'Aside from me, what if it was a person!"
"Three guys are getting ready to play a game of Spades. One of the three looks over to a Rashti man with a hand in his pocket and says, 'You playing?' The Rashti replies, 'No, I'm scratching it."
And the jokes go on and on. But story jokes are a minor form of obtaining laughter anywhere one goes. Usually it's statements in everday speech, and in Iran statements and sayings are used unique to the Farsi language.
We soon reached Alisadr cave, and prior to entering had a quick lunch. While eating, a boy approached us with a birdcage in his hand and neatly assorted cards in a box in his other hand. He asked us if we wanted our futures told, he opened the cage, a bird jumped out and nipped a random card out of the box. The boy gave it to us and it was a poem by Hafiz. What was initially a unique experience repeated itself, boy after boy, fifteen times before we left.
I noticed something when my cousin and I were buying the tickets.
In English was written: Ticket price - 150,000 Reals.
In Farsi was written: Ticket price - 37,000 Reals.
I'll leave it at that.
As we entered the cave the looming and lit up pictures of Khomeini and Khamenei were pinned up on the wall. After a bit of a walk moving through the thin passages of the grotto we reached a region where lines had formed and people were getting in boats tugged by a tourguide on a pedal boat. The tour guide gave us a line or two of fact and the rest was figured out by someone who scored high on his Rorschach test. This rock looks like the statue of liberty. This rock looks like a dove. Look! A two-headed lion. At one point the tour guide pointed out streaks of new stalagtites that spelled out Allah, in Arabic, on the ceiling. The cave was interesting and before being on our way I held a conversation with a group of Kurds.
We eventually got back in the cars and headed towards Qom.
Thick clouds nearly covered the sky taunting its below with an imminent rain, the air was thick with moisture, strikingly sharp rays of light breached through the pillowy crevaces in the sky, and a thin sheet of moisture metamorphed the highway to a mirror reflecting the white of the sun.
We were on the road that goes from Tehran to Hamadan, and our destination was Alisadr Cave, one of the largest water caves in the world. As we moved away from Tehran, the urban mega-oasis, the grasp of the Islamic Republic loosened and very small villages held rule in the area. The structures were simple cubicles holding conservative, self-sustaining villagers surviving with the ebbs and flows of their sheeps reproductive rate. Mehrdad, my cousin's bestfriend and the driver, pulled off to the side of the road so that I could take a picture of the shepherders.
"Naveed, If I tell you to run...run," my cousin half-jokingly, half-seriously told me as we neared a shepherd. He was young, maybe 15 years old, his hair was shaggy, his mustache was thin not because he had recently shaved but because puberty had just set in, and while shooting inquistive eyes in our direction he ran circles around his flock with stick in hand rounding up the sheep. With self-made moccassins, muddy brown draped pants that became wider towards his feet, and a white rough-cut shirt with rolled sleeves, he stood in place as we walked up to him and asked him for a picture. His posture became erect, he clasped his stick with both hands and bore it into the ground, and stared. I set my view on him, he was staring at the camera as if he was seeing one for the first time and clicked. We gave a thank-you, he nodded, and once-again he set out to round up the sheep.
On exiting Tehran there was a mandatory stop that doubled as a tollbooth and a protective buffer. After paying the ten cents necessary to get through we were asked to pull-over as a power-hungry soldier looked over every piece of documentation. He nodded us to go as if he'd done his job, but we, with nervous laughter, mocked him for not noticing the driver's home-made driver's lisence.
The conversations were endless. After sharing a mirthful verbal dual of curse words in our native tongues, my cousin began with the jokes. An Iranian joke is hard to translate because it is embedded with culture. The jokes are usually about a group of people, Turks and Rashts being the most popular to rip on.
"A Turkish man is walking across the street when a car swerves out of control and hits him. The Turk, bruised and battered a good six-feet away from the car gets up and yells, 'Aside from me, what if it was a person!"
"Three guys are getting ready to play a game of Spades. One of the three looks over to a Rashti man with a hand in his pocket and says, 'You playing?' The Rashti replies, 'No, I'm scratching it."
And the jokes go on and on. But story jokes are a minor form of obtaining laughter anywhere one goes. Usually it's statements in everday speech, and in Iran statements and sayings are used unique to the Farsi language.
We soon reached Alisadr cave, and prior to entering had a quick lunch. While eating, a boy approached us with a birdcage in his hand and neatly assorted cards in a box in his other hand. He asked us if we wanted our futures told, he opened the cage, a bird jumped out and nipped a random card out of the box. The boy gave it to us and it was a poem by Hafiz. What was initially a unique experience repeated itself, boy after boy, fifteen times before we left.
I noticed something when my cousin and I were buying the tickets.
In English was written: Ticket price - 150,000 Reals.
In Farsi was written: Ticket price - 37,000 Reals.
I'll leave it at that.
As we entered the cave the looming and lit up pictures of Khomeini and Khamenei were pinned up on the wall. After a bit of a walk moving through the thin passages of the grotto we reached a region where lines had formed and people were getting in boats tugged by a tourguide on a pedal boat. The tour guide gave us a line or two of fact and the rest was figured out by someone who scored high on his Rorschach test. This rock looks like the statue of liberty. This rock looks like a dove. Look! A two-headed lion. At one point the tour guide pointed out streaks of new stalagtites that spelled out Allah, in Arabic, on the ceiling. The cave was interesting and before being on our way I held a conversation with a group of Kurds.
We eventually got back in the cars and headed towards Qom.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Six-Hour Day, Pro-Deo
At 16 years years old he was chanting rally-starters when Ayatollah Khomeini, after 14 years of exhile, descended the airplane steps on February 1, 1979. But nearly thirty years later, while scooping a spoonful of rice and kabob, he confessed to taking a mental U-turn.
"The Islam of the republic isn't pure, and most people are starting to realize that. What we thought was going to change for the better in '79 either stayed the same or got worse."
As the principal of a prestigious high school in Tehran, his words represent the mental elite of the nation. Against the idea of forcing the hijab on women, or forcing bias for the state in the media a realization, at some point in his life, was made that something had gone askew.
The highschool that he is the principal of is among the top highschools, not only in Tehran, but in Iran. His student's have a 95 percent pass rate on the Konkoor, which is the equivalent of the SAT on meth. In fact, the highschool is designed to train students for the Konkoor, teaching them classes on the subjects of the test, seating them in chairs used in the test, and creating an atmosphere felt during the test.
The test is hell incarnate: after choosing which field of study one is interested in a student is given the konkoor that fits his or her field. One interested in the sciences takes a test encompassing a gamut of subjects ranging from physics, chemistry, and calculus. Student's, after finishing their 3rd year of highschool, begin studying for the konkoor, wiping summer break from their calendars aside for a two week breather.
"If you don't study six hours a day, know that you are behind," the principle told his students.
One of the students exhaled an air of depression while complaining that the last three years of his life had been nothing but awaking, studying and sleeping. And for a good reason. If one does poorly in the konkoor, one cannot go to college, and from that point on, if he or she stays in Iran, he or she is bound to a life of poverty. So in a ratrace for survival, the student's learn their Arabic conjugation and integral calculus knowing that if they fail shame is brought both to their families and their futures.
One of the student's failed to pass the konkoor with a high enough score the first time, so they lied to their relatives saying they had a job, and spent the next year studying, so that if they failed again, they would not be judged. Life is hard for a student in Iran.
One of the student's I met was planning on taking the SAT II subject tests, the ACT, and after finishing the two coming back to Iran to study the Konkoor, but having had difficulty with the signing-up process, he asked for my help. I agreed to assist him and with tears forming in his eyes he looked up and thanked Allah for sending me, his voice quavered with genuinity.
I went to his house, a tenth-story flat with a panoramic view of Tehran and the Alborz mountain range in the backdrop, and in a painstakingly dull process I filled out the two forms for him. Aside from the difficulty for an Iranian to fill out a registration made for Americans was the difficulty of location. His ACT would be taken in the University of California San Diego. Why? He would be staying in Los Angeles, but since his stay took place in the month of the fasting month of Ramadan, in order to be able to break the fast and eat for his test, he had to travel a certain distance away from his home. His SAT II would be taken in Dubai since funding didn't allow him to go back to America.
And say he did well, his creed was a blockade between him and colleges that require first-years to live in Dorms, drastically decreasing his choices.
I took a taxi from my friend's house home. The cab driver asked me where my accent was from and an uncomfortable silence formed when I dropped the A-bomb. I slowly started saying what a nice break Tehran was from America, what a wonderful city it was, so alive, so warm. (It is summer.) At one point the doors locked, and I began to get nervous, so I birdwalked the conversation over to creed and led him to believe I was a devout Muslim. He let loose.
His story was a sad one as well. Having scored well on the Konkoor, he studied computer engineering in the prestigious University of Tehran, but the last two years of his life had been spent finishing his mandatory military service. He complained that he'd forgotten everything he knew, and in three months he would have to find a job, but all his learnings had gone through the window. I eventually got home.
At the end of the day one thing was learned: education in Iran is profoundly important, excruciatingly difficult, and a journey that leads moreso to mere survival than to lucre. Even the principal confessed that 95 percent of his students want to finish their education and come to America for the mere reason that in America a daydream needn't stay a dream.
"The Islam of the republic isn't pure, and most people are starting to realize that. What we thought was going to change for the better in '79 either stayed the same or got worse."
As the principal of a prestigious high school in Tehran, his words represent the mental elite of the nation. Against the idea of forcing the hijab on women, or forcing bias for the state in the media a realization, at some point in his life, was made that something had gone askew.
The highschool that he is the principal of is among the top highschools, not only in Tehran, but in Iran. His student's have a 95 percent pass rate on the Konkoor, which is the equivalent of the SAT on meth. In fact, the highschool is designed to train students for the Konkoor, teaching them classes on the subjects of the test, seating them in chairs used in the test, and creating an atmosphere felt during the test.
The test is hell incarnate: after choosing which field of study one is interested in a student is given the konkoor that fits his or her field. One interested in the sciences takes a test encompassing a gamut of subjects ranging from physics, chemistry, and calculus. Student's, after finishing their 3rd year of highschool, begin studying for the konkoor, wiping summer break from their calendars aside for a two week breather.
"If you don't study six hours a day, know that you are behind," the principle told his students.
One of the students exhaled an air of depression while complaining that the last three years of his life had been nothing but awaking, studying and sleeping. And for a good reason. If one does poorly in the konkoor, one cannot go to college, and from that point on, if he or she stays in Iran, he or she is bound to a life of poverty. So in a ratrace for survival, the student's learn their Arabic conjugation and integral calculus knowing that if they fail shame is brought both to their families and their futures.
One of the student's failed to pass the konkoor with a high enough score the first time, so they lied to their relatives saying they had a job, and spent the next year studying, so that if they failed again, they would not be judged. Life is hard for a student in Iran.
One of the student's I met was planning on taking the SAT II subject tests, the ACT, and after finishing the two coming back to Iran to study the Konkoor, but having had difficulty with the signing-up process, he asked for my help. I agreed to assist him and with tears forming in his eyes he looked up and thanked Allah for sending me, his voice quavered with genuinity.
I went to his house, a tenth-story flat with a panoramic view of Tehran and the Alborz mountain range in the backdrop, and in a painstakingly dull process I filled out the two forms for him. Aside from the difficulty for an Iranian to fill out a registration made for Americans was the difficulty of location. His ACT would be taken in the University of California San Diego. Why? He would be staying in Los Angeles, but since his stay took place in the month of the fasting month of Ramadan, in order to be able to break the fast and eat for his test, he had to travel a certain distance away from his home. His SAT II would be taken in Dubai since funding didn't allow him to go back to America.
And say he did well, his creed was a blockade between him and colleges that require first-years to live in Dorms, drastically decreasing his choices.
I took a taxi from my friend's house home. The cab driver asked me where my accent was from and an uncomfortable silence formed when I dropped the A-bomb. I slowly started saying what a nice break Tehran was from America, what a wonderful city it was, so alive, so warm. (It is summer.) At one point the doors locked, and I began to get nervous, so I birdwalked the conversation over to creed and led him to believe I was a devout Muslim. He let loose.
His story was a sad one as well. Having scored well on the Konkoor, he studied computer engineering in the prestigious University of Tehran, but the last two years of his life had been spent finishing his mandatory military service. He complained that he'd forgotten everything he knew, and in three months he would have to find a job, but all his learnings had gone through the window. I eventually got home.
At the end of the day one thing was learned: education in Iran is profoundly important, excruciatingly difficult, and a journey that leads moreso to mere survival than to lucre. Even the principal confessed that 95 percent of his students want to finish their education and come to America for the mere reason that in America a daydream needn't stay a dream.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Madrasseh
In a bus packed with first-graders a little boy with a high-pitched voice asked, "Where are you from?" I said, "America." His eyes-widened, he screamed, and spread the news. In the back of the bus five little boys began the chant: "Death To America! Death to America!"
Twenty-five first graders in neon-green summer program t-shirts prayed in formation in an open-ended warehouse. An older student stood in front, mic in hand, echo set to high chanting the Qur'anic Arabic in his prepubescent voice. A hand tapped my shoulder as I watched, a fully bearded man with a draped button-up shirt and slacks beckoned me over to a corner of the room for an interview.
Being The American made me a celebrity figure brinking between fame and infamy. In the bus to the summer camp I autographed the students' notepads, wrote my phone number on the bill of one's cap and incited screams by flashing a dollar bill. But, not being one to bite my tongue, when asked if I believed that Allah was God I said No.
I was tactful though, I never said I was an unbeliever, but a searcher, which didn't make me one bound to go to hell, but with my prior readings and future aspirations one to become not just a cultured Muslim, but a Muslim with powerful conviction.
Nonetheless, the video camera was zoomed in on my face for an uncomfortable two-minutes prior to prayer, and when I declined the invite to pray was taken into a corner of the room.
The interview began.
- You've read the Bible, so you think Yahweh is God?
- I've read Harry Potter, and unfortunately magic isn't real.
- Then, do you believe Allah is God?
- Until I see Allah, I won't believe. Until I sense Him, I won't believe. Until I feel he's helped me, I won't believe.
- Then who created you?
- My mother and my father.
- Don't you think 19 years is enough time to find God?
- Some math problems have taken lifetimes to be solved and understood. Should the question of whether there is or isn't a God be easier than a small question for us humans?
Worried that I would never come back, he was told to shut the camera off, and I was led to the principal's desk in the corner of the prayer room. Around it were a group of teacher's, the principal as well as my uncle, who admired my inquisitiveness and willingness to strengthen the reasoning behind the words of the Qur'an.
A morbidly obese man with a goatee breathed heavily as he took humorously small sips of his tea, and on learning that I wasn't a Muslim picked up a hammer and facetiously readied to swing it at my head. After sitting down next to me I noticed his eyes shooting glares in my direction and in quick Farsi he asked my Uncle if I was cut. Once it was settled that I was circumcised, the conversation could be carried on.
The men at the table were interested in bolstering their own reasoning with my Devil's Advocate play. And the topic at hand was the seegheh, a temporary bind between a male and a female who want to have sex ending with a payment to the women. (See Prostitution.)
One of the men began.
- The Americans are sinning when they get girlfriends and boyfriends and freely have sex with no time set and no idea of what faithfulness truly means.
- After a month of having a seegheh can I sign myself up for another month?
- Yes.
- Can I do so for an indefinite amount of time?
- If the girl gets pregnant, no, but until then, yes.
- And I can jump around from one women to the next, having a seegheh two weeks with one girl, two weeks with another, etc.?
- Of course.
- Then how does that make Americans less faithful, and how is that not prostitution?
The men began to argue that they were faithful to their wives and to mitigate the antagonism that was beginning to build I began to carry a conversation about their families, the fun they have, and they shared with smiles on their face.
I asked one what his fondest memory is with his wife, and he said, "Honestly, the wedding night."
One of the men segwayed by calling one of his friend's the Iranian equivalent of "faggot" and the topic of homosexuality was set forth. Unfortunately, the conversation was cut short, but the direction it was going was that, aside from what scientists are saying, there are things that science has not yet learned, somehow making homosexuality a sin. And all I had to retort was by making them agree that the acts of Jesus Christ were reflections of the act of God, and stating that history tells us his friends were those that they are verbally smiting. They said history was skewed, and that a true messenger of God would not do such a thing. Later, another said that Jesus' purity is like an ocean and those sinners like specks of dust, and that though Jesus could remain pure, "I would not be able to stay unchanged."
A few of the men came swimming with me and my uncle and they spoke fondly of their pasts, one saying that the happiest they had ever been was "the moment that Ayatollah Khomeini walked down the steps of the airplane" marking the end of the revolution and the beginning of the Islamic republic. With a blunt 180 in the conversation I asked if they would partake in an act of jihad and they replied that if God wills it, they would gladly do so.
While swimming alone one of the kids doggy-paddled up and asked me if I prayed. When I said No his eyes widened and he said, "There is a God, Allah, and he wants you to pray to him, and if you don't you'll go to hell, a fiery place, with fires so furious." He called my Uncle over to to describe hell to me.
The day ended and my Uncle and I made our way to a friends house where we were to meet the rest of my family, and on the way there he taught me bits of poetry and spoke to me about the conversations he had heard me having today, about how the first step to strengthening faith is questioning it. I honestly was curious to see what he thought of me because I refused to fork my tongue and say I was something I wasn't. But, my uncle was both understanding and hopeful that my future would set me on the correct path.
The night ended with a get-together at an old friend's house. Prior to my mother and co.'s arrival I was speaking with Habib, a very devout Muslim, who critiqued me for reading the New York Times and for having it as my predominant news source. I asked him if he though Iran's sedition acts were fair, and he agreed. I pointed out the hypocrisy in his last two statements and he slowly pulled the conversation away.
When my mother and co. arrived Habib immediately stiffened up, hands behind his back, staring at the television out of some fear that if he stared at my sister and my cousin he would become impure. I'm not sure if that is his reasoning, but he sat alone away from the party. The night ended with the host awkwardly approaching my mother with a sheet of cloth and covered her arms. My mother tore it off when she could and the night dredged on like a horrible hangover.
Twenty-five first graders in neon-green summer program t-shirts prayed in formation in an open-ended warehouse. An older student stood in front, mic in hand, echo set to high chanting the Qur'anic Arabic in his prepubescent voice. A hand tapped my shoulder as I watched, a fully bearded man with a draped button-up shirt and slacks beckoned me over to a corner of the room for an interview.
Being The American made me a celebrity figure brinking between fame and infamy. In the bus to the summer camp I autographed the students' notepads, wrote my phone number on the bill of one's cap and incited screams by flashing a dollar bill. But, not being one to bite my tongue, when asked if I believed that Allah was God I said No.
I was tactful though, I never said I was an unbeliever, but a searcher, which didn't make me one bound to go to hell, but with my prior readings and future aspirations one to become not just a cultured Muslim, but a Muslim with powerful conviction.
Nonetheless, the video camera was zoomed in on my face for an uncomfortable two-minutes prior to prayer, and when I declined the invite to pray was taken into a corner of the room.
The interview began.
- You've read the Bible, so you think Yahweh is God?
- I've read Harry Potter, and unfortunately magic isn't real.
- Then, do you believe Allah is God?
- Until I see Allah, I won't believe. Until I sense Him, I won't believe. Until I feel he's helped me, I won't believe.
- Then who created you?
- My mother and my father.
- Don't you think 19 years is enough time to find God?
- Some math problems have taken lifetimes to be solved and understood. Should the question of whether there is or isn't a God be easier than a small question for us humans?
Worried that I would never come back, he was told to shut the camera off, and I was led to the principal's desk in the corner of the prayer room. Around it were a group of teacher's, the principal as well as my uncle, who admired my inquisitiveness and willingness to strengthen the reasoning behind the words of the Qur'an.
A morbidly obese man with a goatee breathed heavily as he took humorously small sips of his tea, and on learning that I wasn't a Muslim picked up a hammer and facetiously readied to swing it at my head. After sitting down next to me I noticed his eyes shooting glares in my direction and in quick Farsi he asked my Uncle if I was cut. Once it was settled that I was circumcised, the conversation could be carried on.
The men at the table were interested in bolstering their own reasoning with my Devil's Advocate play. And the topic at hand was the seegheh, a temporary bind between a male and a female who want to have sex ending with a payment to the women. (See Prostitution.)
One of the men began.
- The Americans are sinning when they get girlfriends and boyfriends and freely have sex with no time set and no idea of what faithfulness truly means.
- After a month of having a seegheh can I sign myself up for another month?
- Yes.
- Can I do so for an indefinite amount of time?
- If the girl gets pregnant, no, but until then, yes.
- And I can jump around from one women to the next, having a seegheh two weeks with one girl, two weeks with another, etc.?
- Of course.
- Then how does that make Americans less faithful, and how is that not prostitution?
The men began to argue that they were faithful to their wives and to mitigate the antagonism that was beginning to build I began to carry a conversation about their families, the fun they have, and they shared with smiles on their face.
I asked one what his fondest memory is with his wife, and he said, "Honestly, the wedding night."
One of the men segwayed by calling one of his friend's the Iranian equivalent of "faggot" and the topic of homosexuality was set forth. Unfortunately, the conversation was cut short, but the direction it was going was that, aside from what scientists are saying, there are things that science has not yet learned, somehow making homosexuality a sin. And all I had to retort was by making them agree that the acts of Jesus Christ were reflections of the act of God, and stating that history tells us his friends were those that they are verbally smiting. They said history was skewed, and that a true messenger of God would not do such a thing. Later, another said that Jesus' purity is like an ocean and those sinners like specks of dust, and that though Jesus could remain pure, "I would not be able to stay unchanged."
A few of the men came swimming with me and my uncle and they spoke fondly of their pasts, one saying that the happiest they had ever been was "the moment that Ayatollah Khomeini walked down the steps of the airplane" marking the end of the revolution and the beginning of the Islamic republic. With a blunt 180 in the conversation I asked if they would partake in an act of jihad and they replied that if God wills it, they would gladly do so.
While swimming alone one of the kids doggy-paddled up and asked me if I prayed. When I said No his eyes widened and he said, "There is a God, Allah, and he wants you to pray to him, and if you don't you'll go to hell, a fiery place, with fires so furious." He called my Uncle over to to describe hell to me.
The day ended and my Uncle and I made our way to a friends house where we were to meet the rest of my family, and on the way there he taught me bits of poetry and spoke to me about the conversations he had heard me having today, about how the first step to strengthening faith is questioning it. I honestly was curious to see what he thought of me because I refused to fork my tongue and say I was something I wasn't. But, my uncle was both understanding and hopeful that my future would set me on the correct path.
The night ended with a get-together at an old friend's house. Prior to my mother and co.'s arrival I was speaking with Habib, a very devout Muslim, who critiqued me for reading the New York Times and for having it as my predominant news source. I asked him if he though Iran's sedition acts were fair, and he agreed. I pointed out the hypocrisy in his last two statements and he slowly pulled the conversation away.
When my mother and co. arrived Habib immediately stiffened up, hands behind his back, staring at the television out of some fear that if he stared at my sister and my cousin he would become impure. I'm not sure if that is his reasoning, but he sat alone away from the party. The night ended with the host awkwardly approaching my mother with a sheet of cloth and covered her arms. My mother tore it off when she could and the night dredged on like a horrible hangover.
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