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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Tehran's Big Bazaar
Outside Tehran's metro entrance a police car, predominantly white with a green stripe going down it's door, was parked. Two soldiers stood next to a cold, rigid looking woman eyeing the women pouring down the staircase checking to see if they were adhereing to the dress code. My mother, my aunt, my cousin, my sister and I were walking across the street on our way to Tehran's Big Bazaar and my cousin pointed the police car - police van pair out not as a threat but a mere observation, and we, as a group, calmly dodged traffic, (By now I've gotten to the point where dodging cars can be done calmly.) and made our way to the metro entrance.
As we stepped on the sidewalk the women quickly whispered something to the soldier next to her and the man marched towards my sister and went to grab her wrist while the second soldier simultaneously opened the van door. My sister cowered behind my mother in fear and they kept asking her to please step into the van. My aunt and my cousin immediately told them that she is a foreigner, and my sister, in Farsi, stated that she's from America.
"But, she can speak Farsi," the soldier stupidly asked, as if the only people in the world who can speak Farsi are Iranian citizens. (There are more Farsi speakers outside of Iran than there are in Iran.)
My sister in English snapped that she could speak English too and the moral police let her off, but the experience had thoroughly frightened her.
We moved on into the metro, and after stepping into a co-ed section of the train we moved onto another station, switched to another metro, went five to six stops, and walked a good fourth of a mile until we turned into a narrow alley that led into the age-old structure.
The life of the bazaar is chaotic. In the background there is a steady stream of commentary being screamed about this-and-that product, either from the stationary stores selling their cheap jewlery, hookas, samovars, etc., from grown men selling loaves of bread or a half-hour shoe-shine, to eight year old boys tugging at your pant leg to tell you your future for a few tomans. This audio deluge pours from every corner of the open four story structure adding to the overwheling eye-candy of the spectacle.
Aside from the rickety, dilapidated appearance of the structure, the crumbled brick walls, the quickly assembled box-like stores built in the middle of the bazaar floor, the glitter and twinkle of stained glass gleaming off the surface of the samovars and hookas, the gaudy gold that seems to show up in every Iranians household, aside from the remarkable layout of the bazaar are the people.
From young to old, women to men, from a little boy carrying a bag larger than his body filling it up with sellable items, to the flabbily obese, gruff Iranian male with sweat sticking his shirt to his chest sipping tea and occasionally calling out a passer-by to buy his carpets, there are people of all kinds. As we walked through the masses we saw a drug addict leaning his forehead half-asleep, half-high against a wall touching his face with his hands. Such sights have mitigated since the Iranian government is going at great lenghts to cut back on drug addiction. In fact, the punishment for smoking crack isn't jail time, it's a lynching.
Tehran's Big Bazaar is a beacon of Iranian culture. In the trade of tomans for trinkets the vendor is not mechanically selling his product with the calculated give-and-take of a vending machine, but is charitably giving his product and graciously receiving currency for being so kind. I'm not saying that the vendors in the bazaar don't expect money, that is far, far from the truth, they do, but the beauty of the exchange is that it retains the self-righteous aspects of the culture that emphasize selfless giving while keeping in mind that a human being, be they American or Iranian, is eons away from being genuinely charitable.
As we stepped on the sidewalk the women quickly whispered something to the soldier next to her and the man marched towards my sister and went to grab her wrist while the second soldier simultaneously opened the van door. My sister cowered behind my mother in fear and they kept asking her to please step into the van. My aunt and my cousin immediately told them that she is a foreigner, and my sister, in Farsi, stated that she's from America.
"But, she can speak Farsi," the soldier stupidly asked, as if the only people in the world who can speak Farsi are Iranian citizens. (There are more Farsi speakers outside of Iran than there are in Iran.)
My sister in English snapped that she could speak English too and the moral police let her off, but the experience had thoroughly frightened her.
We moved on into the metro, and after stepping into a co-ed section of the train we moved onto another station, switched to another metro, went five to six stops, and walked a good fourth of a mile until we turned into a narrow alley that led into the age-old structure.
The life of the bazaar is chaotic. In the background there is a steady stream of commentary being screamed about this-and-that product, either from the stationary stores selling their cheap jewlery, hookas, samovars, etc., from grown men selling loaves of bread or a half-hour shoe-shine, to eight year old boys tugging at your pant leg to tell you your future for a few tomans. This audio deluge pours from every corner of the open four story structure adding to the overwheling eye-candy of the spectacle.
Aside from the rickety, dilapidated appearance of the structure, the crumbled brick walls, the quickly assembled box-like stores built in the middle of the bazaar floor, the glitter and twinkle of stained glass gleaming off the surface of the samovars and hookas, the gaudy gold that seems to show up in every Iranians household, aside from the remarkable layout of the bazaar are the people.
From young to old, women to men, from a little boy carrying a bag larger than his body filling it up with sellable items, to the flabbily obese, gruff Iranian male with sweat sticking his shirt to his chest sipping tea and occasionally calling out a passer-by to buy his carpets, there are people of all kinds. As we walked through the masses we saw a drug addict leaning his forehead half-asleep, half-high against a wall touching his face with his hands. Such sights have mitigated since the Iranian government is going at great lenghts to cut back on drug addiction. In fact, the punishment for smoking crack isn't jail time, it's a lynching.
Tehran's Big Bazaar is a beacon of Iranian culture. In the trade of tomans for trinkets the vendor is not mechanically selling his product with the calculated give-and-take of a vending machine, but is charitably giving his product and graciously receiving currency for being so kind. I'm not saying that the vendors in the bazaar don't expect money, that is far, far from the truth, they do, but the beauty of the exchange is that it retains the self-righteous aspects of the culture that emphasize selfless giving while keeping in mind that a human being, be they American or Iranian, is eons away from being genuinely charitable.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
"I'd Die For Iran"
Half a minute ago my cousin, laying on the floor seconds away from falling asleep, asked me, "Naveed, would you ever be a martyr?" I quoted Nietzsche saying I would always doubt my strongest convictions and would never let myself become so passionate about one ideology, and he replied by saying that he "know[s] one thing, he will die for Iran."
I did say yesterday that Iranian's are unhappy with Iran and want to leave, but the nationalism among Iranians is extreme. Every student is an activist, savvy in the politics of their country, quick to critique and quicker to defend, each Iranian is like Iran's older sibling, they can pick on Iran all they want, but if anybody else persecutes, they'll stand up.
The beginning of the day was hectic, going from bank to bank to open up an Iranian account for me. (Iranian interest rates are incredibly high, some banks give 20% rates.) On the way there a line at the gas station stretched a fourth of a mile because of the sanctions the Iranian government had enacted as of two weeks ago - each family is allowed one gallon a day per car - to ready the country for either a possible sanction by The West, and/or to save money so that when and if the West decides to intervene, they'll have enough oil to do without imports. Nonetheless, Iran is the fourth largest oil exporter in the world, and Iranians get their oil for - ready yourself - thirty cents a gallon. Thirty. Cents. A. Gallon. That is quite the social contract, give up your right to speak against the government, your right to go out with girls, your right to drink alcohol, but Gas Is Cheap.
Dinner tonight was at my cousin's house. His brother - my other cousin - lives in Los Angeles and I know him very well, and a night with his cousin is interesting since mannerisms, facial expressions, and tones of voice are remarkably similar. Walking into the household I remembered to keep my hands in my pockets when greeting the females. (A women came just to say hello and I had to wait for the cue to see if I should shake her hand or not, and when she did stick he hand out I fearfully, and subtly, stepped back, but caught on and shook back.) His daughter has a perpetual smile that is uber endearing and she quickly showed why the thesaurus has femininity and docility as synonyms. An American girl her age would have the obstinance of a rock, but she quickly gathered tea cups and offered everyone lemonade.
Eventually her brother came with the same down-to-earth, jubilant demeanor and sat down, and a little later his grandpa, my cousins' father, came.
The grandpa is in his seventies, an extremely devout Muslim, and possibly one of the most interesting people I've yet to meet. The majority of his statements were small talk, joking around with us kids, saying rudimentary English sayings making us laugh. He set up a chair next to himself, called my sister forth and began to interrogate her about her job as a kindergarten teacher, something he found interesting since he too was a teacher for young kids. He dismissed her, looked at me and said, "You Are Next," in English with every syllable stretched, every vowel elongated. I took a seat next to him and after making sure I could speak Farsi by testing my vocabulary he taught me a poem by Sa'di that essentially said "We are one." At one point he spoke of his younger days, how he protested against the Shah and screamed, "Death to America!" in the streets, and I asked him if he was at Black Friday.
Black Friday was on September 8, 1978 when the Shah, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, declared martial law massacring a group of protestors, a gruesome date in modern Iran's history, and he had been there. He said that since he'd had military training he knew to hide in the gutters, and he could hear the poor protestors running straight towards the gunmen, and when they left he came out and helped bandage the wounded and take them to hospitals. He said there was alot of something, but I hadn't heard the word. "Alot of blood?" I asked. He smiled, and told me to keep eating my rice.
While in a conversation with my sister, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder, and my cousins' grandpa had a thick book in his hands, he kissed it, bowed his head and gave it to me. It was the Qur'an, in English, Farsi and Arabic. Flattered, I had nothing to say but thank-you, but he made it easy for me.
Genuine passion is not a rarity in Iran. Men and women are faithful to the bone to both their creed and their country, and the system perpetuates such vigor. For a revolution to occur one generation would have to be a marty for a next. To reap the benefits of their own bloodshed would be ideal, but most don't want that drastic of a change, and most wouldn't be willing to give their lives for change. So, Iranian citizen's remain devout and nationalistic. The Iranian military gives no wage, it's mandatory for two years, but a majority of the young are willing to give their lives for Iran, not necessarily for God, but for the simple idea that it is their home, their land and their pride.
I did say yesterday that Iranian's are unhappy with Iran and want to leave, but the nationalism among Iranians is extreme. Every student is an activist, savvy in the politics of their country, quick to critique and quicker to defend, each Iranian is like Iran's older sibling, they can pick on Iran all they want, but if anybody else persecutes, they'll stand up.
The beginning of the day was hectic, going from bank to bank to open up an Iranian account for me. (Iranian interest rates are incredibly high, some banks give 20% rates.) On the way there a line at the gas station stretched a fourth of a mile because of the sanctions the Iranian government had enacted as of two weeks ago - each family is allowed one gallon a day per car - to ready the country for either a possible sanction by The West, and/or to save money so that when and if the West decides to intervene, they'll have enough oil to do without imports. Nonetheless, Iran is the fourth largest oil exporter in the world, and Iranians get their oil for - ready yourself - thirty cents a gallon. Thirty. Cents. A. Gallon. That is quite the social contract, give up your right to speak against the government, your right to go out with girls, your right to drink alcohol, but Gas Is Cheap.
Dinner tonight was at my cousin's house. His brother - my other cousin - lives in Los Angeles and I know him very well, and a night with his cousin is interesting since mannerisms, facial expressions, and tones of voice are remarkably similar. Walking into the household I remembered to keep my hands in my pockets when greeting the females. (A women came just to say hello and I had to wait for the cue to see if I should shake her hand or not, and when she did stick he hand out I fearfully, and subtly, stepped back, but caught on and shook back.) His daughter has a perpetual smile that is uber endearing and she quickly showed why the thesaurus has femininity and docility as synonyms. An American girl her age would have the obstinance of a rock, but she quickly gathered tea cups and offered everyone lemonade.
Eventually her brother came with the same down-to-earth, jubilant demeanor and sat down, and a little later his grandpa, my cousins' father, came.
The grandpa is in his seventies, an extremely devout Muslim, and possibly one of the most interesting people I've yet to meet. The majority of his statements were small talk, joking around with us kids, saying rudimentary English sayings making us laugh. He set up a chair next to himself, called my sister forth and began to interrogate her about her job as a kindergarten teacher, something he found interesting since he too was a teacher for young kids. He dismissed her, looked at me and said, "You Are Next," in English with every syllable stretched, every vowel elongated. I took a seat next to him and after making sure I could speak Farsi by testing my vocabulary he taught me a poem by Sa'di that essentially said "We are one." At one point he spoke of his younger days, how he protested against the Shah and screamed, "Death to America!" in the streets, and I asked him if he was at Black Friday.
Black Friday was on September 8, 1978 when the Shah, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, declared martial law massacring a group of protestors, a gruesome date in modern Iran's history, and he had been there. He said that since he'd had military training he knew to hide in the gutters, and he could hear the poor protestors running straight towards the gunmen, and when they left he came out and helped bandage the wounded and take them to hospitals. He said there was alot of something, but I hadn't heard the word. "Alot of blood?" I asked. He smiled, and told me to keep eating my rice.
While in a conversation with my sister, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder, and my cousins' grandpa had a thick book in his hands, he kissed it, bowed his head and gave it to me. It was the Qur'an, in English, Farsi and Arabic. Flattered, I had nothing to say but thank-you, but he made it easy for me.
Genuine passion is not a rarity in Iran. Men and women are faithful to the bone to both their creed and their country, and the system perpetuates such vigor. For a revolution to occur one generation would have to be a marty for a next. To reap the benefits of their own bloodshed would be ideal, but most don't want that drastic of a change, and most wouldn't be willing to give their lives for change. So, Iranian citizen's remain devout and nationalistic. The Iranian military gives no wage, it's mandatory for two years, but a majority of the young are willing to give their lives for Iran, not necessarily for God, but for the simple idea that it is their home, their land and their pride.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The Consequence of a Handshake
The more I speak with the youth here the more I learn about the perks of an Islamic Republic. Today I was speaking with a friend of mine about the trafficking of illegal substances and "girl play" in Iran. Though prohibition is enacted in Iran, if one has the right connections one can have any alcoholic substance of their choice delivered to their door. My cynical friend also stated that the government is the one importing marijuana, hashish, opium, etc. into the nation and making a profit from prices inflated because of the illegality, but I'm not sure how much to believe him. And as far as "girl play" went he told me that since flirting is a punishable act, a male needs only to slip the girl of his choice a phone number, and the game begins when she calls him. He joked, "They make the difficult part illegal, so you can just take her straight home." If anything, according to my friend, the police can be paid off for most crimes. Friends of his had been caught in the act with a girl, but fifty dollars later the police was nowhere to be seen. That conversation was in the evening, though.
An odd sleep schedule had me awake at 6:15 A.M. and the day creeped slowly by from there. The majority of my time was spent with my aunt and my mother in government offices trying to finish some of my paperwork so that I can come and go as I please in Iran.
The organization of the office I was in, the Iranian equivalent of a DMV, was extremely unorganized. One women was sitting behind a desk with a crowd of twenty-five to thirty veiled women hollering questions out for her to answer. The women was unusually blase in demeanor, quietly sipping her tea and occasionally putting a sugar cube in her mouth, singling out a woman among the veiled storm that didn't damper her day and answering the enquirers question. Priority was given to males and I exploited that, I pushed myself through a crowd throwing a platitude out to tactfully abate the awkwardness and, picking up on the answerer's name, screamed it out and my request was immediately received. She quickly looked down with an occasional adjustment of her hijab, writing down the steps I would have to take to achieve the task at hand. I told her in my distorted Farsi that I was impressed by her calmness, and she broke out in laughter and began gloating about being Employee of the Month.
My Uncle's house is in an upper-class region of Tehran, his apartment had a large flat-screen television, persian rugs that covered the carpet, and a predominant antiquated Persian embellishment with a gaudy gold finish. Each of us sitting down on a separate chair the wife quickly brought us a sweetened drink, what could be described as a syrupy orange juice, and a small pastry, later she gave each of us a plateful of peaches, cherries, and other assorted fruits. The initial silence was a tad bit awkward as my uncle spoke to my mother about me in the third person saying how much I'd grown, etc.
Roughly ten minutes into the forced conversation a knock came to the door, the wife quickly went to the door and opened it. A women walked in, a relative of the household, her hijab wrapped tightly around her head covering every strand of hair, she compulsively adjusted it every minute or so, shared a coy smile with the new guests as she circled the room giving the customary introduction, the hellos, the how-are-yous, and the repetitition had ingrained itself in my natural reflexes. As she got to me, the only foreign male in the room, my idle hand impulsively extended itself beckoning for a handshake. As my hand shot outward my Aunt behind her immediately began to wave her arms like a victim on a sinking shape trying to get the attention of a passing vessel, her arms were vigorously moving about and she was mouthing the words, "NO! NO! NO!" My mother yelled at me to put my hand down, and I immediately reached for the sky and apologized over and over again, but the whole room, besides the women in front of me, began to laugh wildly.
I eventually began to talk with Farzad, a cousin, essentially, and his genuine cynicism, his lackadaisical perception of life and its meaning, and his agressive anti-Islamic Republic character traits were fascinating. He explained his days as a yawn. Having majored in Civil Engineering, he works as a construction worker making a mere three dollars an hour, to finish the day with a short sleep, and waking up to renew the cycle. But it was he who told me about the copious influx of alcohol and drugs, the partying, the girls. For him marriage, especially with an Iranian girl, would be a hassle. So his contentment came with a life of work and satiation.
His view of women, though, rang with the chauvinistic ideologies of the state. The jokes he made spoke of women solely as an object of obsession, women were moreso a hard-to-acquire-drug to be used and thrown away. He said the state made it easy for the men too, a man can get a seegheh, which is a short-term marriage, often lasting for a month, for the purpose of legalizing lewd and lascivious acts. In the smaller villages men get seegheh's that are nine-years old, not having even met the age of puberty.
Nonetheless, I've yet to meet someone my age who actually likes it in Iran. Most of the youth can't handle the government. Farzad said, "A human will always be a human, everyone drinks, everyone has sex, these things will happen whether the government makes it illegal or not."
An odd sleep schedule had me awake at 6:15 A.M. and the day creeped slowly by from there. The majority of my time was spent with my aunt and my mother in government offices trying to finish some of my paperwork so that I can come and go as I please in Iran.
The organization of the office I was in, the Iranian equivalent of a DMV, was extremely unorganized. One women was sitting behind a desk with a crowd of twenty-five to thirty veiled women hollering questions out for her to answer. The women was unusually blase in demeanor, quietly sipping her tea and occasionally putting a sugar cube in her mouth, singling out a woman among the veiled storm that didn't damper her day and answering the enquirers question. Priority was given to males and I exploited that, I pushed myself through a crowd throwing a platitude out to tactfully abate the awkwardness and, picking up on the answerer's name, screamed it out and my request was immediately received. She quickly looked down with an occasional adjustment of her hijab, writing down the steps I would have to take to achieve the task at hand. I told her in my distorted Farsi that I was impressed by her calmness, and she broke out in laughter and began gloating about being Employee of the Month.
My Uncle's house is in an upper-class region of Tehran, his apartment had a large flat-screen television, persian rugs that covered the carpet, and a predominant antiquated Persian embellishment with a gaudy gold finish. Each of us sitting down on a separate chair the wife quickly brought us a sweetened drink, what could be described as a syrupy orange juice, and a small pastry, later she gave each of us a plateful of peaches, cherries, and other assorted fruits. The initial silence was a tad bit awkward as my uncle spoke to my mother about me in the third person saying how much I'd grown, etc.
Roughly ten minutes into the forced conversation a knock came to the door, the wife quickly went to the door and opened it. A women walked in, a relative of the household, her hijab wrapped tightly around her head covering every strand of hair, she compulsively adjusted it every minute or so, shared a coy smile with the new guests as she circled the room giving the customary introduction, the hellos, the how-are-yous, and the repetitition had ingrained itself in my natural reflexes. As she got to me, the only foreign male in the room, my idle hand impulsively extended itself beckoning for a handshake. As my hand shot outward my Aunt behind her immediately began to wave her arms like a victim on a sinking shape trying to get the attention of a passing vessel, her arms were vigorously moving about and she was mouthing the words, "NO! NO! NO!" My mother yelled at me to put my hand down, and I immediately reached for the sky and apologized over and over again, but the whole room, besides the women in front of me, began to laugh wildly.
I eventually began to talk with Farzad, a cousin, essentially, and his genuine cynicism, his lackadaisical perception of life and its meaning, and his agressive anti-Islamic Republic character traits were fascinating. He explained his days as a yawn. Having majored in Civil Engineering, he works as a construction worker making a mere three dollars an hour, to finish the day with a short sleep, and waking up to renew the cycle. But it was he who told me about the copious influx of alcohol and drugs, the partying, the girls. For him marriage, especially with an Iranian girl, would be a hassle. So his contentment came with a life of work and satiation.
His view of women, though, rang with the chauvinistic ideologies of the state. The jokes he made spoke of women solely as an object of obsession, women were moreso a hard-to-acquire-drug to be used and thrown away. He said the state made it easy for the men too, a man can get a seegheh, which is a short-term marriage, often lasting for a month, for the purpose of legalizing lewd and lascivious acts. In the smaller villages men get seegheh's that are nine-years old, not having even met the age of puberty.
Nonetheless, I've yet to meet someone my age who actually likes it in Iran. Most of the youth can't handle the government. Farzad said, "A human will always be a human, everyone drinks, everyone has sex, these things will happen whether the government makes it illegal or not."
Friday, July 13, 2007
An American Boy in Tehran, After Lunch
The afternoon sped by after a quick lunch and a quick nap, and my cousin and I set out to a plaza called Haft-Hoz lined with various stores selling fake brand-named clothing, restuarants, etc. As we walked along the main street my cousin explained to me that the street was known for "girl-play,"and I instantly thought of prostitution. But, in the Islamic Republic of Iran everything risque, lewd and lascivious is drastically mitigated in meaning. Men and women are not allowed to be seen together in Iran if they are not married, and the only means of legally getting married in Iran is by an arranged marriage by request of the male and his parents. As we walked by a grandiose police station juxtaposed conveniently to a mosque with fifteen police cars having lined the streets in that area as well as many policemen, my cousin told me that if a male is caught even giving his phone number to a female they can be prosecuted (persecuted).
Though I was planning on doing so, I decided to pass on "girl-play," and kept my phone number to myself.
We had planned a rendezvous with one of my cousin's friends and went about picking two others up. As we met each one a double-kiss was customary and I was taken aback by the level of comfort and openness that each friend shared with the other. Farzand, a fair-skinned, bigger-built Iranian with voluminous hair wasn't afraid to use his voice, and he immediately started a conversation with me about film. He listed his favorte movies and actors, Mare-ell eh-streep, Kee-uh-noo Rihvs, Veel Eh-Smeth, and jokingly ooed and ahhed as I corrected his accent.
Farzand and I got along well. We began talking about the politics of Iran and his liberal views thoroughly surprised me. Against the idea of Islamic and Republic being used in the same title and against the politics of Ahmadinejad, Farzand stated that George W. Bush is good for Iran, because a president like Ahmadinejad needs someone to keep him in check. I left America which has a 20% approval rating for the man, and a liberal male in the Islamic Republic of Iran is telling me that President Bush is a competent president.
After wiping the vomit from the side of my face, the conversation carried on and my cynical friend, maybe that's why I was drawn to him, told me that Iran definitely had atomic bombs, and that Iran, with contempt for America and with the fear of Apocalypse with the coming of the Prophet of Time, would, if it could, drop an A-Bomb on Israel. Later the same person who was opining these far, far left political ideas thought I was mentally-retarded for saying that I'd marry a girl if I knew she wasn't a virgin.
The car-ride took us to Bom, another place for get-togethers built atop a mountain where I glimpsed a fantastic panorama of Tehran. We later receded into a building with a mini bumpercar rink and shared a game of foosball, or hand futbol, with the guys. After a sweat-and-scream inducing game we dropped our shoulders and sipped on non-alcoholic beers.
After dropping Farzand off after he through a small hissy-fit about wanting to be home, we drove to yet another hooka bar, since Majeed, one of the friends, was going to school three hours away in Shomal the next day. The time spent with my cousin and his friends was enjoyable. While on the road they gasped everytime a high-end Mercedes drove by and asked me a steady stream of questions about America and the people there.
"So, are all American women not virgins?"
"How big is your house?"
"Do you go see movies with girls?"
"How fast is your internet?"
The six of them, though, were unhappy with Tehran and wanted out. Farzand reiterated time and time again that I should not live in Tehran and that the fun I was having was a mere facade.
As I told my cousin about my future plans of going to Egypt, he told me, "and if you're lucky you can get your greencard, go to America and get a decent job." We eventually left the hooka bar. The car ride home took longer than expected because Majeed vomited twice on the way back. The friends immediately pulled the car over and in an act of hospitality I had never seen, got out and bought him a drink from the closest store, offered him gum.
Eventually my cousin and I were dropped off and after a long day, made ourselves ready for bed. As I dozed off I thought about my cousins, his friends and the familial, fraternal bonds they shared.
Though I was planning on doing so, I decided to pass on "girl-play," and kept my phone number to myself.
We had planned a rendezvous with one of my cousin's friends and went about picking two others up. As we met each one a double-kiss was customary and I was taken aback by the level of comfort and openness that each friend shared with the other. Farzand, a fair-skinned, bigger-built Iranian with voluminous hair wasn't afraid to use his voice, and he immediately started a conversation with me about film. He listed his favorte movies and actors, Mare-ell eh-streep, Kee-uh-noo Rihvs, Veel Eh-Smeth, and jokingly ooed and ahhed as I corrected his accent.
Farzand and I got along well. We began talking about the politics of Iran and his liberal views thoroughly surprised me. Against the idea of Islamic and Republic being used in the same title and against the politics of Ahmadinejad, Farzand stated that George W. Bush is good for Iran, because a president like Ahmadinejad needs someone to keep him in check. I left America which has a 20% approval rating for the man, and a liberal male in the Islamic Republic of Iran is telling me that President Bush is a competent president.
After wiping the vomit from the side of my face, the conversation carried on and my cynical friend, maybe that's why I was drawn to him, told me that Iran definitely had atomic bombs, and that Iran, with contempt for America and with the fear of Apocalypse with the coming of the Prophet of Time, would, if it could, drop an A-Bomb on Israel. Later the same person who was opining these far, far left political ideas thought I was mentally-retarded for saying that I'd marry a girl if I knew she wasn't a virgin.
The car-ride took us to Bom, another place for get-togethers built atop a mountain where I glimpsed a fantastic panorama of Tehran. We later receded into a building with a mini bumpercar rink and shared a game of foosball, or hand futbol, with the guys. After a sweat-and-scream inducing game we dropped our shoulders and sipped on non-alcoholic beers.
After dropping Farzand off after he through a small hissy-fit about wanting to be home, we drove to yet another hooka bar, since Majeed, one of the friends, was going to school three hours away in Shomal the next day. The time spent with my cousin and his friends was enjoyable. While on the road they gasped everytime a high-end Mercedes drove by and asked me a steady stream of questions about America and the people there.
"So, are all American women not virgins?"
"How big is your house?"
"Do you go see movies with girls?"
"How fast is your internet?"
The six of them, though, were unhappy with Tehran and wanted out. Farzand reiterated time and time again that I should not live in Tehran and that the fun I was having was a mere facade.
As I told my cousin about my future plans of going to Egypt, he told me, "and if you're lucky you can get your greencard, go to America and get a decent job." We eventually left the hooka bar. The car ride home took longer than expected because Majeed vomited twice on the way back. The friends immediately pulled the car over and in an act of hospitality I had never seen, got out and bought him a drink from the closest store, offered him gum.
Eventually my cousin and I were dropped off and after a long day, made ourselves ready for bed. As I dozed off I thought about my cousins, his friends and the familial, fraternal bonds they shared.
An American Boy In Tehran
Yesterday morning was our first official day in Iran. Woken up at an early hour by the chitter-chatter of the family, I woke up and made it to the living area despite the head rush cataract that was blinding me. I was reminded to say good-morning to everyone awake and was led to the kitchen for breakfast.
At six o'clock that morning the breadwinner of the household, my uncle, had walked down to the local noonvay, to get a fresh batch of bread, the scent of which made my mouth water with the first whiff. Breakfast supplies were set out, butter, goat cheese, an Iranian take on Nutella, and an Iranian breakfast spread called halva. A bite of bread and spread quaffed with a sip of hot tea is a delicious duo.
My cousins, my sister and I eventually headed out aimlessly with the vague request of "show[ing] us Tehran," and they drove (and as I've already mentioned, a half-hour on the streets of Tehran is enough to make anybody appreciate every living moment of their lives. How nonchalantly I saw a women, purse in hand, not a tincture of emotion - fear, if anything - on her face, walking like Frogger through the death derby.) us to Darband.
Darband was an awe-inspiring site. A series of shops, coffee houses, restaurants and hooka bars have been built pressed against a small mountain that begins to create the vast Alborz mountain range that stretches across Iran. Hundreds of men and women walk through small alley ways made by the wall of the mountain and a river runnning to the right. We went to an outdoor hooka bar, smoked Orange-flavored hooka, sipped tea, had a fig each, and kept eachother laughing by sharing slang and tongue-twisters in both English and Farsi.
Upon leaving, after each sharing a carton of blackberries, the six of us crammed ourselves in the small car, and a trio of young Persian girls chided us with a, "Poor kids, there car has no room." After a request from my cousins, I responded with a, "Poor kids, they have no car." Such verbal jousting is completely ordinary in the streets of Tehran. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the California accent bends and distorts my Farsi making it very obvious that I'm American. So, I got a smile.
We left Darband and headed back home for some sustenance.
At six o'clock that morning the breadwinner of the household, my uncle, had walked down to the local noonvay, to get a fresh batch of bread, the scent of which made my mouth water with the first whiff. Breakfast supplies were set out, butter, goat cheese, an Iranian take on Nutella, and an Iranian breakfast spread called halva. A bite of bread and spread quaffed with a sip of hot tea is a delicious duo.
My cousins, my sister and I eventually headed out aimlessly with the vague request of "show[ing] us Tehran," and they drove (and as I've already mentioned, a half-hour on the streets of Tehran is enough to make anybody appreciate every living moment of their lives. How nonchalantly I saw a women, purse in hand, not a tincture of emotion - fear, if anything - on her face, walking like Frogger through the death derby.) us to Darband.
Darband was an awe-inspiring site. A series of shops, coffee houses, restaurants and hooka bars have been built pressed against a small mountain that begins to create the vast Alborz mountain range that stretches across Iran. Hundreds of men and women walk through small alley ways made by the wall of the mountain and a river runnning to the right. We went to an outdoor hooka bar, smoked Orange-flavored hooka, sipped tea, had a fig each, and kept eachother laughing by sharing slang and tongue-twisters in both English and Farsi.
Upon leaving, after each sharing a carton of blackberries, the six of us crammed ourselves in the small car, and a trio of young Persian girls chided us with a, "Poor kids, there car has no room." After a request from my cousins, I responded with a, "Poor kids, they have no car." Such verbal jousting is completely ordinary in the streets of Tehran. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the California accent bends and distorts my Farsi making it very obvious that I'm American. So, I got a smile.
We left Darband and headed back home for some sustenance.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A First Day
I'm sitting here right now with my two cousins and they're completely enthralled by my iPhone, they are in complete awe of the technology and are slowly figuring out its every function. The two of them are extremely amiable, one just having got married, the other still in college, and the warm feeling is incredibly inviting.
But, it has taken 22 hours of travel to get to this apartment in Tehran.
The beginning of the trip consisted of the normal chaos of travel in SFO, baggage check, metal detectors, a monotone women's voice telling me that the terror alert is at Orange and that I should be looking around for anything suspicious, an open grenade, Osama bin Laden, my not- yet-grown mullah-esque beard. Nonetheless, SFO to Amsterdam was a smooth flight, but what I noticed about service in American airlines was the feeling that I was not a human being but just another thing. The drinks were rationed out as if we were facing a drought up tens of thousands of feet in the air, sneer looks were given when assistance was asked for, and behind every cheesy, quintessential stewardess smile lies something that made me, at least, feel slightly uncomfortable.
Once in Amsterdam we were immediately launched into the beginning of the emotional deluge. My mother met her brother, my uncle, that she hadn't seen for 32 years. Prior to landing we had viewed a picture of a thick black haired, desert-brown Iranian male with a mouthful of pearly whites, but the uncle we met in Amsterdam was nearly unrecognizable. Truly the years had weighed down his every feature, from his cheeks that were losing to gravity, his teeth eroded by unfiltered cigarettes and a personality-type that didn't advocated hygiene, he tried to dress nicely, but one can always notice when another tries to dress nice for one specific occasion, but other than that wedding, funeral, reunion they're aloof. But he had traveled the world, was a polyglot with an arsenal of ten languages, and was enjoying himself.
My mother and him talked for the five hours of delay we had, and after an awkward goodbye, a forced European double-kiss that had obviously lost its natural, reflexive motion, we slowly went to the point of no return as he saw us away.
When we got on the airline to Iran the demeanor changed drastically, the Islamic Republic could be felt looming above, but the uncomfort was immediately swept away. When we first took our seats on the airplane instead of hearing a mechanical voice welcoming us to the airlines, we heard the voice of I'm not sure who telling us that God was watching over the flight and that they wished us a safe trip. After the plane was in flight the stewardesses were extremely hospitable, as if each passenger was their guest, instead of giving a cold look when getting a request they gladly finished the task with a smile, the food was saffron rice and chicken, the man serving me offered me a whole can of Pepsi and offered me more if I got thirsty, during the meal the same man walked down the aisle with a tray full of bread for anybody to grab, they held conversations with the passengers, joked, jabbed, jested and created a very comfortable atmosphere, even though the plane was an older model and a bit more rickety than the brand new Boeing 747 we took on our long flight to Amsterdam.
My sister and my mother quickly clad theimselves in the shawls, covering their hair, they both looked foreign by the cacophonic clash of styles that they wore, their shawls were old-fashioned and off colored with the rest of their outfits.
When we entered the ariport the vibe was a little tense, especially on passport check. A tour group of Saudi Arabians in matching white coverings were in front of us as well as a harem of women in black abayas that covered their everything. We eventually made it through, got our luggage and finally met the family in an uproar of excitement, hellos and how-are-yous. The Iranian welcome is great, and after getting our luggage in the cars and seating situated we were on the Tehran roads.
Tehran's roads could be called chaotic, but the word wouldn't come close to defining them. Cars are unruly, serving from one lane to the other, making lanes of their own, pedestrians J-Walking with the will of what seems like a suicide, voices yelling, antiquated car horns beeping, seat belts are a thing of the future and needn't be worn, but we eventually made it home.
After a quick chat with the family we eventually relaxed, and are now getting ready for bed. All in all, a quick analysis of Iran can come with a comparison of its Airlines with Western airlines, in the latter I was a customer, in the former I was a guest. And one thing Iranians always make sure to do is to make sure their guests enjoy their stay.
But, it has taken 22 hours of travel to get to this apartment in Tehran.
The beginning of the trip consisted of the normal chaos of travel in SFO, baggage check, metal detectors, a monotone women's voice telling me that the terror alert is at Orange and that I should be looking around for anything suspicious, an open grenade, Osama bin Laden, my not- yet-grown mullah-esque beard. Nonetheless, SFO to Amsterdam was a smooth flight, but what I noticed about service in American airlines was the feeling that I was not a human being but just another thing. The drinks were rationed out as if we were facing a drought up tens of thousands of feet in the air, sneer looks were given when assistance was asked for, and behind every cheesy, quintessential stewardess smile lies something that made me, at least, feel slightly uncomfortable.
Once in Amsterdam we were immediately launched into the beginning of the emotional deluge. My mother met her brother, my uncle, that she hadn't seen for 32 years. Prior to landing we had viewed a picture of a thick black haired, desert-brown Iranian male with a mouthful of pearly whites, but the uncle we met in Amsterdam was nearly unrecognizable. Truly the years had weighed down his every feature, from his cheeks that were losing to gravity, his teeth eroded by unfiltered cigarettes and a personality-type that didn't advocated hygiene, he tried to dress nicely, but one can always notice when another tries to dress nice for one specific occasion, but other than that wedding, funeral, reunion they're aloof. But he had traveled the world, was a polyglot with an arsenal of ten languages, and was enjoying himself.
My mother and him talked for the five hours of delay we had, and after an awkward goodbye, a forced European double-kiss that had obviously lost its natural, reflexive motion, we slowly went to the point of no return as he saw us away.
When we got on the airline to Iran the demeanor changed drastically, the Islamic Republic could be felt looming above, but the uncomfort was immediately swept away. When we first took our seats on the airplane instead of hearing a mechanical voice welcoming us to the airlines, we heard the voice of I'm not sure who telling us that God was watching over the flight and that they wished us a safe trip. After the plane was in flight the stewardesses were extremely hospitable, as if each passenger was their guest, instead of giving a cold look when getting a request they gladly finished the task with a smile, the food was saffron rice and chicken, the man serving me offered me a whole can of Pepsi and offered me more if I got thirsty, during the meal the same man walked down the aisle with a tray full of bread for anybody to grab, they held conversations with the passengers, joked, jabbed, jested and created a very comfortable atmosphere, even though the plane was an older model and a bit more rickety than the brand new Boeing 747 we took on our long flight to Amsterdam.
My sister and my mother quickly clad theimselves in the shawls, covering their hair, they both looked foreign by the cacophonic clash of styles that they wore, their shawls were old-fashioned and off colored with the rest of their outfits.
When we entered the ariport the vibe was a little tense, especially on passport check. A tour group of Saudi Arabians in matching white coverings were in front of us as well as a harem of women in black abayas that covered their everything. We eventually made it through, got our luggage and finally met the family in an uproar of excitement, hellos and how-are-yous. The Iranian welcome is great, and after getting our luggage in the cars and seating situated we were on the Tehran roads.
Tehran's roads could be called chaotic, but the word wouldn't come close to defining them. Cars are unruly, serving from one lane to the other, making lanes of their own, pedestrians J-Walking with the will of what seems like a suicide, voices yelling, antiquated car horns beeping, seat belts are a thing of the future and needn't be worn, but we eventually made it home.
After a quick chat with the family we eventually relaxed, and are now getting ready for bed. All in all, a quick analysis of Iran can come with a comparison of its Airlines with Western airlines, in the latter I was a customer, in the former I was a guest. And one thing Iranians always make sure to do is to make sure their guests enjoy their stay.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
On The Brink of Travel
I'm in San Jose a day away from travelling to Iran.
From what I took from Iran a decade ago, I believe there are observations and judgements made that are still valuable, but in the way that the judgement of a child is valuable when it sees a sunrise and calls it "pretty."
The Dick and Jane adjectives that I have of Iran are the following: giving, old, different, chaotic. But the beauty of wisdom is that for every simple adjective a novel is written out, and that is what I'm planning on doing for the next month, finding novels to write about concerning Iran's antiquity, hospitality, cultural differences, etc.
For now all I have are memories. Soon, I will have tangible proof to tell me that the Dick and Jane vocabulary of the media (the nuclear, the dictator, the opressed, the warring, and the primitive) are as valid as calling a sunrise pretty, nothing less, nothing more.
Wish me a bon voyage. Next time I write I will be in Iran.
Adieu.
From what I took from Iran a decade ago, I believe there are observations and judgements made that are still valuable, but in the way that the judgement of a child is valuable when it sees a sunrise and calls it "pretty."
The Dick and Jane adjectives that I have of Iran are the following: giving, old, different, chaotic. But the beauty of wisdom is that for every simple adjective a novel is written out, and that is what I'm planning on doing for the next month, finding novels to write about concerning Iran's antiquity, hospitality, cultural differences, etc.
For now all I have are memories. Soon, I will have tangible proof to tell me that the Dick and Jane vocabulary of the media (the nuclear, the dictator, the opressed, the warring, and the primitive) are as valid as calling a sunrise pretty, nothing less, nothing more.
Wish me a bon voyage. Next time I write I will be in Iran.
Adieu.
Rumor of Attack
Rumor of Attack
The Economist, a British political newsmagazine, titled their February 10, 2007 issue “Next Stop Iran?” and objected, as an editorial position, to any hint of a war with Iran, fearing that such action would cause the Iranian people to stand closer to a government they have slowly yet consistently been edging away from.
“The idea for attacking another country for peace and democracy is simply absurd,” Ataei said. “Let’s not forget what happened in Iraq. You can’t attack another nation and expect the people to thank you for it.”
At one point in history, the Iranian government had established a democracy like those in the Western world, but the democracy did not last long after being thwarted by the United States government. During World War II, the USSR and Britain deposed of Reza Shah, king of Iran from 1925 to 1941, who they thought would ally Iran with the Axis powers. Reza Shah’s son, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, who was believed to be sympathetic to the West, then took power.
In 1953, the Shah faced an attempted revolution, fled the country, temporarily making Iran a democratic nation. Prime Minister Mohammed Mossadegh was elected, nationalized Iran’s oil fields, and had command of the army. American and British intelligence agencies, in the form of the CIA and MI6 forces, conducted a coup d’etat, which removed Mossadegh and reinstated Pahlavi, shattering Iran’s chance for a democracy.
Ataei commented on the intentions of western countries that claim they want to bring peace to Iran.
“The governments of these countries that are supposed to bring us democracy don’t really give a damn about us,” Ataei said. “They are after their own interests, and to them, a democratic government is a government that listens to what they say. If there is to be democracy in Iran it’s up to the Iranian people, not the west.”
Ali explained that if Iran was to be attacked by the United States the people would defend their country without considering the politics. He compared the country’s increased sense of nationalism to the period during the Iran-Iraq War.
The Iran-Iraq War was caused by border disputes and Iran’s demand for the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime. The war lasted from 1980 to 1988.
“In the Iran-Iraq War, many people volunteered to go to war, but they didn’t support the government,” Ali said. “They saw Iran under attack and saw a need to defend their country—nationalism will pick up, they will face whatever country is going to try to attack Iran…If the U.S. attacks Iran, the people will make a decision. They’re not going to cheer for the invading forces.”
On hearing about assertions made that Iran is on the brink of revolution, Mohammed defended his country’s unity.
“This is unbelievable that the Iranian people are not behind their government,” Mohammed said. “Our people are fully behind our government, and this is what America and Israel fear. We are friends with the people of the United States, but if the government wants to bring our name down, we will not sit and let this happen.”
When Ashkahn Jahromi, a first-year student at UCSC and second-generation Iranian, was asked what he thinks of Iran, he spoke of Iran’s history and culture, two aspects of Iran that are rarely mentioned in the media.
To Jahromi, Iran was the Cyrus Cylinder, a Babylonian cuneiform dating back to 530 B.C. with an account of Cyrus, king of Persia from 539-530 B.C. engraved on it; Persepolis, the capital of the Iran’s second dynasty and the setting of the country’s 2,500 year celebration; Omar Khayyam, the Persian poet who authored the Rubaiyat; Mossadegh, Iran’s prime-minister in the early 1950’s who instilled democracy; and Chelow Kabob, a national dish of Iran consisting of rice and kabob.
“I’m sick of being asked, ‘What do kids do for fun in Iran?” Jahromi said. “They do the exact same things we do here, they play sports, they play video games. The similarities are rarely shown in the media because that would strike too close to home. People are much more willing to fight a country made up entirely of extremists.”
But Fareedeh said that Iran is not the only country with problems, and not the only country with people who want change.
“I don’t think any society is ideal for either men or women,” Fareedeh said. “There is much that needs to be changed, and I am sure that you want some things changed in your society too. The path is open in Iran, but passage is difficult.”
The Economist, a British political newsmagazine, titled their February 10, 2007 issue “Next Stop Iran?” and objected, as an editorial position, to any hint of a war with Iran, fearing that such action would cause the Iranian people to stand closer to a government they have slowly yet consistently been edging away from.
“The idea for attacking another country for peace and democracy is simply absurd,” Ataei said. “Let’s not forget what happened in Iraq. You can’t attack another nation and expect the people to thank you for it.”
At one point in history, the Iranian government had established a democracy like those in the Western world, but the democracy did not last long after being thwarted by the United States government. During World War II, the USSR and Britain deposed of Reza Shah, king of Iran from 1925 to 1941, who they thought would ally Iran with the Axis powers. Reza Shah’s son, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, who was believed to be sympathetic to the West, then took power.
In 1953, the Shah faced an attempted revolution, fled the country, temporarily making Iran a democratic nation. Prime Minister Mohammed Mossadegh was elected, nationalized Iran’s oil fields, and had command of the army. American and British intelligence agencies, in the form of the CIA and MI6 forces, conducted a coup d’etat, which removed Mossadegh and reinstated Pahlavi, shattering Iran’s chance for a democracy.
Ataei commented on the intentions of western countries that claim they want to bring peace to Iran.
“The governments of these countries that are supposed to bring us democracy don’t really give a damn about us,” Ataei said. “They are after their own interests, and to them, a democratic government is a government that listens to what they say. If there is to be democracy in Iran it’s up to the Iranian people, not the west.”
Ali explained that if Iran was to be attacked by the United States the people would defend their country without considering the politics. He compared the country’s increased sense of nationalism to the period during the Iran-Iraq War.
The Iran-Iraq War was caused by border disputes and Iran’s demand for the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime. The war lasted from 1980 to 1988.
“In the Iran-Iraq War, many people volunteered to go to war, but they didn’t support the government,” Ali said. “They saw Iran under attack and saw a need to defend their country—nationalism will pick up, they will face whatever country is going to try to attack Iran…If the U.S. attacks Iran, the people will make a decision. They’re not going to cheer for the invading forces.”
On hearing about assertions made that Iran is on the brink of revolution, Mohammed defended his country’s unity.
“This is unbelievable that the Iranian people are not behind their government,” Mohammed said. “Our people are fully behind our government, and this is what America and Israel fear. We are friends with the people of the United States, but if the government wants to bring our name down, we will not sit and let this happen.”
When Ashkahn Jahromi, a first-year student at UCSC and second-generation Iranian, was asked what he thinks of Iran, he spoke of Iran’s history and culture, two aspects of Iran that are rarely mentioned in the media.
To Jahromi, Iran was the Cyrus Cylinder, a Babylonian cuneiform dating back to 530 B.C. with an account of Cyrus, king of Persia from 539-530 B.C. engraved on it; Persepolis, the capital of the Iran’s second dynasty and the setting of the country’s 2,500 year celebration; Omar Khayyam, the Persian poet who authored the Rubaiyat; Mossadegh, Iran’s prime-minister in the early 1950’s who instilled democracy; and Chelow Kabob, a national dish of Iran consisting of rice and kabob.
“I’m sick of being asked, ‘What do kids do for fun in Iran?” Jahromi said. “They do the exact same things we do here, they play sports, they play video games. The similarities are rarely shown in the media because that would strike too close to home. People are much more willing to fight a country made up entirely of extremists.”
But Fareedeh said that Iran is not the only country with problems, and not the only country with people who want change.
“I don’t think any society is ideal for either men or women,” Fareedeh said. “There is much that needs to be changed, and I am sure that you want some things changed in your society too. The path is open in Iran, but passage is difficult.”
Monday, July 9, 2007
Life, Liberty and Nuclear Energy
Life, Liberty, and Nuclear Energy
On July 1, 1968 Iran signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act—which gives the “inalienable right of all the Parties to the Treaty to develop research, production and use of nuclear energy for peaceful purposes”—allowing Iran the right to nuclear energy.
But Iran’s nuclear ambitions have surged in the last year, and so has international skepticism of the country’s “peaceful” nuclear program. Iranian officials have stated repeatedly that they are developing nuclear energy for peaceful purposes, but the United States government, along with the United Nations, have their doubts.
Ahmadinejad’s spokesmen Mohammed pushed a grassroots response to the question of why Iran does not want nuclear technology.
“Iran has many atomic bombs, the atomic bombs are the people,” Mohammed said, alluding to the power of a unified people.
Though Iran has repeatedly stated that it does not intend to become a nuclear power, journalist Ali defended Iran’s right to acquire nuclear technology by asking why Iran is under so much scrutiny for its nuclear program when Israel is thought to have the only nuclear arsenal in the middle-east due to a slip of the tongue by Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert on a German television station last December.
Reuters has since deleted the story, while the Associated Press did not write any stories pertaining to this incident.
“A country that has got some 200 nuclear weapons and never allows any inspection or questioning of its own program coming and speaking against Iran’s nuclear program is complete hypocrisy,” Ali said. “Israel is truly trying to get Iran into the military conflict, which could cost dearly for Iran. Israel has repeatedly threatened [to attack] Iran, and they have even spoke of using nuclear weapons.”
In 2005, the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) found Iran to be non-compliant with the NPT because it had failed to disclose information about its civilian uranium enrichment.
“It is not illegal to [not] report [information about nuclear facilities] until you reach the stage of enrichment,” Sadeghi said. “[Iranian officials] thought there would be no resistance. The also didn’t report their facilities because of Israel’s attack on Iraqi nuclear sites in the early 1980s. [The officials] thought that they should keep it secret until they were at a stage where they had to legally report it.”
For Iran, developing nuclear energy is a primarily motivated by a faltering economy that is dependent on a finite supply of oil.
Iran is the fourth largest exporter of crude oil, with 45 percent of its GDP coming from oil and gas revenue.
On July 1, 1968 Iran signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act—which gives the “inalienable right of all the Parties to the Treaty to develop research, production and use of nuclear energy for peaceful purposes”—allowing Iran the right to nuclear energy.
But Iran’s nuclear ambitions have surged in the last year, and so has international skepticism of the country’s “peaceful” nuclear program. Iranian officials have stated repeatedly that they are developing nuclear energy for peaceful purposes, but the United States government, along with the United Nations, have their doubts.
Ahmadinejad’s spokesmen Mohammed pushed a grassroots response to the question of why Iran does not want nuclear technology.
“Iran has many atomic bombs, the atomic bombs are the people,” Mohammed said, alluding to the power of a unified people.
Though Iran has repeatedly stated that it does not intend to become a nuclear power, journalist Ali defended Iran’s right to acquire nuclear technology by asking why Iran is under so much scrutiny for its nuclear program when Israel is thought to have the only nuclear arsenal in the middle-east due to a slip of the tongue by Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert on a German television station last December.
Reuters has since deleted the story, while the Associated Press did not write any stories pertaining to this incident.
“A country that has got some 200 nuclear weapons and never allows any inspection or questioning of its own program coming and speaking against Iran’s nuclear program is complete hypocrisy,” Ali said. “Israel is truly trying to get Iran into the military conflict, which could cost dearly for Iran. Israel has repeatedly threatened [to attack] Iran, and they have even spoke of using nuclear weapons.”
In 2005, the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) found Iran to be non-compliant with the NPT because it had failed to disclose information about its civilian uranium enrichment.
“It is not illegal to [not] report [information about nuclear facilities] until you reach the stage of enrichment,” Sadeghi said. “[Iranian officials] thought there would be no resistance. The also didn’t report their facilities because of Israel’s attack on Iraqi nuclear sites in the early 1980s. [The officials] thought that they should keep it secret until they were at a stage where they had to legally report it.”
For Iran, developing nuclear energy is a primarily motivated by a faltering economy that is dependent on a finite supply of oil.
Iran is the fourth largest exporter of crude oil, with 45 percent of its GDP coming from oil and gas revenue.
Women Unveiled
Women Unveiled
One image often seen as a dominant symbol in Iran is the ‘roosary,’ the garment that covers a woman’s hair in order to hide the hair’s sexual radiance. The roosary, many believe, symbolizes the patriarchy of a society that oppresses and subjugates its women.
A spokesman in President Ahmadinejad’s office, Mohammed, defended his country’s government in light of the belief that Iran oppresses its women.
“The way we live is the way of the people, and we are the people of [the 12th and final prophet]. We are governing this society so that when the last [prophet] comes, we are preserved and the other countries will perish,” Mohammed said in an interview with City on a Hill Press.
According to the Shi’ite sect of Islam, Imam al-Mahdi, or “Imam Zamaan,” is the 12th and final prophet. He has been granted prolonged life, hidden from the view of humans by Allah. When he reappears, according to Shi’ites, he will fill the world with justice and equity and instigate the apocalypse.
Mohammed, a Shi’ite Muslim, believes that Imam Zamaan will come. He asserted that the messages he was conveying were the messages of “the people of Iran, the president of Iran, the Supreme Leader of Iran, the Qur’an, the words of everybody.”
“If we wanted to be comfortable, we’d live sinfully. But we are persevering. We have learned from our mothers and fathers, we are going to stick with [the traditions and tenets of the Qu’ran], and Ahmadinejad will stick with it,” Mohammed said.
Journalist Ali said that gender equality is a very slow process. Women are attaining their rights in Iran “one nanometer at a time,” he said, explaining that women are showing their hair more and more with every passing day.
“The roosary has become a symbol more than anything else,” Ali said. “The pictures you see from Iran, [the roosary] is just barely hanging on.”
The year 2003 marked a milestone for Iranian women when the Nobel Peace Prize in Iran was awarded to Shirin Ebadi for her pioneering efforts for democracy and human rights.
According to the National Portal of Statistics, woman make up 62 percent of students who have obtained Bachelor’s degrees and 54 percent of students who have obtained professional doctorates in Iran.
“I went back to Iran and in my family all the girls were working, but the guys were not,” Ali said with a chuckle. “There’s still a lot of room for improvement, but I think that’s one area that is a global issue, not something unique to Iran.”
Fareedeh, a 25-year-old woman, lives in Tehran and has a Ph.D in biology. On hearing Ahmadinejad’s spokesman Mohammed’s statements about women’s rights, Fareedeh objected.
“I have gotten my Ph.D, and the government of Iran has given me money monthly to go get an education from anywhere in the world—even America—for finishing up my thesis, and they even give [graduate students] wages for our education,” she said. “The government of Iran doesn’t discriminate between males and females in this sense.”
Fareedeh explained that the status of modern Iranian women is not very restricted, as women have become deans, professors, lawyers, and even politicians.
She also disagreed with Mohammed’s assertion that women would never have the chance to become president.
“If a woman has enough inspiration, aspiration, and motivation, she can get aligned with a party, she can grow, she can become a mayor or representative, she can show she is able, then she can become president,” Fareedeh said.
In fact, 90—about 10 percent—of the candidates in Iran’s 2005 presidential election were women. As long as the candidates are approved by the Guardian Council, Iran’s version of the Supreme Court, they can run in the elections.
Fareedeh explained that she wears her roosary to maintain her “hijab,” or modesty, privacy, and morality as defined by the Qur’an.
Nader Sadeghi of CASMII explained that the image of the veil is exploited by American media as a form of propaganda depicting a false image of the country’s civil rights.
“One must be careful to not reduce women to how they are dressed up based on the unwarranted, useless and imposed dress code in Iran,” Sadeghi said. “Women gain power not through how they dress up, but through education and occupation of all kinds of jobs…that give economic power and economic independence within the family structure…The women voters of Iran are just as important as the men. And they are just as educated if not more [so] than men.”
Women currently comprise 30 percent of the work force in Iran, and even a larger segment of civil workers.
Fareedeh believes that the women’s rights debate is universal and should not be either restricted or limited to her country.
“Iran is not close to being ideal,” she said. “We have far to go. But to me, every society is like this. I was in Canada for six months, the women there were oppressed too, but their oppression had a different color.”
One image often seen as a dominant symbol in Iran is the ‘roosary,’ the garment that covers a woman’s hair in order to hide the hair’s sexual radiance. The roosary, many believe, symbolizes the patriarchy of a society that oppresses and subjugates its women.
A spokesman in President Ahmadinejad’s office, Mohammed, defended his country’s government in light of the belief that Iran oppresses its women.
“The way we live is the way of the people, and we are the people of [the 12th and final prophet]. We are governing this society so that when the last [prophet] comes, we are preserved and the other countries will perish,” Mohammed said in an interview with City on a Hill Press.
According to the Shi’ite sect of Islam, Imam al-Mahdi, or “Imam Zamaan,” is the 12th and final prophet. He has been granted prolonged life, hidden from the view of humans by Allah. When he reappears, according to Shi’ites, he will fill the world with justice and equity and instigate the apocalypse.
Mohammed, a Shi’ite Muslim, believes that Imam Zamaan will come. He asserted that the messages he was conveying were the messages of “the people of Iran, the president of Iran, the Supreme Leader of Iran, the Qur’an, the words of everybody.”
“If we wanted to be comfortable, we’d live sinfully. But we are persevering. We have learned from our mothers and fathers, we are going to stick with [the traditions and tenets of the Qu’ran], and Ahmadinejad will stick with it,” Mohammed said.
Journalist Ali said that gender equality is a very slow process. Women are attaining their rights in Iran “one nanometer at a time,” he said, explaining that women are showing their hair more and more with every passing day.
“The roosary has become a symbol more than anything else,” Ali said. “The pictures you see from Iran, [the roosary] is just barely hanging on.”
The year 2003 marked a milestone for Iranian women when the Nobel Peace Prize in Iran was awarded to Shirin Ebadi for her pioneering efforts for democracy and human rights.
According to the National Portal of Statistics, woman make up 62 percent of students who have obtained Bachelor’s degrees and 54 percent of students who have obtained professional doctorates in Iran.
“I went back to Iran and in my family all the girls were working, but the guys were not,” Ali said with a chuckle. “There’s still a lot of room for improvement, but I think that’s one area that is a global issue, not something unique to Iran.”
Fareedeh, a 25-year-old woman, lives in Tehran and has a Ph.D in biology. On hearing Ahmadinejad’s spokesman Mohammed’s statements about women’s rights, Fareedeh objected.
“I have gotten my Ph.D, and the government of Iran has given me money monthly to go get an education from anywhere in the world—even America—for finishing up my thesis, and they even give [graduate students] wages for our education,” she said. “The government of Iran doesn’t discriminate between males and females in this sense.”
Fareedeh explained that the status of modern Iranian women is not very restricted, as women have become deans, professors, lawyers, and even politicians.
She also disagreed with Mohammed’s assertion that women would never have the chance to become president.
“If a woman has enough inspiration, aspiration, and motivation, she can get aligned with a party, she can grow, she can become a mayor or representative, she can show she is able, then she can become president,” Fareedeh said.
In fact, 90—about 10 percent—of the candidates in Iran’s 2005 presidential election were women. As long as the candidates are approved by the Guardian Council, Iran’s version of the Supreme Court, they can run in the elections.
Fareedeh explained that she wears her roosary to maintain her “hijab,” or modesty, privacy, and morality as defined by the Qur’an.
Nader Sadeghi of CASMII explained that the image of the veil is exploited by American media as a form of propaganda depicting a false image of the country’s civil rights.
“One must be careful to not reduce women to how they are dressed up based on the unwarranted, useless and imposed dress code in Iran,” Sadeghi said. “Women gain power not through how they dress up, but through education and occupation of all kinds of jobs…that give economic power and economic independence within the family structure…The women voters of Iran are just as important as the men. And they are just as educated if not more [so] than men.”
Women currently comprise 30 percent of the work force in Iran, and even a larger segment of civil workers.
Fareedeh believes that the women’s rights debate is universal and should not be either restricted or limited to her country.
“Iran is not close to being ideal,” she said. “We have far to go. But to me, every society is like this. I was in Canada for six months, the women there were oppressed too, but their oppression had a different color.”
A Precarious President
A Precarious President
The American government depicts Iran as a major threat to global safety because of some infamous statements attributed to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad about a desire to wipe Israel off the map, a disbelief in the Holocaust, and development of nuclear power.
Ataei, however, says that the western media severely misquoted the president. In the actual transcript of President Ahmadinejad’s speech, he was quoting—or rather misquoting—a statement made by Ayatollah Khomeini, the leader of the 1979 Iranian Revolution, when the monarchy was overthrown and the theocratic republic took power.
“[Ahmadinejad] never said [Israel]; he used the term ‘Zionist regime,’” Ataei said. “Second, the Persian word for map wasn’t even in the original speech, nor was the term ‘wipe out.’ Yet we hear again and again that he threatened to ‘wipe Israel off the map.’”
In a word-for-word translation of Ahmadinejad’s statement, the following was said: “[Ayatollah Khomeini] said the regime occupying Jerusalem must vanish.”
Ali, the journalist, stressed that the media has used Iran's president as a tool and has underestimated the power of the current Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei.
“Actually, Ahmadinejad is truly just an excuse,” Ali said. “[America] worked with Iran to infiltrate Afghanistan, everybody admits that. But right after that, the United States came and said Iran is part of the ‘Axis of Evil.’” Ali continued, “The rhetoric that Ahmadinejad uses is perfect—he comes and says something about Israel, we blow it out of proportion, try to muddy the water, and do what we do. The fact is that Iran is no threat, and has never been a threat to the United States.”
Ahmadinejad—who was mayor of Tehran before winning the 2005 presidential election—has less power than the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei, according to Article 113 of the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran. President Ahmadinejad is not the commander-in-chief of Iran’s armed forces and cannot wage war without the Supreme Leader’s consent.
The Iranian republic has executive, legislative and judicial branches, but above these three is the Supreme Leader. Besides the ability to wage war and mobilize the forces, he can appoint, dismiss, and accept the resignation of various governmental positions.
The Supreme Leader clearly has more clout than the president, yet the American media has its eyes focused on Ahmadinejad.
Ataei said that Ahmadinejad is truly doing “a horrible job” as president, domestically more so than internationally.
“Don’t forget the people who voted for him were mostly lower class people and Ahmadinejad came to power promising them a better economy,” Ataei said. “But so far he hasn’t really done anything to fulfill his promises.”
Ataei continued, “The economy is in bad shape. Seventy percent of the Iranian population is under the age of 30 and many of them are well educated. Many of these students believe that Ahmadinejad is ruining Iran’s image in the international community.”
The Campaign Against Sanctions and Military Intervention in Iran (CASMII) is, according to its mission statement, “an independent campaign organization with the purpose of opposing sanctions, foreign state interference and military intervention in Iran.”
Nader Sadeghi, a board member of CASMII, believes that Ahmadinejad’s statements against Israel were purposefully misconstrued by the American media.
Sadeghi’s opinion of Ahmadinejad’s rhetoric against Israel is that it can be “nothing more than want of a regime change [in Israel]” spurred by Israel’s demands in government. In 2003, Iran proposed a broad dialogue with the United States via a fax offering absolute cooperation concerning its nuclear programs, acceptance of Israel and the termination of Iranian support for Palestinian military groups.
The United States rejected the proposal.
The American government depicts Iran as a major threat to global safety because of some infamous statements attributed to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad about a desire to wipe Israel off the map, a disbelief in the Holocaust, and development of nuclear power.
Ataei, however, says that the western media severely misquoted the president. In the actual transcript of President Ahmadinejad’s speech, he was quoting—or rather misquoting—a statement made by Ayatollah Khomeini, the leader of the 1979 Iranian Revolution, when the monarchy was overthrown and the theocratic republic took power.
“[Ahmadinejad] never said [Israel]; he used the term ‘Zionist regime,’” Ataei said. “Second, the Persian word for map wasn’t even in the original speech, nor was the term ‘wipe out.’ Yet we hear again and again that he threatened to ‘wipe Israel off the map.’”
In a word-for-word translation of Ahmadinejad’s statement, the following was said: “[Ayatollah Khomeini] said the regime occupying Jerusalem must vanish.”
Ali, the journalist, stressed that the media has used Iran's president as a tool and has underestimated the power of the current Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei.
“Actually, Ahmadinejad is truly just an excuse,” Ali said. “[America] worked with Iran to infiltrate Afghanistan, everybody admits that. But right after that, the United States came and said Iran is part of the ‘Axis of Evil.’” Ali continued, “The rhetoric that Ahmadinejad uses is perfect—he comes and says something about Israel, we blow it out of proportion, try to muddy the water, and do what we do. The fact is that Iran is no threat, and has never been a threat to the United States.”
Ahmadinejad—who was mayor of Tehran before winning the 2005 presidential election—has less power than the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei, according to Article 113 of the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran. President Ahmadinejad is not the commander-in-chief of Iran’s armed forces and cannot wage war without the Supreme Leader’s consent.
The Iranian republic has executive, legislative and judicial branches, but above these three is the Supreme Leader. Besides the ability to wage war and mobilize the forces, he can appoint, dismiss, and accept the resignation of various governmental positions.
The Supreme Leader clearly has more clout than the president, yet the American media has its eyes focused on Ahmadinejad.
Ataei said that Ahmadinejad is truly doing “a horrible job” as president, domestically more so than internationally.
“Don’t forget the people who voted for him were mostly lower class people and Ahmadinejad came to power promising them a better economy,” Ataei said. “But so far he hasn’t really done anything to fulfill his promises.”
Ataei continued, “The economy is in bad shape. Seventy percent of the Iranian population is under the age of 30 and many of them are well educated. Many of these students believe that Ahmadinejad is ruining Iran’s image in the international community.”
The Campaign Against Sanctions and Military Intervention in Iran (CASMII) is, according to its mission statement, “an independent campaign organization with the purpose of opposing sanctions, foreign state interference and military intervention in Iran.”
Nader Sadeghi, a board member of CASMII, believes that Ahmadinejad’s statements against Israel were purposefully misconstrued by the American media.
Sadeghi’s opinion of Ahmadinejad’s rhetoric against Israel is that it can be “nothing more than want of a regime change [in Israel]” spurred by Israel’s demands in government. In 2003, Iran proposed a broad dialogue with the United States via a fax offering absolute cooperation concerning its nuclear programs, acceptance of Israel and the termination of Iranian support for Palestinian military groups.
The United States rejected the proposal.
The Dictator, The Veil and The Nuke
A major theme in Joyce's Ulysses was the idea of parallax, that objectivity can only be percepted when one has every angle of the story, and in the twenty-first century, with news and propaganda being as interchangeable as they are, the idea of parallax is possibly the most important concept to take heed of in this multifaceted world.
Especially with Iran, one can never be too careful when watching or reading the news to question the seemingly normal image of Iran that is being drawn out.
I wrote an article for City on a Hill Press, UC Santa Cruz' studentrun newspaper called "The Dictator, The Veil and the Nuke: an Insider's Guide to Iran" that I will post in segments, and I'm curious to see what I will leave thinking of my own article after spending a month in this country of many faces. For now, I'm positive that the caustic rhetoric chanted in blazon mantras at Friday Prayers, the flagellating religious extremist screaming and bleeding in the name of Allah, the veiled and oppressed woman who like a lap dog finds honor only in her docility, and the president who wants nothing but to obliterate Israel with his oh-so-difficult to acquire nuclear arsenal are what Western media has given us. But from what I've seen and what I've heard, this is far from the truth.
But here is my personal effort to speak for the side of Iran that gets little to no media attention, the side of the people afflicted with the same human condition that afflicts us, the same drive for greed and glory, the same recession to benevolence and hospitality, the culture, the beautiful culture.
The Dictator, The Veil and the Nuke
The Islamic Republic of Iran lies on the proverbial axis of evil and wants to obliterate Israel. The nation is governed by religious extremists who think the term “women’s rights” is an oxymoron, that cutting down on fossil fuel use is a good excuse for the development of nuclear power, and administer draconian rule through the words of the Qur’an. The Islamic Republic of Iran hates America and needs to be reformed—or the world will be facing a third world war.
At least, that’s what the American government would have us believe.
When a few dozen students around UC Santa Cruz were asked what words were brought to mind when they heard “Iran,” the responses included oil, sand, burka, Muslim, war and revolution. But there is more to the country than the veil American media often places over it.
Alireza Ataei, president of the Iranian Student Network (ISN) at UCSC, moved from Iran to America when he was 16. He sees Iran misrepresented in American media on a daily basis.
“The American media is doing a horrible job in representing Iran,” Ataei said. “All we hear about is Iran’s nuclear ambitions and the [Iranian] president’s conservative views and policies. You never hear about Iran’s women’s rights movement, its fascinating history and culture, and the kids in [capitol city] Tehran who are in love with Western culture, its reform movements, etc.”
Ali, a journalist for Iranian media outlet Payvand.com, explained that he has seen a great divide between the Iran that American media manifests and the Iran that he knows.
“I honestly see a demonization of Iran still going on in a big part of the US press,” Ali told City on a Hill Press (CHP) in a phone interview.
“The people of Iran for the most part are against getting in conflicts or war,” Ali said.
Ali pointed to the ways that media portray Friday prayers to depict Muslims in Iran as fervently anti-American. Friday prayers are congregational prayers that have been implemented as both a rallying force and a political tool. Participants and prayer leaders chant anti-American slogans during the prayer.
“These things that you hear about Friday prayers is really such a small minority,” Ali said. “An overwhelming number of Iranians are 180-degrees thinking differently. It doesn’t get as much coverage as it should.”
Especially with Iran, one can never be too careful when watching or reading the news to question the seemingly normal image of Iran that is being drawn out.
I wrote an article for City on a Hill Press, UC Santa Cruz' studentrun newspaper called "The Dictator, The Veil and the Nuke: an Insider's Guide to Iran" that I will post in segments, and I'm curious to see what I will leave thinking of my own article after spending a month in this country of many faces. For now, I'm positive that the caustic rhetoric chanted in blazon mantras at Friday Prayers, the flagellating religious extremist screaming and bleeding in the name of Allah, the veiled and oppressed woman who like a lap dog finds honor only in her docility, and the president who wants nothing but to obliterate Israel with his oh-so-difficult to acquire nuclear arsenal are what Western media has given us. But from what I've seen and what I've heard, this is far from the truth.
But here is my personal effort to speak for the side of Iran that gets little to no media attention, the side of the people afflicted with the same human condition that afflicts us, the same drive for greed and glory, the same recession to benevolence and hospitality, the culture, the beautiful culture.
The Dictator, The Veil and the Nuke
The Islamic Republic of Iran lies on the proverbial axis of evil and wants to obliterate Israel. The nation is governed by religious extremists who think the term “women’s rights” is an oxymoron, that cutting down on fossil fuel use is a good excuse for the development of nuclear power, and administer draconian rule through the words of the Qur’an. The Islamic Republic of Iran hates America and needs to be reformed—or the world will be facing a third world war.
At least, that’s what the American government would have us believe.
When a few dozen students around UC Santa Cruz were asked what words were brought to mind when they heard “Iran,” the responses included oil, sand, burka, Muslim, war and revolution. But there is more to the country than the veil American media often places over it.
Alireza Ataei, president of the Iranian Student Network (ISN) at UCSC, moved from Iran to America when he was 16. He sees Iran misrepresented in American media on a daily basis.
“The American media is doing a horrible job in representing Iran,” Ataei said. “All we hear about is Iran’s nuclear ambitions and the [Iranian] president’s conservative views and policies. You never hear about Iran’s women’s rights movement, its fascinating history and culture, and the kids in [capitol city] Tehran who are in love with Western culture, its reform movements, etc.”
Ali, a journalist for Iranian media outlet Payvand.com, explained that he has seen a great divide between the Iran that American media manifests and the Iran that he knows.
“I honestly see a demonization of Iran still going on in a big part of the US press,” Ali told City on a Hill Press (CHP) in a phone interview.
“The people of Iran for the most part are against getting in conflicts or war,” Ali said.
Ali pointed to the ways that media portray Friday prayers to depict Muslims in Iran as fervently anti-American. Friday prayers are congregational prayers that have been implemented as both a rallying force and a political tool. Participants and prayer leaders chant anti-American slogans during the prayer.
“These things that you hear about Friday prayers is really such a small minority,” Ali said. “An overwhelming number of Iranians are 180-degrees thinking differently. It doesn’t get as much coverage as it should.”
Sunday, July 8, 2007
And They Called Me Saddam
Exactly two years after 9/11 I came to school with a notion of insecurity far, far back in the depths of my mind, but it being so long since the last time I had to worry about being poked fun at, I had an overall aura of comfort within me. The schoolday started and the morning announcements asked for a moment of silence for the lives lost two years ago, and informed the school of a prayer that was to take place around the flag at lunch. Lunch came and I headed towards my designated eating spot, and I joined a clique-made circle, (or a Ku Klux Klan) and the conversation of 9/11 came up. One of the more immature kids looked at me and said, "Thanks alot, man," referring to me being middle-eastern. I ended up placing a fist on his lower jaw, but I got away with it. Even his friends said he deserved what hit him, literally.
Even within the culturally ingrained racism there is an air of sympathy and pity and Tartuffery that takes place within each individual, and it was at that moment, when the attacker's friends momentarily smote him for his words, that everyone became consciously aware of the morality of their actions. Nonetheless, the crowd dissolved and headed towards the flag pole to pray.
The monotone beep of the lunch bell rang and I went to my next class, physical education, changed into my outfit, and went out to the asphault to stretch in formation with the other kids. My P.E. teacher looked at me and said, "Did you read the news today?"
I responded with a No.
She said, "Well, you get a zero for the day."
I incredulously went through the rest of the period until we were on the grass playing some game or another, when I heard a loud voice scream, "Saddam!" from across the field. I looked over and my teacher was waving me over. I can't even recall what she told me, but I remember being too timid to report her.
At the time I felt one in a million in the worst way possible, not an idol, but a nail that stuck out too far. I hid in the shadows, but two years later I finally gained enough courage to deal with the surrounding darkness. And I did.
Even within the culturally ingrained racism there is an air of sympathy and pity and Tartuffery that takes place within each individual, and it was at that moment, when the attacker's friends momentarily smote him for his words, that everyone became consciously aware of the morality of their actions. Nonetheless, the crowd dissolved and headed towards the flag pole to pray.
The monotone beep of the lunch bell rang and I went to my next class, physical education, changed into my outfit, and went out to the asphault to stretch in formation with the other kids. My P.E. teacher looked at me and said, "Did you read the news today?"
I responded with a No.
She said, "Well, you get a zero for the day."
I incredulously went through the rest of the period until we were on the grass playing some game or another, when I heard a loud voice scream, "Saddam!" from across the field. I looked over and my teacher was waving me over. I can't even recall what she told me, but I remember being too timid to report her.
At the time I felt one in a million in the worst way possible, not an idol, but a nail that stuck out too far. I hid in the shadows, but two years later I finally gained enough courage to deal with the surrounding darkness. And I did.
9/11: The Tipping Point
Prior to writing this blog of mine from Iran, I would like to explain the exact moment in space and time that being an Iranian became more than a phenotype, but a title that became a curse when it occurred and a gift in retrospect.
I was in seventh-grade and I went to bed a child. I listened to Eminem, perfected tricks on my skateboard and bragged about it to my acquaintances, defied my parent's by toilet papering, powerboxing and squandering money on tacos at Jack In The Box, let the highschoolers on the bus educate me about marijuana and the opposite sex, spoke English to my parent's as a form of rebellion, loved American food because it was American, let days pass by playing Playstation with my best friend, and, having been surrounded by the same group since first grade, was looked upon no differently as any other child in my grade. A dreamless sleep flew by as I spent the next eight hours in the blissful Land of Nod mentally unprepared for what faced me with Dawn and her rosy finger tips. But, I awoke, to my door swinging open and my sister's voice saying, "Come watch the news."
I inhaled the familiar smell from my pillow, let out a yawn loaded with comfort, slipped on jeans, a shirt with some skatesurf brand on it, slipped clunky skate shoes on, loaded my backpack with the days needs, took a tranquil shower and, with a Q-Tip in my ear made way into my mother's room where the sound of an NBC reporter was coming.
My father stood, arms crossed, my sister, arms akimbo, my mother muttering Qur'anic platitudes as it was confirmed that the event at hand was far from accidental. Accidental or not, dissonant and cacophonic chaos could be heard from the streets of New York City and still I proved myself blissfully ignorant by informing my father I'd be late if we waited any longer.
The car ride was silent, as Mark and Brian abandoned humor and introduced me time and time again to the word "surreal," and my father silenced the radio and told me to be careful. We reached our destination, he said goodbye in Farsi, I said "see ya" in English, grabbed my backpack and wedged myself into a circle of friends.
Immediately somebody called out my name, I was filled with the excitement of recognition, and the person who yelled my ever-important appelation informed me that so-and-so was looking to talk to me. I found him and he told me to be careful, that I wouldn't get away with what my people did. And that was it.
Lunchtime came and a "friend" of mine asked me to follow him, and I did, out under an Oak tree, a Hispanic kid stood a few paces away from me creating what seemed like a Mexican stand-off, and a circle was formed. In the next five minutes I learned every slur I would hear time and time again for the next few years, "sandnigger," "towlhead," "Paki," "Dune King," etc.
And the day ended. My father asked me how the day went and I told him it was fine.
But I do remember being severely affected. The sting of ridicule inflamed my pride, the eyes of familiarity that my friends viewed me with vanished with a single blow, 9/11 was the prestige, the veil of innocence was torn away leaving me naked to speculation, a punching-bag for convictions learned at the dinner table, an embodiment of the ejaculate of Pandora's Box, the unclean and the sinister. I spent the years since kindergarten constructing a reputation, and I basked in the respect I had from my classmates, the superficial popularity of being known, the happiness of being known to someone I knew nothing about, and the tables turned immediately. As far as nicknames went, I was no longer called by my familiar name, but came either "Osama," or "Saddam," and the pendulum that was my popularity swung into the realm of infamy, and I didn't understand how two towers collapsing three thousand miles away had force enough to shake the basis of my trivial, little existence.
Things changed, but, of course, I did too. Not only is the Iran I'm viewing different in that it is an important actor in the post 9/11 world, but the ashes of the two towers painted a distinct picture on my once pure blank slate.
I was in seventh-grade and I went to bed a child. I listened to Eminem, perfected tricks on my skateboard and bragged about it to my acquaintances, defied my parent's by toilet papering, powerboxing and squandering money on tacos at Jack In The Box, let the highschoolers on the bus educate me about marijuana and the opposite sex, spoke English to my parent's as a form of rebellion, loved American food because it was American, let days pass by playing Playstation with my best friend, and, having been surrounded by the same group since first grade, was looked upon no differently as any other child in my grade. A dreamless sleep flew by as I spent the next eight hours in the blissful Land of Nod mentally unprepared for what faced me with Dawn and her rosy finger tips. But, I awoke, to my door swinging open and my sister's voice saying, "Come watch the news."
I inhaled the familiar smell from my pillow, let out a yawn loaded with comfort, slipped on jeans, a shirt with some skatesurf brand on it, slipped clunky skate shoes on, loaded my backpack with the days needs, took a tranquil shower and, with a Q-Tip in my ear made way into my mother's room where the sound of an NBC reporter was coming.
My father stood, arms crossed, my sister, arms akimbo, my mother muttering Qur'anic platitudes as it was confirmed that the event at hand was far from accidental. Accidental or not, dissonant and cacophonic chaos could be heard from the streets of New York City and still I proved myself blissfully ignorant by informing my father I'd be late if we waited any longer.
The car ride was silent, as Mark and Brian abandoned humor and introduced me time and time again to the word "surreal," and my father silenced the radio and told me to be careful. We reached our destination, he said goodbye in Farsi, I said "see ya" in English, grabbed my backpack and wedged myself into a circle of friends.
Immediately somebody called out my name, I was filled with the excitement of recognition, and the person who yelled my ever-important appelation informed me that so-and-so was looking to talk to me. I found him and he told me to be careful, that I wouldn't get away with what my people did. And that was it.
Lunchtime came and a "friend" of mine asked me to follow him, and I did, out under an Oak tree, a Hispanic kid stood a few paces away from me creating what seemed like a Mexican stand-off, and a circle was formed. In the next five minutes I learned every slur I would hear time and time again for the next few years, "sandnigger," "towlhead," "Paki," "Dune King," etc.
And the day ended. My father asked me how the day went and I told him it was fine.
But I do remember being severely affected. The sting of ridicule inflamed my pride, the eyes of familiarity that my friends viewed me with vanished with a single blow, 9/11 was the prestige, the veil of innocence was torn away leaving me naked to speculation, a punching-bag for convictions learned at the dinner table, an embodiment of the ejaculate of Pandora's Box, the unclean and the sinister. I spent the years since kindergarten constructing a reputation, and I basked in the respect I had from my classmates, the superficial popularity of being known, the happiness of being known to someone I knew nothing about, and the tables turned immediately. As far as nicknames went, I was no longer called by my familiar name, but came either "Osama," or "Saddam," and the pendulum that was my popularity swung into the realm of infamy, and I didn't understand how two towers collapsing three thousand miles away had force enough to shake the basis of my trivial, little existence.
Things changed, but, of course, I did too. Not only is the Iran I'm viewing different in that it is an important actor in the post 9/11 world, but the ashes of the two towers painted a distinct picture on my once pure blank slate.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The Turquoise Harmonica
Leaving in three days, I'm rushing to post as many memories as I possibly can from my vacation to Iran when I was nine. A decade has passed and I'm about to embark again on the eleventh. This next memory I call, "The Turquoise Harmonica."
Still in Shomal, the North of Iran near the Caspian, me, my mother, and my sister decided to meet a few friends that lived in the area at the local bazaar. On entering the bazaar I was immediately taken into a trance at a morbidy obese, Iranian male with a blanket of black hair on his forearms swinging a whetted blade in a mechanical motion systematically hacking off the heads of fish after fish, while, in the fashion of an assembly line, a strikingly skeletal partner carefully flayed the decapitated residue. A hand on my shoulder broke my concentration as I met my mother's friends.
Walking through the bazaar I quickly found gratification in a store that sold toy trinkets, and a turquoise harmonica immediately grabbed my attention. I grabbed one, pulled at my mother's side and begged for her to buy me it. She gave me a few tomans, I purchased it and began to suck and blow into this cheep music-making device. The music slowly began drifting me out of the store, into the masses of the bazaar and away, away, away into a comfortable day dream. On awakening I had absolutely no idea where I was, but I still had the harmonica to my mouth, and I was still playing a melody. Something or another drove me to cock my head up and view the alley-making structures around me, and in one of the fourth story windows, two men eyed me, one, a greasy Iranian male, beckoned me up with a gesture of his index finger. I kept playing my harmonica and acquiescently nodded.
The man told his friend of his new catch, and his friend quickly came down to reel me in. The screen door of the apartment complex opened, he quickly descended three to four steps, worked his way through the crowd and placed a vicegrip on my harmonica wielding hand. I quickly, nervously, anxiously, fearfully looked around as quick as I could too afraid to scream, lengthening the conversation with my captor while slighly, perpetually and ever-increasingly tugging away from his grip, when from among the masses I heard a male voice scream my name, the grip let go as a comforting hand found my shoulder and quickly returned me to my mother and her friends.
Memory ends.
Still in Shomal, the North of Iran near the Caspian, me, my mother, and my sister decided to meet a few friends that lived in the area at the local bazaar. On entering the bazaar I was immediately taken into a trance at a morbidy obese, Iranian male with a blanket of black hair on his forearms swinging a whetted blade in a mechanical motion systematically hacking off the heads of fish after fish, while, in the fashion of an assembly line, a strikingly skeletal partner carefully flayed the decapitated residue. A hand on my shoulder broke my concentration as I met my mother's friends.
Walking through the bazaar I quickly found gratification in a store that sold toy trinkets, and a turquoise harmonica immediately grabbed my attention. I grabbed one, pulled at my mother's side and begged for her to buy me it. She gave me a few tomans, I purchased it and began to suck and blow into this cheep music-making device. The music slowly began drifting me out of the store, into the masses of the bazaar and away, away, away into a comfortable day dream. On awakening I had absolutely no idea where I was, but I still had the harmonica to my mouth, and I was still playing a melody. Something or another drove me to cock my head up and view the alley-making structures around me, and in one of the fourth story windows, two men eyed me, one, a greasy Iranian male, beckoned me up with a gesture of his index finger. I kept playing my harmonica and acquiescently nodded.
The man told his friend of his new catch, and his friend quickly came down to reel me in. The screen door of the apartment complex opened, he quickly descended three to four steps, worked his way through the crowd and placed a vicegrip on my harmonica wielding hand. I quickly, nervously, anxiously, fearfully looked around as quick as I could too afraid to scream, lengthening the conversation with my captor while slighly, perpetually and ever-increasingly tugging away from his grip, when from among the masses I heard a male voice scream my name, the grip let go as a comforting hand found my shoulder and quickly returned me to my mother and her friends.
Memory ends.
Prayer's Like A Stiff Drink
Back to memories of Iran.
We had taken a roadtrip up to a city near the Caspian sea, the whole area has been dubbed "Shomal," which means North in Farsi, and is the haven for most Iranians who want away from the moral police to partake in mild acts of debauchery. But, of course, in an Islamic Republic one can never fully escape Big Brother's grasp.
Having entered the cabin we were to stay at, we dropped our luggage in our rooms and immediately slipped on swimming trunks. For the women, this proved to be a complicated procedure since a women can be admonished for baring a sliver of forearm; but, they managed. Driving to the beach we were differentiated once again, and one may wonder how a beach could be separated between the sexes. On nearing the beach I saw it, the great wall, a twenty-foot high, quarter mile long tarp that stretched from the beginning of the sand, across the beach, and into the ocean.
The day at the beach eventually came to an end and we headed back. In any house I stayed out I had a compulsion to look at every nook and cranny the house had to offer, and this was possible because of my young age. I remember leaving a doleful conversation the adults were carrying along and began to walk through the house, opening door after door, and on the opening of one of the doors I saw the most peculiar sight.
One of the couples that were with us on this trip of ours was in their room, and, of course, this isn't far from ordinary. The woman, with eyes closed and in a deep trance, was on her knees praying and muttering the proper Arabic. I slowly walked up to the man, whose back was to me and was halfway in his closet. I came up to his side and peered in, he jumped slightly and there in his hand was a bottle of liquor and a shot glass. He quickly shoved it in the back of his closet, covered it with newspaper, glanced nervously at his wife and back to me, held his hand up to his lips and said, "shhhh."
Memory ends.
We had taken a roadtrip up to a city near the Caspian sea, the whole area has been dubbed "Shomal," which means North in Farsi, and is the haven for most Iranians who want away from the moral police to partake in mild acts of debauchery. But, of course, in an Islamic Republic one can never fully escape Big Brother's grasp.
Having entered the cabin we were to stay at, we dropped our luggage in our rooms and immediately slipped on swimming trunks. For the women, this proved to be a complicated procedure since a women can be admonished for baring a sliver of forearm; but, they managed. Driving to the beach we were differentiated once again, and one may wonder how a beach could be separated between the sexes. On nearing the beach I saw it, the great wall, a twenty-foot high, quarter mile long tarp that stretched from the beginning of the sand, across the beach, and into the ocean.
The day at the beach eventually came to an end and we headed back. In any house I stayed out I had a compulsion to look at every nook and cranny the house had to offer, and this was possible because of my young age. I remember leaving a doleful conversation the adults were carrying along and began to walk through the house, opening door after door, and on the opening of one of the doors I saw the most peculiar sight.
One of the couples that were with us on this trip of ours was in their room, and, of course, this isn't far from ordinary. The woman, with eyes closed and in a deep trance, was on her knees praying and muttering the proper Arabic. I slowly walked up to the man, whose back was to me and was halfway in his closet. I came up to his side and peered in, he jumped slightly and there in his hand was a bottle of liquor and a shot glass. He quickly shoved it in the back of his closet, covered it with newspaper, glanced nervously at his wife and back to me, held his hand up to his lips and said, "shhhh."
Memory ends.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
An Upcoming Adventure
I'm one to enjoy a good adventure; in fact, some of my upcoming blogs will be centered around the adventures I ran into during my freshmen year of college in UC Santa Cruz. Surprisingly enough, I was completely sober during the grandest of these adventures. And I will be sober once again during my upcoming adventure on the eleventh: a trip to the heart of the Shi'a world - Iran.
The last time I went there I was nine years old, and a nine year old boy cares about one thing: instant gratification. Also, a nine year old boy does not know much about the politics of the time, the name Khomeini is a catalyst for emotion, (More on that later.) patriotism is a culturally ingrained feeling, not a rational, profound choice, walking under a Qur'an before exiting a house is an easy game of limbo, and oh how sweet it is to be eight years younger than my sister and two times as valuable. Endemic to Iran was my superiority and a harem of relatives, acquaintances, and faces, literally, who loved me for being.
Actually, my first day in Tehran is enough to define culture shock and the effects of culture shock on the human being. Setting: Tehran, Iran. Third-world automobile with an obscure brand and the color of jaundice. Plot: I use my catalytic word.
My cousin's driving, my aunt in the passenger seat, me, my mother, and my sister are shoved in the back, I'm snugly squished against the window, and we hit a traffic jam. I start looking at the towering edifices and my little mind is analogizing the city to a Los Angeles or a San Francisco. My eye catches one building, thirty to forty stories, with a breath-takingly large mural painted on it.
The mural: Instead of fifty stars, fifty skulls. Instead of stripes, trails of missiles. The American flag with a America-hating twist. Below the flag were corpses, and below the corpses, in Farsi, was written: Death to America.
Now, how is a nine year old boy supposed to handle such a thing. America was the country I loved, America was all I knew. So I rolled down the window, I stuck my head out, I saw a police officer and with as much gusto and inch thick patriotism as I could aggregate yelled, "Death to Khomeini!" Of course the officer's head shot right, my aunt turned an opalescent hue of fear, my cousin in the next ten seconds gave me an Iranian Curse Word crash course, and he drove into a nearby alley, through it, onto another street, and another, and another, soon I was overcome with absolute confusion, and before I could say, "I said, "I'm
a little thirsty!'" my mother's palm met the side of my face. First memory ends.
I'll post another memory from my journey to Iran as a nine-year old until the eleventh, when my posts will stop, and I embark towards that foreign land.
The last time I went there I was nine years old, and a nine year old boy cares about one thing: instant gratification. Also, a nine year old boy does not know much about the politics of the time, the name Khomeini is a catalyst for emotion, (More on that later.) patriotism is a culturally ingrained feeling, not a rational, profound choice, walking under a Qur'an before exiting a house is an easy game of limbo, and oh how sweet it is to be eight years younger than my sister and two times as valuable. Endemic to Iran was my superiority and a harem of relatives, acquaintances, and faces, literally, who loved me for being.
Actually, my first day in Tehran is enough to define culture shock and the effects of culture shock on the human being. Setting: Tehran, Iran. Third-world automobile with an obscure brand and the color of jaundice. Plot: I use my catalytic word.
My cousin's driving, my aunt in the passenger seat, me, my mother, and my sister are shoved in the back, I'm snugly squished against the window, and we hit a traffic jam. I start looking at the towering edifices and my little mind is analogizing the city to a Los Angeles or a San Francisco. My eye catches one building, thirty to forty stories, with a breath-takingly large mural painted on it.
The mural: Instead of fifty stars, fifty skulls. Instead of stripes, trails of missiles. The American flag with a America-hating twist. Below the flag were corpses, and below the corpses, in Farsi, was written: Death to America.
Now, how is a nine year old boy supposed to handle such a thing. America was the country I loved, America was all I knew. So I rolled down the window, I stuck my head out, I saw a police officer and with as much gusto and inch thick patriotism as I could aggregate yelled, "Death to Khomeini!" Of course the officer's head shot right, my aunt turned an opalescent hue of fear, my cousin in the next ten seconds gave me an Iranian Curse Word crash course, and he drove into a nearby alley, through it, onto another street, and another, and another, soon I was overcome with absolute confusion, and before I could say, "I said, "I'm
a little thirsty!'" my mother's palm met the side of my face. First memory ends.
I'll post another memory from my journey to Iran as a nine-year old until the eleventh, when my posts will stop, and I embark towards that foreign land.
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