تابستان

من وقتی بچه بودم اسم میوه ها رو خوب بلد نبودم. فقط میدانستم که بجز یک میوه‌ که پوستش پشمالو بود و از دست زدن به آن موهای تنم سیخ میشد، همه میوه های دیگر را دوست داشتم. یک روز کتاب "یک هلو هزار هلو"ی صمد بهرنگی را خواندم. آنقدر این هلوهای توی کتاب بهرنگی به نظرم خوشمزه و شیرین بودند، در ذهنم فکر میکردم که "هلو" همان شلیل است که من خیلی دوستش داشتم. روزی که فهمیدم هلو شلیل نیست و آن میوه های توی کتاب صمدبهرنگی همان میوه های پشمالو بودند و شلیل نبودند، روز خیلی بدی در زندگیم شد و دیگر هیچوقت نتوانستم آن کتاب را با همان شوق قبلی بخوانم. اینهارا گفتم که بگویم یک جعبه پر از شلیل تازه روی میزه و تمام خانه رو پر از بوی تابستان کرده و من خیلی خیلی مسرورم که اینها که روی میز هستند شلیل هستند و هلو نیستند. زندگی شیرین است. تابستان است و شاید هم چندروز رفتم سفر.

Isfahan

Isfahan,
I ache with the pain of your women
I dread with the fear of your girls
I cry with the burning sensation in my eyes
--only tears of devastation, not the acid

Isfahan,
The dreamland of my childhood
The envy of the other half of the world
The utopia of clean and simple life
The city of blue mosaics and endless light in its waters

Isfahan, My Isfahan,
Don't despair
Don’t fear
Don't waiver
Don't give up
 
Isfahan,
Stay
Grow older
Keep our treasures
Keep your children safe

Isfahan,
Live long
Tell the tales
Keep the history
Remain the treasure chest of Iran
And the priceless heritage of humanity

Live Isfahan,
Live.

San Francisco, 
October 22, 2014

خوش قدم

از روزی که یادم میاد، همیشه پدر و مادرم بهم میگفتن "تو خوش قدم بودی." خوش قدم بودن خیلی جایگاه ارزنده ای در خانواده بود! اولا که همیشه یه قصۀ خوب مثبتی دوروبر این "خوش قدم" بودن گفته میشد که خیلی خوشمزه بود، چون تو در واقع برای این نقش خوب و مثبت هیچ زحمتی نکشیده بودی، الا این که "قدم" که چه عرض کنم، با کله وارد یک معرکه‌ای شده بودی! دوم اینکه این جایگاه شامخ مفهومش این بود که هر ماه وقتی ماه نو درمیامد، پدر و مادرم تو حیاط چشماشونو میبستند و منو صدا میزدند تا من خودمو بهشون برسونم و چشماشونو روبه من باز کنن! فکر کن! هیشکی دیگه رو نمیخواستن اول ببینن! فقط منو! بعدش هم این که روز اول نوروز این من بودم که اول از همه بعد از تحویل سال باید از در میامدم تو! خوب دیگه، من "خوش قدمه" بودم دیگه! البته باید بگم که من نه "بچۀ اول" بودم و نه "بچۀ آخر"، نه یکی از اون "نابغه‌ها" بودم و نه یک از اون "پرپشتکارها"، نه زیبایی خیره کننده ای داشتم و نه هنر خاصی الا انشاء نویسی! بنابراین "خوش قدم" بودن برای خودش کلی پرستیژ داشت، به خصوص که اینجا هم هیچ کاری مجبور نبودم برای این جایگاه بکنم، چون همۀ کارها تا قبل از "قدم" گذاشتن من به جهان انجام شده بود و بعد از اون هم که به یمن قصه هایی که راجع به من و "خوش قدمی‌ام" گفته میشد، دیگه کار زیادی لازم نبود بکنم!

خودمونیم، حالا که بهش فکر میکنم، میبینم که به عنوان یک مادر من هرگز حاضرنمیشم بگم یکی از بچه هام از اون یکی "خوش قدم تر" بوده یا اینجور چیزها! چون عادلانه نیست! مخصوصا چون اصلا هرگز اینطوری به این موضوع فکر نکردم. چون هردوبچه هایم یک نوع معجزه بودند که در زندگی من اتفاق افتادند و از این نظر هردو خودشون یه پا "خوش قدم فرد اصل" محسوب میشن!

البته این قصۀ "خوش قدم" بودن به اینجا ختم نشد. تو تهران هر وقت میرفتم داخل یک مغازه، این مغازه که تا من وارد شدم توش پرنده پر نمیزد، یکهو میشد پر از مشتری و دیگه نمیتونستم توش جم بخورم! خداییش یکی دوبار هم وقتی رسیدم جلوی صندوق که پول چیزی را که برداشته بودم بدم، صاحب مغازه گفت "مهمان باشید، چون قدمتون خیلی خوب بود!" یکی دوبار هم شنیدم تو آژانس محله‌مون سر این که صبح‌ها کی بیاد در خونۀ من دعوا میشده، چون چندتا از این راننده‌های آژانس فکر میکردند که "دست من خوبه" و اگه من اولین مشتری صبحشون باشم تا شب وضعشون توپ میشه! و این خودش خستگی همۀ هشت ها گروی نه‌ها بودن‌های زندگی را از تن آدم به در میکند که برای دیگران "دستت خوب باشد!"

خلاصه، من که زیاد خرافاتی نیستم، اما این خرافه را همۀ زندگیم خیلی دوست داشتم. این خرافه همیشه منو به فکرهای مثبت و خوشحال کشونده. همیشه، حتی در سخت‌ترین روزهای زندگیم، به من امید داده که احتمال قریب به یقین، بالاخره یه جوری "کارا بهتر میشه."

خوب، این بود بلاگ امشب. خیلی دلم میخواد بازم بنویسم.

Nostalgic

I wonder whether I will ever feel the comfort I once felt when I wrote in this blog just for myself and a few friends. I miss writing. I miss this space. I miss that feeling. I miss myself when I felt so free to say anything I wanted to say! Sigh!

Here's Shirley Bassey in 1971, singing a song written by George Harrison of the Beatles, called "Something." I have so many good memories of this song.

We were singing, "bye-bye, Miss American Pie."

I was 14 when I first heard "American Pie" by Don McLean in Tehran. I went by Ahang-e-Rooz/Beethoven, where Mohsen Agha Chamanara would generously play any song for us after school and would cheerfully help us choose which LP to buy with our allowance that month. In my heart, where my treasures of childhood, first loves, lost loves, complicated loves, and finished loves, along with all kinds of nostalgia are kept, this is one of the pieces of music that sits prominently and is never forgotten.

Tonight I was struggling with a piece of unpleasant work, something that just wouldn't end no matter how hard I tried to finish it! Then I heard the playful beginning notes, and then the whole song started strolling out of the side room, where my older son was listening to music behind a closed door. I don't know which one made those tears escape my eyes, the joy of an important piece of memorabilia of my childhood jumping out at me again, or the joy of knowing that my son might find that music appealing enough to play all by himself.

Life is good tonight. I am a fortunate woman with great memories in my past and absolutely precious treasures in the side room, behind the closed door. A long, long time ago...

I can still remember

How that music used to make me smile.

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And, maybe, they'd be happy for a while....

Joy on a hilltop

I was 12 when my mother was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I remember the confusion that reigned in our household, which my mother used to manage with utmost precision. The perfectly maintained yard, the beautifully decorated and maintained house, the well-stocked pantry and kitchen, the pristine guest bedding, and all that went into the affairs of a family with eight children, all of it fell by the wayside and took a second seat to the health of my mother who, at only 40, was alternatively in excruciating pain or under heavy medication. For several months, all of us, along with the household staff, who were with the family for years, looked confused and dazed, in need of instructions, which used to be issued by my mother in frequent orders but which all of a sudden had stopped. My father was the first one to realize that my mother was not going to "get better" soon.

I remember the day he called me and four of my sisters into a room and closed the door. He said that while he was going to be looking for the best possible medical attention for our mother, he was looking to us to make sure that the household would remain in good shape, so that my mother would not be saddened by the chaos, which had become an everyday occurrence in our home. So, I learned how to cook when I was 12. I learned to set the table, cut fresh roses from the yard and put them in vases, and I learned to do the mundane things, to even tell my younger sisters to make sure they brushed their teeth every night.

As the degenerative disease claimed more and more of my mother's abilities and health, I, along with my father and my sisters, learned to throw parties on my mother's behalf, cook huge meals, and entertain, all so that my mother would not miss her happy and bustling household in which frequent parties were held. I think we did quite well.

We also learned to take care of my mother. We tried to do everything we could do for her, everything from massaging her aching body to handing her medication. We gradually learned to bathe her, change her clothes, feed her, and care for her. I don't know why taking care of her never felt like a chore to me. I mean, I was doing the physical work, but somehow, she never felt like a sick or disabled person, an invalid, to me. Taking care of her became an extension of our love for her, to the point where in our comings and goings into a room, for example, we also did my mother's maintenance without thinking about it. It must have been her sharp mind and the bigger-than-life presence of her soul in the middle of our lives that kept us from noticing or remembering her growing physical limitations. When I look back, all I can remember is light and lightness, laughter and immense fun in her presence. I am aware now that somewhere in between the words and the laughter, I must have brushed her hair and changed her clothes, but I can't really remember the details, they were unimportant.

Some of the best memories I have of my mother are from the mid-1980's when my father and she used to come to stay with us in the US six months of the year, spending the other six months in Iran near my other siblings. I remember one time I made an optometrist appointment for her at UC Berkeley's Optometry School. On a gorgeous spring day, she and I set out for the doctor's visit. We left my tiny cottage near downtown Berkeley to "walk" up to UC Berkeley's Optometry Clinic. To be more precise, she was in her wheelchair and I was pushing her up a steep sidewalk in Berkely. It was a serious effort, which grew harder and harder as we entered the campus and then had to navigate more and more hills, but we were talking and laughing and having a good time despite my huffing and puffing.

When we finally made it to the clinic they gave my mother a thorough eye examination, including the part where they dropped something into her eyes to make them dilate for a thorough check up, and then gave her one of those disposable paper sunglasses that are supposed to help protect the dilated eyes against bright light. The two of us then started our trip back home, this time mainly going downhill. At first I was enjoying the ease of it, remembering how hard it was to push the wheelchair up the hill. But then the hills started getting steeper, and it was a chore to control the wheelchair from taking off! Moment by moment, the wheelchair picked up speed and I had to push the emergency break a few times to slow down its momentum. My sweet mother was sitting in the wheelchair, saying nothing, but laughing to my jokes as I was struggling with the task at hand. She had her paper sunglasses on and our speed had already blown her headscarf back to her shoulders and her gorgeous curly hair, which I had dyed myself, was now in motion in the wind.

So, we went down one hill and up another and then climbed it up to the top, till finally we came to the top of the steepest one. Looking all the way to the bottom of the hill, I knew it was going to be near impossible to control the wheelchair. I looked at my mother and I couldn't see her eyes behind the paper sunglasses, but the rest of her face seemed peaceful and a smile remained dancing in the corner of her lips. I said: "Mom, are you ready for this ride?" And she simply said: "Yes." I took one more look at the open space ahead, all the way to the bottom of the hill, jumped on the back of her wheelchair to make it heavier and hopefully weigh it down some, and let it go. The moving apparatus glided down the hill and the two of us were screaming our heads off with exhilaration and joy, the wind blowing our hair and energizing our smiles. I remember laughing and I remember my mom making noises people would make on a roller coaster! We finally made it to the bottom of the hill in one piece, totally euphoric.

My mother passed away in 1996, due to complications caused by taking cortisone for years. If I must remember her illness and caring for her, this is the memory I most profoundly remember--my mother and her wheelchair, which became a toy, an extension of the two of us in celebrating how beautiful our lives were together. She never was a burden, my partner in joy, my mother.

First published here, in response to an invitation to write about caring for elderly parents.

Nostalgic Today

I found this sweet video clip and I would like to share it with you. A Canada-based band named HamAva has performed Simin Ghanem's 1975 song, Parandeh, The Bird. It is a really beautiful song, full of personal nostalgia for me. The singer does a very good job of singing a song originally performed by what must be one of the most powerful female voices in the history of Iranian music. She doesn't take chances with an imitation, but stays true to the music, sounding sweet and vulnerable. I searched for this HamAva band, but couldn't find anything on them. If any of my friends in Canada know about them, please do share

If you want, you can listen to the original rendition of this song by Simin Ghanem here. Believe it or not, this song was written by Hassan Shamaizadeh. What has happened to that great music man?! How come we never hear songs like this from him any more? This is all we hear from him these days! Nothing wrong with it, but he is capable of so much more. I mean there are thousands of composers who can write this, but not nearly enough who can write this. Just wondering!

Elections and Nostalgia

Sar oomad zemestoon, or Aaftabkaran, an old revolutionary song is played by two young artists. I love this clip!

I know I said this before--just a few seconds ago, as a matter of fact! Please consider participating in the elections on Friday. Cast your vote to be counted. If even for one day, for one hour, for one minute over the past four years you have worried about a possible attack on Iran, if you have felt shame about things that have happened in Iran, about the way Iran has been represented to the world, or for words that were said by someone else but whose weight you have carried, consider participating in the elections and showing that you care. Be responsible and vote. Iran and Iranians inside Iran need you now.

The Last Wish

After living in the US for a number of years, I returned to Iran in the early 1990’s. During my stay, I managed a software company in Tehran . Here’s a memory.

My Accounting Manager informed me that our bookkeeper, Mr. Alizadeh, was continuing to show very poor performance. He was making numerous mistakes and was not making any effort to improve his performance. She had given him several notices over an eight month period, and she was sure now that Mr. Alizadeh lacked the skills and drive to perform his duties. She said she wanted to release Mr. Alizadeh from his employment with our company. I reluctantly agreed. Naturally, firing people was one of the worst and saddest things I had to do. Mr. Alizadeh was a very polite young man with a young wife and two small children. He was tall, handsome, and extremely pleasant. I had to accept, also, that he was a lousy bookkeeper! I agreed to five months’ severance pay for Mr. Alizadeh, and a promise to give him good references for his future employment. The Accounting Manager went off to fire Mr. Alizadeh.

When the Accounting Manager returned to my office shortly thereafter, she informed me that she had gone through the dismissal process with Mr. Alizadeh, but that he had insisted he wanted to talk to me. I asked her what he wanted to see me about, and she said “He says I want Ms. Kaviani to fire me. If she tells me to go, I will.” Oh brother! I told her to bring Mr. Alizadeh in, so I could fire him, too.

As the two people sat in my office, I went around my desk and sat in the chair next to Mr. Alizadeh. As is customary in Iran , the coffee table in my office had a plate of fruit, serving plates, and a jug of ice water and some glasses. I told Mr. Alizadeh how sorry I was about this whole business; how I wished there had been a way to save his job and to keep him on the team; how I had watched anxiously over all the months he had been put on performance track by his supervisor; and how sorry I was to see him go. I told him I would do everything within my power to help him find another job.

Mr. Alizadeh looked so crestfallen and so sad. I was so miserable, too. He said: “I understand, Ms. Kaviani. Now that I have heard it from you, I believe it. May I ask for a last favor before I go?” I said: “Sure, Mr. Alizadeh, what would you like me to do?” He said: “May I have a cigarette?” A cigarette?!! Phew, I was so relieved! Sure, no problem! I said: “Of course, Mr. Alizadeh!,” offering him one of my cigarettes. I even started to light his cigarette, but he took the lighter and lit his cigarette himself.

The Accounting Manager and I were exchanging anxious glances throughout this time, trying to pass through this very uncomfortable meeting. The two of us watched Mr. Alizadeh while he took one long drag on his cigarette. The inhale was so strong and so long on that drag, I swear half of Mr. Alizadeh’s cigarette turned into ash before our very eyes! We were also making small noises, saying some insignificant things to fill the uncomfortable silence while we waited for Mr. Alizadeh to enjoy his “last wish,” like a convict on death row or something. Mr. Alizadeh was not engaging in any small talk with us. His face had assumed a very dramatic look of sadness and perplexity. He was frowning and kept a stoic smile on his face. Mr. Alizadeh took his second drag, which was just as strong and long as the first one and it looked like the cigarette ended right there. I was feeling so bad about this whole meeting, wishing it to end for all of us to be free of the awful episode.

At this time, Mr. Alizadeh opened his left hand and put his cigarette out in the middle of his palm. Oh My God! What the hell?! I saw this first, so I stood up and took two short steps toward Mr. Alizadeh, while screaming “Nooooooooooo!” I could also hear the Accounting Manager’s echoed “Nooooooo” in my wake. By the time I made it to Alizadeh, he had tightened a fist around the cigarette butt in his palm. Without thinking, or remembering that in the Islamic Republic of Iran, women aren’t supposed to touch men in public, I reached for Mr. Alizadeh’s fist, trying to pry it open to retrieve the cigarette butt and check out the undoubted burn spot on his palm. Nothing doing. He had his fist closed tightly and won’t let me open it. All the while I kept saying “That was a really stupid thing you did, Mr. Alizadeh! Let me see your palm!” In the few seconds which in the super slow motion of bad events always feels like an eternity, when I realized that Mr. Alizadeh wasn’t going to let me open his fist, I reached over the coffee table, picked up the ice cold water jug, and poured water on top of Mr. Alizadeh’s clenched fist. He yelled and jumped out of his chair, because the cold water quickly seeped through his crotch where his hand had been held nearby.

At this time, the staff outside my office, who had heard the commotion, the two women’s screams and then Mr. Alizadeh’s yelp opened the door and came in. The sight of me and the Accounting Manager each on one side of Mr. Alizadeh and his standing in the middle with his soaking crotch must have been so confusing to them.

….

I had a few other encounters with Mr. Alizadeh before he left our company, though none of them were as dramatic. He did get another job elsewhere and came to visit me periodically for the rest of the time I worked in that company.

I changed Mr. Alizadeh's name.

Missing Rasht Tonight

Someone shared this video clip of Rashti music with me tonight. I am sharing it with you. I miss Rasht. Salam beguftam tera, javab nadaee mera... Lovely old Gilak song and full of memories for me. I hope you enjoy it! Have a good Friday everybody!

Chop Chop!

The scissors moved quickly and expertly, chop chop, I could hear the work in progress, but I didn’t wish to see. Past that early jolt when my ponytail was cut off in one move, I didn’t want to see. I kept my eyes closed and instead, I heard the sound of the comb running through my wet hair and the chop chop of the scissors.

I travelled through my thoughts and my reflections, memories and wishes, longings and sadnesses, hoping to organize my head as it was being relieved of all the extra weight. I didn’t want to think about turning ugly or undesirable, because I didn’t want to think “for whom?” Chop chop the scissors went.

I remembered my friend Soussan in the last days of her life, bald, missing her beautiful eyelashes and eyebrows from round after round of chemotherapy, drugged up and unreachable.

I thought of Hadi’s sister in Montreal who is also going through chemotherapy to deal with Leukemia.

Chop chop, I listened, and thought about life as it is and as it goes on, about how much fault we find with here and now, how we worry more about what is missing than what there is. I thought the sad thoughts of loss and longing.

I thought about the tears that had been building up in a pond just behind my eyes, unpermitted to move, unforgiven if disobedient. I thought about the young love happening in my home, and the twinkle which keeps surprising me in my son’s eyes. I thought about opening that audio file and my unexpected delight at hearing my son sing a complete song in it. I thought about the delightful taste of pomegranates and yogurt on my tongue, when he encouraged me to “just try it.” I thought about all the last gazes and kisses, embraces and unuttered words of goodbye, repeated a million times in my life. I could feel the disobedient pond moving forward and sliding on my cheeks, catching the snippets of hair on their way down. I couldn’t hear the chop chop anymore, but I didn’t want to open my eyes to see.

I looked in the mirror. It was still me, with short hair. Life was intact. Hope was still around. My face needed a good washing.

*******

I donated my hair to Wigs For Kids today.

Bouquet of Life

I found another rendition of Del-e-Koochooloo. Composer Anoushiravan Rohani plays the pinano with Mahyar Bahraminasab on Tombak with a symphony and opera singers. Delightful!

Life has been crazy for me lately. I know life is crazy, because I haven't been able to keep my blogs up, and this being my refuge, my home, and where I write from my heart, you will know that my life has been really crazy!

I wished I had something good to show for all the hard work and the distractions. I don't. I'm stuck in a whirlwind which saps all my energy and leaves me exhausted all the time, without any tangible fruit. It is getting to me and I hate it when anything gets to me. One of these days I will have to stop and go back to page 1, where I will have to re-group and re-prioritize my life. I know it has to be done and I've been putting it off. Not good.

On a happier note, my niece and her husband will arrive from Tehran tomorrow. There is something really exciting and a little sad about their move to the US. It's exciting because I love my niece who has been the last member of my immediate family still living in Tehran, and it will be good for all of us to be reunited finally. It is sad, because all of a sudden I am aware that Tehran will never be the same for me again. The thought of having no family to go back to is a sad one. I know I will still have secondary and distant relatives and beautiful new and old friends in Iran, but something important will be missing in my life from now on.

Anyhow, I have been so aware of my posessions in life recently. Mostly non-material, I hold a beautiful and colorful bouquet of assets in my arms these days--my relationships. I am all the more cognizant of that wealth these days, as I have been missing my friends and family a lot. I think I need to start making up for my neglect. I'll start here and work my way through all that I have to do to celebrate my bouquet of life. Have a good Thursday everybody!

In The Attic Of My Mind

Photo by Sanaz from her recent trip to Tehran, Iranian.com, January 14, 2008. I missed Tajrish so much today.

I have been a little under the weather. When I'm sick and bored, too weak to accomplish anything, I have no choice but to think and reflect. I have been thinking, which could be a dangerous thing for me! I have been remembering moments, snippets of conversations, fleeting feelings, and lasting memories. It's really rather funny. We won't talk about just how old I am, but let's just say that I have been around the block a few times and back! In all of the things I have done in my life, the places I have been, the people I have met, the meetings I attended, the trips I have taken, the things I have owned, and the things I have lost, my boldest memories, the ones that I keep near and dear to my heart, are all in really simple, ordinary, and very austere settings. For example, a trip I took to somewhere far. I may remember something that happened, something which was said or done on that trip. The thing that I remember is not about how posh the hotel was in which I stayed, or where in the airplane that took me there I sat, or in which fancy restaurants in that faraway place I ate. It is almost invariably a memory of a conversation, a meeting, or a feeling I had in a roadside cafe, or walking down the street when the rain broke out, or the scents I smelled while visiting the downtown area of that city. Somehow, somewhere in my mind, the opulence or physical attributes of the experience are diminished to zero, leaving me with only the essence of the experience and the memory. I don't know if I explained a feeling that is baffling to myself very well.

Lying in my bed and looking at the ceiling today, I remembered how I was sitting at the table for two somewhere, sipping a simple cup of tea, feeling safe, wanted, fulfilled, and joyous. It was a happy memory. It was a wonderful flashback to a time that was bold and beautiful as it was taking place. It wasn't tainted with loss or longing. It didn't have any questions hanging from it, it was clear, crisp, and bright. Though long gone, with pain and sadness in its wake for a while, today the memory felt gorgeous, cheerful, and dear. It was framed perfectly placed inside a frame of love. This was really the most perfect sick day of the past year, for so much that has been cluttered and pushed around inside my heart, finally seems to be taking shape, falling into place, and getting organized to beautiful effect. I think lying on that bed, looking at the ceiling today, I found something really good in the attic of my mind.

Christmas, Khatami, Ahmad, and I

My younger son helped me set up our Christmas tree again this year.

It feels like it was only yesterday when I wrote here about Christmases past in Tehran. Today I remembered another memory of my days in Tehran.

I remember the first Christmas Mohammad Khatami had been elected President. Iran was a rainbow of joy and hope, and Tehran was hosting the Organization of Islamic Countries’ Summit in December 1997. I left a meeting in downtown Tehran, hailed an orange taxi cab, and asked the cab driver whether he could spend an hour or two, taking me around Tehran to buy some things. He agreed. He was a middle-aged man who was dressed in what we would consider “laat-e-kolah-makhmali” attire. His coat was resting on his shoulders with his hands free from the sleeves. The back of his shoes had been pushed inside, and in his hands he sported a green rosary with which he was playing as he drove his Paykan. True to form, he also had a black felt hat on. He had kind eyes and a deep Tehrani accent, complete with lingo that was reminiscent of old Iranian movie characters.

I told him I needed to pick up a Christmas tree first. He took me to the Armenian neighborhood of Tehran just below Takht-e-Tavoos Avenue and helped me carry the tree and secure it in the trunk. On our way to my next destination, he and I started talking about politics. I told him I had watched President Khatami receive his foreign counterparts at the airport that morning. I told him how impressed I had been with him. He looked at me in the mirror and asked me what about the President had impressed me. I told him I didn’t really know. Maybe it was that he seemed to be speaking to the arriving leaders easily, in English? In German? In Arabic?, and that he was acting “stately,” something I hadn’t seen before. I told him also that even in his clergy outfit he seemed lithe and somehow contemporary, belonging to today. Maybe it was because he wasn’t wearing sandals, I guess.

The cab driver kept moving his rosary in his hands and looking at me in the rearview mirror. He asked me gently: “Really? You are obviously a woman who has seen more than life in Tehran. Do you really think that a president who can chit-chat in a language other than Farsi is impressive? Or one who wears regular shoes? Does that make him a good president?” He said: “I feel so sorry for my country. Who would have thought there would come a day when knowing a second language at conversational levels or wearing shoes would be considered impressive?” I was so embarrassed. The “laat-e-kolah-makhmali” cab driver didn’t look so laat anymore! I asked him his name and his background. He told me his name was Ahmad and that he had a master’s degree in political science from Tehran University. He had been a teacher before he had been dismissed because of his political beliefs. We talked a lot more about a lot of other things before I bid him goodbye, tree and turkey and fruits in hand. I learned a few important lessons about myself, about life, and about Iranian politics from him that day. Those lessons have only become bolder and more important with time.

Merry Christmas!

The Longest Night

A Yalda spread. Photo from here.

A beautiful crystal bowl, filled with clear water sat in the middle of the coffee table in my parents’ living room. It was surrounded by bowls and plates of fruit, dried nuts and candy, Ajeel, pastries, seeded pomegranates, and bright red watermelon. My mother’s silver candlesticks had fresh candles in them, giving the room a poetic glow. My father’s old Hafez sat prominently on a side table, untouchable by the rest of us, waiting for him alone to announce the appropriate moment. My brother played his setar and its sweet sound warmed up the group sitting around him.

It was Yalda, the longest night of the year at winter solstice. A young boy, my nephew, picked up the water bowl and started making the rounds around the room. Each person he faced made a wish, and dropped a small sign, a ring, a coin, an earring, into the bowl of shimmering clear water. Once everyone’s sign was put in the water, he returned the bowl to the table. My father picked up his Hafez, prayed, and opened a page. He would start reading the poem aloud. Everyone listened. Nobody knew whose fa’al this was…yet. After he was done, the young boy would close his eyes and reach inside the water bowl, pulling out one of the signs and hold it up. That is when we knew in response to whose wish Hafez had just spoken. Everyone exclaimed and laughed, talking about the poem. Then my father would open his Hafez book again to read another poem, and we would all listen, waiting to find out whose poem it was this time, until everyone’s was done.

Yalda, the long night of memories, the night of sweet poems, the night of hope, the night of the purest Iranian celebration, is the year’s sweetest and warmest and most beautiful night for me. Happy Yalda.

Where Joy Was Planted

Autumn in Mazandaran, Iran. Photo by Mohammad Rezaee, Fars News Agency.

For several weeks every autumn, our front yard and the blue pool in the middle of it would fill up with fallen leaves. The leaves were in so many different colors, yellow, orange, brown, and red. Our gardener, who had a name I have never heard since, Arabali, would sweep the leaves to a corner and fetch the ones in the pool, putting them in piles around the yard, until he could get a chance to collect them all and remove them. One of the funnest things my sisters and I used to do was to jump on the piles of leaves in the backyard, throwing them around and burying ourselves in them. We would leave a mess and if we were caught by my mother or Arabali himself, we had hell to pay! This never stopped us, though! That yard had so many of my childhood memories in it. From the spring roses around which we did our annual Nowruz photos, to the mulberry trees which come May would be filled with delicious fruit, to the pool which was our sanctuary during the summers, to the leaves which were our autumn joy, to the snowmen we would create during the winter, all my childhood is now planted in that yard. It's still around, you know? Well, modified and made a lot smaller, but I have gone back to see it again, and it's still there. Trees and plants have grown where those joys were planted, I know. I miss my childhood house's yard, but I am happy in the knowledge of the life that goes on in it, still.

Memory of A Sign

I found this picture in a German man's travelogue of his trip to Iran on a bicycle in 2002. This picture reminded me of a memory. I rememer we were having our annual family reunion in Rasht with my then in-laws. Guests were arriving from everywhere, including Tehran. A wonderful older lady, Azar Khanoom, had also come with her son, who was my friend on top of being related to me through marriage. When they arrived at Hotel Kadous in Rasht, I asked her son where Azar Khanoom was and he said she wasn't feeling well. I felt so bad for her, so I asked him what was the matter with her and whether she needed to be seen by a doctor. He said she had been in such a good mood for going to Rasht and so happy to be visiting with family. All through the drive to Rasht, she had been in a great mood until they had come upon these signs which say Peech-e-marg-avar, or "life threatening bends." He said when she saw the signs her mood changed and she became worried that they might have an accident and die around one of those bends! By the time they arrived, she had been so stressed out, she had to go to bed and rest! Heeh! We laughed so much and everytime I saw Azar Khanoom, I asked her about her experience on the Tehran-Rasht road! I think the transportation authorities went a little overboard with their warning, wouldn't you say?! The skeleton head is a real overkill, if you forgive the pun! Anyhow, the picture reminded me of sweet memories and I thought I would share.

Considering everything, I had a relatively good day today. Thank you all so very much for your good wishes and good vibes. They helped a lot! Have a great Tuesday everybody!

Sweet As Can Be

Akihito Koriyama of Japan took two years to travel to many places including Iran. This is his photographic account of Iran and Iranians. This might appear a little slow to some of you. I simply LOVED the slowness and the overall effect of the video, because it gave me a chance to think about those scenes and those people. I hope you enjoy this and that it doesn't make you too homesick for Iran.

If I can, I will come back and write my Friday post late this evening after I return from an event* in Berkeley.

Berkeley Lecture Series presents "Baha'i Faith 101," a comedy performance with Mansour Taeed, featuring Professor Enayatollah Farhoumand Sangsari, Sociologist and Emeritus faculty of Columbia University; Friday, November 7th, 2008, 8:00 p.m.; Gaia Center, 2116 Allston Way, Berkeley, CA 94704.

Rain, Rain

Tehran's autumnal rain. More photos in the series by Abolfazl Salmanzadeh, Fars News Agency.

The windshield wipers squeaked across, losing fast to the pouring raindrops. The old Paykan wasn't well-insulated, so I could hear the rushing water running under the car, the huge raindrops hitting against the roof, and I could feel the cold wind finding its way into the car, reminding me of how safe, warm, and dry I was sitting in the back of that cab. I was going home, where someone waited for me in a warm environment. The apartment felt cozy and welcoming, with the delicious aroma of home-made food filling its every nook and cranny, and a fire burnt in a fireplace. I took off my scarf and raincoat, washed my hands, and sat to good food and good company, friendship and peace, and love and understanding. We sat by the window, watching the rain, and I felt safe for I was in the company of old, deep, and unpretentious friendship. I miss Tehran and I miss Mandana.

Filed Under "Love"

Jaleh Etemad's "Girl Sobs," from the Spark of Life series, Iranian.com, September 27, 2008.

My little sister laughed. Her lips and her tongue were purple with the stain of the mulberries (toot), picked fresh from the towering trees in our front yard. The sun's reflection on her auburn hair created the image of her beautiful hair in flames of changing colors as her small frame kept moving, bending and shifting. She was laughing and telling me something, when time stopped long enough to file her image in my head among other images there, filed under "Love," and then catapulting us forward by several decades, landing us in October 2008. I watched her now from across the room, as her face lit up in a big smile and her auburn hair caught the reflections of light from the window, seeing the purple lips in my mind.