Moharram

Little boy contemplates coming out in Hamadan's coldest winter in decades. Icicles shine. Be careful my young Hamadani friend! More photos here.

To have lived as long as I have, one comes face to face with his or her own identity more than once. I told you a long time ago how in search of my identity, knowing myself first as a Tehrani born and raised in Tehran, then as an Iranian when I moved to US, and later as an American when I had lived here a long time, sometime in the early 1990's I became a Hamadani, where my parents had originally emigrated from in the 1940's. (Part 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5). Today I want to tell you the story of how I became a Moslem.

I grew up in a home which had not one, but two Haji's as heads of household. Looking back, and remembering thousands of Iranian Moslems I have met in my life, I would say that my parents were probably the happiest Moslems there ever was. They prayed, fasted, paid their khoms-o-zakat and fetrieh, sacrificed not one, but two lambs every Eid-e-Ghorban, celebrated Moslem eids, and mourned the Imams.

Nothing about the way they were Moslems was ever overbearing or imposing to us, the children who were growing up in that happy household. We lacked nothing in religious training if we showed an interest in it, and could participate in all religious ceremonies and requirements. We also could choose not to participate, as some of us chose. There was no pressure and no reprimands. What we learned was completely elective and through observation of those who were loving us unconditionally, providing for us, and raising us as the most loving parents in the world. Whereas a micro mini skirt was not terribly appreciated by my father, no other appearance requirements were ever set for me and my sisters. The way I knew I was a Moslem was to watch the two of them enjoy being Moslems, so comfortable with the rituals and requirements, so generous to others, and so serious and reflective during their prayers.

I remember my father used to work very long days and almost all days of the year, except for our family holidays and twice a year, once during the mourning days of Ramadan and again during Tasooa and Ashoora in Moharram. He wore a black shirt and abstained from shaving, sitting with us in the house, while he reflected. The biggest requirements of those mourning days were for us not to listen to music and not to have parties. That was it. Even religious mourning days, therefore, though quiet, were good days during which our household stayed together, getting busy preparing special foods such as Sholeh Zard, for delivery to our neighbors' homes, celebrating the sense of family and community as Moslems. I remember how my mother poured the hot, delicious smelling Sholeh zard into china gol-e-sorkhi bowls, decorating it lovingly and expertly with cinnamon and pistachio slivers. I remember how neighbors would later return each other's china bowls, leaving a gorgeous flower from their garden inside to thank each other.

I have been through my many stages of belief and spirituality in life. I have read about other faiths and beliefs, and have attended other religions' ceremonies and places of prayer. In the end, if someone asks me today if I believe in God, I would wholeheartedly say "yes." If they asked me what my religion is, I would say "Islam." I know I may not be a very good Moslem, but a long time ago I stopped fighting the urge to pray my Moslem protective prayers for my children and those I love as I see them off, and a fateheh for the deceased every chance I get. I know that to those who make religion a chore, an imposition, a must, with hundreds of requirements and do's and don't's, I am not a very good Moslem at all. But I believe that in the way I live and choose to be, being a moslem has played an integral part of my identity and demeanor. I don't fight it anymore like I used to do during my younger years. Learning from the two best Moslems I have ever known, I couldn't be anything but a Moslem. I celebrate and cherish that piece of my identity in the ways in which I worship my God.

(I will tell you another story on this subject soon.)

A Friday To Celebrate

A Berkeley sidewalk in the rain.

It's Friday, and another week comes to an end. To those of my friends and family who fasted during Ramadan, Happy Eid-e Fetr. This video clip, showing a marvelous musical performance of Iranian and orchestral instruments, composed by Javid Afsari Rad and performed by Norwegian Radio Orchestra in Oslo, is for you. I found it on Omid’s blog. We had a big rainstorm last night and all through today. As I dropped him off at the train station, I lent my umbrella to my younger son, who for the first time in his life had decided to use an umbrella to save his work clothes from the rain. It might appear as mundane and unworthy of reporting to you. For me, it was another of the daily revelations I am experiencing with my children, seeing them acting as adults for the first time, each incident worth mentioning and celebrating. Needless to say, I got to work from the parking lot with wet and frizzy hair, smiling like a lunatic!

There will be a Berkeley Lecture Series lecture by my friend, Dr. Jaleh Pirnazar at UC Berkeley's Barrows Hall on Sunday at 4:00 p.m. She will be talking about “The Image of the Jew in Persian Literature.” For the past 20 years Jaleh has been a lecturer and a scholar of Persian literature and Iranian cinema at Berkeley. I’ll be taking a short trip to Los Angeles with my friends tomorrow. If I can come back in time on Sunday, I will go listen to the sweet and knowledgeable and unpretentious Jaleh. The lecture will be in Farsi.

I have found a DVD of a dance performance I attended last spring. Soon I will try Blogspot's new video feature with it and see if I can upload a bit of it for you to see here. I’m looking forward to the challenge.

I wish you a wonderful weekend, full of relaxation and celebration. Enjoy the time with your loved ones, confessing your love to them. Just think: they already know you and accept you exactly as you are, and that is a valuable attribute of long standing relationships and family. That’s why they need to be celebrated--for putting up with you! In return, put up with them and love and understand them as they are. You can’t miss with this advice, I assure you! Be good y’all.

A Prayer

My objects of prayer today. Click on picture to see what I mean.

Throughout my life, I have been close to people who are dedicated to their religious beliefs. Some pray five times a day, some never miss their Sunday Mass, some attend Friday prayers, and some observe Sabbath regularly. A long time ago I decided none of the routine rituals suited me. Finding regular and group prayers inconvenient and restrictive, I found my own brand of prayer. I look at the nature and find reasons for prayers there. Sometimes I see patterns in the clouds, sometimes the formation of rocks on a moutain, sometimes how the foamy waves of the ocean ride one atop another to shore; there is always something in the nature for me to ponder the order of our universe and to pray. These flowers were my inspiration to pray today. These tiny flowers were so perfectly arranged, so beautifully vibrant, they made me remember God. There was a prayer for every perfect petal of each perfect flower. I prayed for peace, for understanding, for freedom, for health, for love, and for happiness for all the people I know, and all those I don't. I prayed that there be no wars, no unresolved conflicts, no untimely deaths, no disease, no injustice, and no sadness for all. I prayed for open doors, for open smiles, and for open hearts. As I looked at the uncanny order of those tiny flowers and their simple yet miraculous beauty, I prayed for you.

Downtown Berkeley At Lunchtime & God

It’s a cool day in Berkeley, with the typical morning fog gone, and the sun breaking out. Instead of eating lunch, I took a walk around the block to burn about ten of the 50,000 calories I took in this weekend, as my sisters and I took turns to cook and feed our mini-family reunion crowd. .......... Man be baghe erfan.... My older son is at the age when people adjust their childhood images and conceptions, bringing them in line with those they acquire as adults, particularly during their college years. In his humanities courses, he is learning to question religious teachings, so he asks me the kinds of questions an atheist might ask a practicing believer, like asking me to answer tough questions about creation. The problem with the scenario he poses, though, is that neither he is a real atheist, nor am I a real practicing religious individual; therefore our discussion sort of turns into an "agreement" shortly after we start! Take, for example, the discussion we had about God this weekend.The most profound thing I said (if I may say so myself!) about this in our conversation, was that "My brand of spirituality works for me!" And the most profound thing he said was "It is so hard not to believe in God, because then it's just you, all by yourself. When I believed in God, whenever I was in a bind or when I had a tough test, I used to ask God to help me and then I would feel better, but now I can't do that. I'm on my own." I laughed and said to him "No, you're not on your own, because even when you stop asking God to help you, he will still help you because I asked him in MY prayers to help you!"

Two Hands Raised In Dance....

I am off for the weekend. I leave you with the image of hands raised in dance, speaking volumes of words and poetry, I believe*. I hope to be able to go to a special music and dance performance tomorrow night. It is called “Bridges,” and in its announcement flyer it says: “A concert bridging Jewish and Persian cultures through music and dance.” It is exciting for me for a number of reasons: I would love to hear the Yiddish songs they will be singing; I want to see Shahrzad Khorsandi dance; and my friend Aileen Kim dances with the ensemble, too, though she is neither Jewish nor Persian! It will be in a synagogue (kaniseh, or kenesht) in Berkeley, and I will report on it as soon as I can. Have a beautiful weekend wherever you are, eat and drink what you like, rest and relax all you can, and most importantly call, hug, and hold those whom you love. Life is too short to miss out on love and friendships, is what I think. P.S. Did you know that the Biblical Three Wise Men were Zarathustrian Iranians (Persians)? P.P.S. I promise to post the last installment of "Identity" sometime this weekend, too, though I will be intermittently working on home and work projects. *Photo: Hilary Bryan Website

Dance of Faith

This is a picture of Sama*, the spiritual dance of what is now widely referred to in the West as “whirling dervishes.” A few years ago, I made the pilgrimage to Konya (Ghouniyeh) in Turkey to attend the annual Resurrection (orooj) ceremonies of Molana (better known as Rumi in the West). I call it a pilgrimage, because it was one of the most important events in my life, transforming me in profound ways. Someday I will write about what I mean by that transformation which happened in a small non-pretentious khaneghah, what I saw and how I felt. It is a tall tale, actually, best said when I feel lighter and better-equipped to deal with the surge of emotions I will have to recall in order that I may tell you about it. For now, I leave you with images of the dance which as I have witnessed personally, is a pilgrimage of sorts in itself, as those I saw performing it in that austere khaneghah in Ghouniyeh, were not attached to anything or anyone around them, but had surrendered to a music and a calling that only they seemed to hear and follow, delivering the most awesome and moving scene to the ones witnessing it. This is a short video clip of the more formal Sama. http://www.whirlingdervishes.org/multimedia/Sema1.wmv . The one I will talk about later, though, was a much more spontaneous dance, with ordinary-looking men and women in it, touching in its simplicity and honesty. I wish you a weekend full of joy and relaxation. For those of you living in these parts, Happy Mother’s Day, regardless of your gender, marital status, and familial situation. We can only aspire to be as good to others as our mothers were to us and to our siblings. On Sunday I will go see a documentary about Iranian filmmakers at the University, findings of which you poor souls will have to read about next week! Be good and happy. * Iranians call it Sama and Turks call it Sema. I borrowed this photograph from the same source as the above video clip.