A New Arrival

Last June, two nights before the Iranian presidential elections, he showed up at our house. He was sitting on the front walkway, refusing to leave. It was obvious he was a house cat, familiar and comfortable with people. I wouldn't let him in the house, hoping that his owners would come and take him away soon. I know what it feels like to lose a pet, even if temporarily. I wanted him to stay outside so that he could be seen by his owners who must be frantic, I thought.

I had had a painful time separating from our cat, Oskie, or Asghar, when I left Iran in 2006. I still miss my gorgeous "hanaee" (henna colored) cat who is staying with a family in Karaj. But I also knew that I didn't want another pet, not yet. This cat which had invited himself over was getting on my nerves. I could see my younger son getting quickly attached to him and I was desperate to find his family. We posted "Cat Found" signs in our neighborhood. My next door neighbor posted an announcement on Craig's List, and I finally managed to convince my son to take him to the local animal shelter to see if he had an identification chip or if anybody was looking for him. For some strange reason, it turned out that nobody was looking for him. My son left contact information at the animal shelter, but didn't leave him there, bringing him home again.

The events in Iran were unravelling fast, first the elections, then the demonstrations, then the violence, and finally the grief and outrage. My older son joined us and we stood vigil to what was happening in Iran, much like millions of other people in the world alternating between pride and respect and outrage and sadness. The cat stayed and became a member of our family. He is a loving cat, peaceful and trusting of people. He sits by me all the time. This is a picture of him, taken this morning while he was taking a nap by where I sit to work at the dining table. When I get up to go to another part of the house, he follows me and comes to sit wherever I am. He is a new member of our family now. His name is Mir Hossein.

Making music in heaven now

Iranian composer and santur master, Parviz Meshkatian has passed away. This news made me very sad. I post here the santur piece from his "Dood-e Oud" album, which I believe is the happiest piece of music he wrote. Doud-e Oud was one of the first pieces of music written and performed by Tehran Symphony Orchestra after a four year silence had befallen Iranian music right after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Iranian music suffered terribly during those years, instruments were broken and musicians were sent into hiding. This album, sung by Master Shajarian, was one of the first musical pieces which were produced to herald the beginning of a new era in Iranian music. That's the kind of musician Parviz Meshkatian was back then, courageous and creative. What a loss for Iran. Here you can listen to Shajarian's "Ay Yousof-e Khoshnam-e Maa" from the same album, this one is a bit melancholic, but it is one of my most favorite pieces of music by Shajarian, on a poem by Molana.

Rest in peace and play music in heaven now.

The One Two Woman

Santurnavazan Ensemble perform "Ze Ba'ad e Ma," (Beyond our Path) at Tehran University's College of Literature, 2005. This beautiful and uplifting piece of music was recommended by my friend, Bahram. Lovely and interesting variation on the way a Santur is played. Great work!

I threw the dice

Watching the result

A one and a two

I looked at you

And you looked embarrassed

After all your doubles

I smiled

Making do with the tiny move

Saying:

"I'll take it!

Better move like a turtle

Than to remain stagnant."

You looked puzzled

For the joy exploding nearby

In the form of a big smile

On the face of the woman

Celebrating her one and two.

.

I played backgammon in the moonlight last night. It was great fun, said the One Two Woman.

To Do List

My friend Rojan performs a new rendition of the old-time Iranian song, Morgh-e Sahar. You can see more of her music here (I love this one! It makes me so happy every time I listen to it.) and here, where she performs with Pournazeri brothers of Shams Ensemble.

It's Sunday. My older son is home for the weekend. A cup of tea, a window to the green branches of the tall trees outside my window, and a whole day of planned chores await me. I'm still buzzed with a writing class I attended yesterday. I have several pieces of writing in the works and just as soon as I have made a dent in my endless list of long-postponed projects today, I will get busy with the writing. I plan on leaving at least one of them here. I hope you all have a peaceful Sunday. Go and embrace and kiss all those who matter to you in your life. That is the number one item on top of my "To Do" list today. It's been too long.

Time for Freedom

Iranian American duo, Mozane, perform "Time for Freedom." Here's their MySpace page. Nice song. I'll be along later to write something. Have a beautiful day/evening everybody!

From San Francisco To Kashan

My friend, filmmaker Sabereh Kashi, has an exciting new film project in the works. Here is a first version of her film, "My Home of the Last Seven Millenia." In it she tells the tale of her return to Kashan from San Francisco, in search of a childhood memory. Congratulations to sweet Sabereh for her amibitious and loving project.

(Does anybody know what to do with the "chopped off" display screen of YouTube links on blogspot?)

Lunch with Lotfi

One day last week I went to have lunch with my friend, Professor Lotfi Zadeh, in Berkeley. I picked him up in his office on campus. I have written about him before. Inventor of "fuzzy logic," Lotfi is a Professor Emeritus at Berkeley's EECS department. He still goes to work everyday, keeping with his huge network of contacts worldwide. As charming and dashingly clothed as ever, my 88-year-old friend made me laugh and think as is a tradition between us. We had Prsian food at Alborz and talked about the Iranian elections and what is happening in Iran. With his very philosophical view on life, he made light of a grim situation.

Lotfi is originally from Baku, Azerbaijan, though he was raised in Iran, where he attended school and university. His anecdotes, reflective of his wonderful sense of humor, always includes something about Russia and Russians. He told me a joke about the 1996 Russian elections during which Boris Yeltsin was re-elected. He said as the polls had closed and they were counting the votes, a Yeltsin aide came to see him late at night and said: "Sir, I have good news and bad news." Yeltsin asked him to give him the bad news first. The aide said "The bad news is that your opponent has 60% of the votes." Distraught, Yeltsin asked: "What's the good news, then?" His aide said: "The good news is that we've got 80% of the votes!"

Lotfi is a delight! We spent a good time talking about life, relationships, and politics. Disarmed again with his wisdom and charm, I can't wait go see him again.

You can read the other posts I have written about him here and here.

Last Seen Wearing A Green Ribbon

The mother looked in

The sleeping child breathing slowly

Face framed by sheets in the dark

Softly she said “Wake up Sohrab”

The day’s hope and excitement ahead

The shower ran

Bread was toasted,

The sound of the slowly boiling kettle

The green ribbon tied

Heralding the start of a momentous day

~ ~ ~

As the crowd flowed and moved through,

Everyone a drop in a sea of green

Taking tiny steps ahead

Shoulder to shoulder

The telegraphic words and looks

Transmitting meanings and messages

Through the deafening roar

A nod of reassurance

A tiny smile

~ ~ ~

The crowd grew greater and wider

And in an errant second they were pulled apart,

Separated by the sea,

Tiny and black clad among the trees,

She watched him happily engulfed, foam on the wave,

She lost sight of him

The crowd took him

And she stood there thinking

“This wholesome crowd will protect him”

“He will be safe”

~ ~ ~

She waited

And waited

And didn’t hear the key turning in the lock

And couldn’t hear his familiar footsteps down the hall

And melancholy swiftly turned to despair,

She became a soldier searching

The young man who was last seen wearing a green ribbon

She looked

High and low

Low and low

She asked “Have you seen my boy?”

“He was wearing a green ribbon”

Days

Weeks

A month

~ ~ ~

The news came

Stark and short

And the crowds gathered again

Hailing the end

Carrying gladiola

Wearing black ribbons

~ ~ ~

The mother looked in

The sleeping boy forgetting to breath

The shroud framing his man’s shape

Softly she said “Wake up Sohrab”

Her life’s dread and grief ahead

As the crowd prayed

The smell of camphor and rosewater

Mixed with the sound of sobs and muffled tears

Marked the start of a barren life

The life of the mother without her son.

For Iran

U2 perform "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" in solidarity with Iranian people during their 360 degrees world tour in Dublin, Ireland on July, 24th, 2009. Amazing performance.

Today I am going to the San Francisco Mega Rally in solidarity with Iranians. It will be at the Civic Center Plaza on McAllister Street from 12:00 until 4:30 p.m. (catch BART to Civic Center station). Join us if you can. Do it for Iran.

Our Iran

"The Three Iranian Sopranos," Nasrin Asgari, Shirin Asgari, and Kamelia Dara, perform Iran-e Maa (our Iran) at their 2008 Vancouver concert. The song is composed by Hamid Zargarzadeh. I need to find the poem to this song.

And so, life goes on. For someone who is "in between jobs," I have been terribly busy this summer. It is no longer possible for me to say why my heart has been heavy. Is it my personal stuff and the job situation, or is it what's been happening in Iran? I just know that my heart has been heavy. But everyone's heart has been heavy of late. I'm going to start writing here again. I have a lot to tell you. Soon.

"boro baba!"

Thursday:

My friend calls and wants to gossip about her coworker. While I am on the phone with her, I have abandoned my feverish hourly search for news and information about Iran, in order to pay full attention to her. I sit there and listen to the same words being repeated over and over again, but I can’t really hear or understand a word of what she is saying. My mind is elsewhere, thousands of miles away, where people are running through the streets, scared. Any moment another one of them may be hit with a bullet. She says: “…and I would like to know why Steve takes issue with my being ten minutes late in the morning but he never asks Tina how come she comes in at 10 at least twice a week... .” And all I want to do is to stop her and this phone call while yelling: “boro baba!”

Friday:

I realize I can’t just sit at home and do nothing other than watching the news. So I agree to go out on a second date with that guy. He is talking about his ex-wife again, the one who hurt and tormented him for years, leaving him scarred and scorched beyond recognition. Somewhere in that long few paragraphs he is uttering he says “and I was wondering whether you would like to come visit my cabin by the ocean some time, maybe next weekend. You know, maybe we can get to know each other better.” And I’m thinking to myself how I would go stir crazy with him and Linda in a cabin, cut off from the world and news about Iran for 48 hours. Though I say something else, something polite, all the while I’m saying in my mind: “boro baba!”

Saturday:

I open the mailbox. There is another offer for free panties from Victoria’s Secret, not to mention a Macy’s discount card for 25% off everything. There is even a card from Clarins summoning me to claim my free facial, free samples, and free gift package. There is a catalogue for courses in my town’s adult education center, and three catalogues from my favorite mail order stores. As I toss everything into trash, remembering the sea of people exposed to sticks and bullets in Iran, I send the vendors a short mental message: “boro baba!”

Sunday:

“What would you like to do for the celebration?” my best friend asks. As she rattles off the options and suggestions, it takes all my might to thank her, ask for a rain check, and postpone all celebrations until a time when I feel able to enjoy the occasion and all the hoopla. Is that a pout on her face? Sheesh, now I have to apologize and explain and justify myself. As I do, I send my friend a cryptic message in my mind: “boro baba!”

Monday:

I show up to the protest and two minutes into the affair I hear two people behind me, fighting over the flag, one insisting to the other that this is not “our flag” or “my flag” or “Iran’s flag,” I can’t remember now which one he says. Standing there, thinking that I have come to the only place where I might feel slightly better, standing next to others who feel the same dread and anxiety as I do, I tell myself how much I wish I didn’t have to utter the words here, too. Alas I have to do it. This time, though, I say the words out loud, “boro baba!” and I’m ready to fight over this, too. I tell the guy to cut it out and let people do whatever makes them feel better, telling him that the other person is free to express himself whichever way he wants and it’s not right for anyone to tell him which flag to like or dislike. I know I am in the right place and in the company of my kin right there and then, when I hear the other guy look me in the eyes and say: “boro baba!”

I published this on iranian.com on July 19, 2009.

Where is my vote?

People of Holland show their support for people of Iran.