Spice of Life

Spice Shop Display in Mashad's Bazaar. Photo by Shahireh Sharif.

Bloggers are forever struggling with themselves and with each other on whether or not they are honest and forthright in expressing their thoughts and feelings in their blogs. Sometimes people talk about their most intimate, personal things in their blogs. Some bloggers never discuss anything personal. Sometimes a blogger complains that she is a prisoner to the unreal "image" she thinks her blog is promoting of her. I mostly read and listen to these conversations and arguments, unable to add much. My weblog is my space. To the extent that I feel comfortable and happy, I talk about my personal details in it. What I don't feel like sharing with a large audience, I don't. I do use my own name with enough details about myself that I am easily traceable and verifiable. That does not feel restrictive to me. In fact it feels liberating to me.

Just like anybody else, I have good days and bad days. I have days when I laugh like a maniac, and feel playful and energetic all day. There are days when I am sad or reflective or weepy, because of some feelings or some events. I don't want to pretend that I am this manic, hyper middle-aged woman who is always "up," or pretending to be "up." To the extent that I feel comfortable, I tend to share those feelings. Some days when I am down or tired or for whatever reason not in my usual story-telling mood, I post things which won't make me talk about those feelings. Today would have been such a day. But instead, I will talk about it a little bit.

This was not a very happy day for me, and I just don't want to pretend to anything. Without trying to sound like a Hallmark card or some godawful self-help book, I just want to say that in my life's experience, sadnesses, tears, and even wails of pain and sorrow are spices of life. They sit right next to that howling laughter, that all-teeth smile, that fabulous gait in someone's walk and that inspiring dance move, affectionately known as gher-e-kamar. Without one, the other one will lose so much meaning and significance and hope and reflection, all necessary elements in an individual's life, becoming compromised and lessened. I may not love my sad days (well, I do hate them), but I accept them as real days of my life, using them to create a sense of equilirium in my life. When my children were younger, they never saw me cry, because seeing an adult cry is a very frightening and confusing image for a child. Since they are young adults now, more and more I feel comfortable talking to them and letting my tears drop in their presence. They still hate it, but somehow they understand it and get mobilized to help and to reach out. That's a good skill for them to learn now, I believe. They will need to learn to console and caress crying friends and girlfriends and wives and children soon enough. I had some spice in my life today. Yes, a very spicy day. Tomorrow will be better and I will not taste and remember the tears, but the wonderful taste and the hot colors of spices. I'm sorry I would like to postpone replying to your kind messages until tomorrow night when I am sure I will feel happier and more jazzed up with the story you will finally hear. Do be good y'all.

2:00 P.M. Heartbreak

My American friend says: "I think my husband wants a divorce." I say: "Stop talking about a divorce! You have been married for 25 years. Why are you thinking that?" She says: "He doesn't want to talk to me, doesn't want to touch me, and when I ask him what is the matter, he says he is not ready to discuss it with me." I say: "If he isn't talking about a divorce, chances are he doesn't want a divorce, he is just unhappy for some reason, maybe a mid-life crisis, maybe the symptoms of 'an empty nest,' some loneliness and bereavement people feel when their kids move out. You mustn't be the one bringing up a divorce if you don't want it. Your children are grown now and this is the time for the two of you to start enjoying your life together." She cries and says: "He doesn't pay any attention to me; he was so mean to me on Christmas Day; he didn't get me a present, and didn't open the present I gave him, saying I shouldn't have bothered." This one brings back too many sad memories for me. So, I cry, too.

How many times have I heard this scenario before? Though divorces are entirely too common, unfortunately, most people don't realize how much pain awaits them in the wake of a long-standing marriage. Knowing that pain, however, never enables me to stop it from happening to others I know. I think the decision to divorce is not one that people make overnight. It usually takes them years to make, whether they are aware of it or not, which is why it is not easily changed just through friendly advice. I told my friend to go see a marriage counselor, but she says he is not interested. It sounds bad to me, and it makes me sad.

Persian Gulf

They sit as President and Minister of Foreign Affairs of Iran at the GCC Summit in Doha, under a sign that reads "The Arabian Gulf Cooperation Council." Did something happen over the past 24 hours to change 3000 years of history for Iran? Has Mr. Ahmadinejad accepted that it is now the "Arabian Gulf?" On whose behalf? In return for what? A seat at a conference table? No true Iranian would accept to sit under that sign. Iranian Presidents and dignitaries have left state receptions because a bottle of wine was served or a woman was singing at an event, stating the host's disrespect for their beliefs as their excuse. They would, however, stay and participate in a meeting whose very name is hostile to and demeaning of Iran's territorial sovereignty? Over the past decade, we have had to continually fight to remind the Arab countries and their European and American business partners that it is THE PERSIAN GULF, not "The Gulf," nor "The Arabian Gulf," it is THE PERSIAN GULF. Must we now tell the Iranian President and his Minister of Foreign Affairs the same thing, too? This is surreal. Iran's "representatives" have brought shame to our nation tonight. That's what I think.

Photo from here.

Paradise In Flames

"October 23rd, 2007, San Diego, California, USA. A home burns along Via Valle Vista in a neighborhood above Lake Hodges on the east side of the lake in San Diego, California. Photo by Eduardo Contreras"

Southern California burns in flames. Along with an estimated one million other people, my sweet young friend, Mersedeh, who volunteers tirelessly for San Diego's Peyk has had to evacuate her house with her mother to check into a hotel in Los Angeles. I have many relatives who live in the San Diego area, most of whom have their suitcases packed and in their cars, waiting for orders to evacuate. At least 1,300 homes have burnt down, with thousands more in danger. The raging Santa Ana winds have turned the entire area into an inferno. Please pray for the health and safety of all, and particularly the many Iranians who live in that area. I hope Mersedeh is safe and sound. My thoughts are with her and her family and all the others tonight.

September 11, 2001-September 11, 2007

I asked the young Russian woman who was my translator whether they were saying anything about Ahmad Shah Massoud’s health after the explosion. She listened and said: “Some say he is still alive. Americans say he is dead.” In the afternoon, as we were driving back into the city, I asked her again if there was any news about Ahmad Shah Massoud. She listened and said: “No news about Shah Massoud. But they say an airplane ran into the World Trade Center in New York.” I didn’t believe her. She had made some mistakes with her English earlier that week, and I was sure she didn’t know what she was talking about. She was quiet and I kept quiet, too. The news broadcast continued on the car radio. Several minutes later she said: “Looks like another airplane hit the other World Trade Center Tower.” By this time I was sure she not only had poor English, that she was also really stupid, as she had no idea how big and tall those towers were and how airplanes worked. I had a hard time keeping a straight face, thinking that I will be cracking jokes about this woman’s translation skills for years to come. When I got out of the car and walked into the lobby of my hotel, I saw many people huddled around the TV set in the lobby. From their expressions, their collective silence, and their body language, I could tell something ominous had happened. I ran to the elevator and went to my room where I saw it on TV. Later that evening we went for a walk near Kremlin and Red Square. Though everyone seemed aware that summer was over, the night air didn’t feel terribly cold. We sat there in silence, watching others walk by us also in silence. Many people had ashen faces and several people were crying. We had ashen faces and we were crying, too. We knew many people had died, but the numbers were not known to us at the time. I just knew that early in the morning of a weekday, someone who had bought a cappuccino at Starbucks downstairs and was sipping it, quite possibly looking across the pictures of his wife and kids on his desk, or pictures of her daughter’s graduation and her son’s Little League pose, saw the horrible sight of an airplane approaching his or her window. The world changed on September 11, 2001, forever. The lives of those in World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and those in those airplanes were just some of the beginning numbers on a growing scroll of human lives lost in the fires of ignorance, greed, and blind hate since then. Today I continue to cry for the victims of September 11, 2001 through September 11, 2007. As the world continues to burn in blazing fires of mistrust and hate, I remember the morning of September 11, 2001 in Moscow as quite possibly the last day I woke up to my world as I knew it. (This piece was published in Iranian.com today, under the title: "The end of the world." Here's the link.)

Is Her Hejab Proper Now?

My heart weeps and my eyes won't close at night. I feel like the whole world's weight is on my shoulders, pulling me down, keeping me from taking one more step ahead. Who that girl is matters not. She could be me; she could be my daughter, my sister, my niece--she could be any Iranian woman. I am wondering though, doesn't she look surprisingly calm for someone who was injured brutally just a few minutes ago? Why isn't she hysterical at the sight of blood running down her face? Could it be, that if all of those Iranian women were to bleed from the face, they would all look so calm, simply because they have been bleeding even harder from their hearts and dignities all these years, and this is nothing by comparison? I just have one question of that gentleman to her left, the valiant what is he, a colonel? Does he like her hejab now? Is it better now than when he first met her a few minutes ago? Does she have proper Islamic cover now? Later tonight, is he going to go home feeling really accomplished and good about what he did at work today? Is he going to hug his little girl, telling her what great things he achieved today? Would he consider bringing her to work with him one of these days, to see what her father does for a living? I am heartsick and nothing feels good right now.

Miss Phyllis

Thursday Night

My beautiful, gentle, and competent co-worker, Phyllis, died today. I am so sad. She was 60 years old, a quiet, non-pretentious soul. The tragedy that has enveloped us today is because Phyllis lived alone and had not come to work, nor answered her telephone all day yesterday, so two co-workers went to her house today and with the help of a neighbor, broke down her door and discovered her in a coma in her house. They took her to the hospital but she died of cardiac arrest this afternoon. My other co-worker, Kay, who was the one who went to Phyllis’ house, had lost her son suddenly a few months ago. This would be too much for any one person to handle in such a short period of time, I worry.

Today Kay was intermittently hysterical and calm, desperately trying to locate Phyllis’ next of kin, a sister and a brother. Kay is a devout Christian, one of the few people I have ever met in my life, who has been able to make sense of life and its tragedies. When we went to her son’s memorial service, in the tradition of many African American congregations, there was beautiful music in the program. When they sang the first song, she lifted her arms heavenwards, and started swaying and moving to the beat of the music, singing along, making me cry uncontrollably at the solace she alone seemed to find in her beliefs in dealing with her loss.

Tomorrow I will have to go take care of our staff’s morale and help find a way to cope in the workplace. My boss is on a much-deserved vacation, and what a fine time it is for me to be “in charge.” I will do it for Phyllis, though, so unassuming and gentle she was, my friend, whom every time I addressed as Miss Phyllis, would turn around with an amused smile and look at me, the manic foreign lady, with a smile and say: “Yes?”

33 Living Arrows

I live and work in a university community, full of the life and energy of its young students. Some days I go to Sproul Plaza at lunch, and sit on a bench and look at the thousands of brilliant young men and women who walk about, talking, laughing, and bringing the most valuable asset a university can have: young minds ready to grow and expand and learn, preparing to give back to the world by becoming professionals, scientists, and leaders of tomorrow. It is unfathomable that such beautiful stream of vitality and life which was running through Virginia Tech, came to an abrupt and violent end yesterday. I am speechless in the face of this violence and brutal attack on human life and humanity. The thought of those kids’ parents and families and communities won’t let go of me. I am mother, aunt, and friend to many college students. The tragedy’s dimensions are truly unthinkable for me. My blogger friend, Serendip http://fleetingperusal.blogspot.com/, who is a sensitive and kind man, has been particularly hard-hit with the news. I pray for him, and I pray for all the families, friends, and affiliates of the Virginia Tech community, to find the strength and hope with which to overcome this sadness and tragedy. I also pray for my Korean friends, who as immigrants must feel particularly saddened by the perpetrator’s South Korean identity, something that they now have to hear 100 times an hour on CNN. I quote something from Jebran Khalil Jebran’s book, Prophet, where he talks about children: And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." And he said: Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of to-morrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

My Name Is Not Nazli

And since I am usually in a pretty cheerful mood, and today I am obviously overtaken by this rare dark bad mood, I should also take this opportunity to say that I wished the person who keeps calling me and can't understand why I won't return his phone calls and emails would know that my name is Nazy, and it's spelled N A Z Y. It is not Nazli or Nazanin, nor is it spelled NAZI (really, who would ever choose to be called a Nazi on purpose?), and my last name is not Karimi, as he tried to introduce me to someone a few weeks ago when I ran into them at a lecture. At my age, I appreciate the importance of time in deepening and furthering relationships and fostering understandings, so I am not disillusioned about meeting new people and expecting them to know me very well immediately. But a person's name seems to be a very good place to start all that, don't you think? Darkly, Nazy

Project From Hell

I have a project on which I have worked since August. It’s not going my way at all. I’m at that pivotal point where I must surrender, but I don’t want to give up. A small part of what I proposed has been implemented and the rest, which requires team cooperation appears now to be completely impossible to attain. My boss is so kind to me. She wants to give me a new project to get my mind off the project that is going nowhere fast. I’m resisting moving on, hoping that I can turn the first project around. I have tried everything and nothing seems to work, because my clients don’t like this project at all. Nobody likes this project at all. It feels like a failure and I don’t want to have managed a failure. It is so depressing.

Where Are My Shoes?

I can’t find anything. My kids can’t find anything, either. Their dilemma is understandable—they didn’t pack anything. My dilemma is three-fold, because I packed for three people and now I don’t know where anything is. I wore strange clothes to work today. Tomorrow isn’t going to be that much better, either. I should have taken this week off work. I need a vacation; that is what I need. But I won’t be able to pack for a vacation, because I don’t know where anything is. I’m crabby.