Unknown Caller

My phone display says: Unknown Caller. Most definitely, it’s a call from Tehran. I’m paralyzed with the desire to pick up and talk to a loved one, and the anxiety of what I might hear. I wished I wouldn’t get some of those phone calls from Tehran. I wished I knew which one of those callers were going to tell me things I don’t need to know and I don’t want to hear, so I wouldn’t pick up their calls. I wished people would respect what it has taken to leave, and wouldn’t tamper with it.

Trip Down *#@%$%^ Memory Lane

Without a doubt, Si-o-Seh Pol (which means “33 Bridges”) over Zayandeh River in Isfahan, is one of the most prized national monuments of Iran, a feat of architecture of its own time (built in 1602). Since I was a child and went to visit my aunt and uncle and my cousins in Isfahan, and later taking sightseeing and romantic trips there as an adult, I have walked on this bridge (driving is prohibited) hundreds of times, looking on the gorgeous city of Isfahan and Zayandehrood with interest, pride, and love. Seeing its picture early this morning, though, has reminded me of memories I don’t feel like I want to celebrate right now. Si-o-Se Pol was not welcome this morning.

Mohsen Makhmalbaf

I saw that picture of Mohsen Makhmalbaf and his daughter, Samira, on Radio Zamaneh's "Today's Photograph" section (Akse Emrooz), showing them at the Cannes Film Festival. I suppose by entitling the photograph "Makhmalbaf in 2007," someone wanted to bring attention to how his appearance has changed over the years, from austere revolutionary garb to a suit (maybe a tuxedo) with a bow-tie. I don't care what he wears, what he says, where he lives, and even what his children do. I respect Mohsen Makhmalbaf for his films in which he consistently and remarkably shows us to ourselves in seemingly effortless and easy ways. The pictures above are of his movie, Noon-o-Goldoon (Literal translation is Bread and Flower Pot, but which is translated into A Moment of Innocence), which is based on his own life's story. It is one of the most poignant and thought-provoking movies I have ever seen. He takes his audience on a journey, showing us both his young idealist life and his mature years of facing disappointments after the Iranian Revolution. He also portrays the ideals, dreams, and fears of the new Iranian generation vis a vis those of his own generation, and how under similar circumstances, they might not make the same choices as their parents did. I think this was one of my most favorite movies ever. If ever you get a chance to see it, see it!

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!"

Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day in the US. This is the day those who died in wars are remembered. This is a picture of a memorial site in Lafayette, California, remembering all those who have died in Iraq war. As I pulled into the train station parking lot across the road to take this picture, I saw many people there looking at the memorial site quietly and reflectively. I cannot imagine how the parents of these young men and women must be feeling and what they must be thinking right now. I think giving one's life for one's country is probably the most honorable thing an individual can do. There is much debate and disagreement about the how's and why's of wars in the political arena worldwide. Regardless of those discussions, one cannot look at this memorial site and similar ones elsewhere, without being touched by the seriousness and significance of those soldiers' lives and deaths. I pray for their souls.

Personal Legend

“Everybody, when they are young, knows what their personal legend is. They yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them. But as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their personal legend. The mysterious force is a force that appears to be negative, but actually shows you how to realize your personal legend. It prepares your spirit and your will - It's your mission on earth. To realize it is a person's only real obligation. And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it."

From The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

My younger son is leaving on a trip to Amsterdam. A trip he dreamt, planned, and financed himself for a whole year. Part of me wants to protest the distance that is separating him from me. Part of me wants to wish an excellent wind in his sails to go and see and learn. I am reminded of the first day I taught him how to cross the street in Tehran. “Look to your left, look to your right, look to your left again, and go…run.” I waited for him to cross the street, as his little hand slipped out of mine, and off he went. My heart was beating so hard. It would have been so much easier to hold on to his hand and to walk him across the street. So much safer it was. But, he needed to learn to cross the street for himself to be able to get to the other side of the street, where his world was going to begin. Part of the pain of parenthood is to help your children go, go cross that street, go cross that ocean, go look for their “personal legend.” As he bounces around with joy and excitement, getting ready to leave, I brave the pain and hold still with a reassuring smile on my face. He goes to find the world and his personal legend, and I feel lost, staying on my side of the street.

Little Tajik Boy Dances.....

I am off for the weekend, excited to be seeing members of my family after a long time. I found my way to the blog of a dancer who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and specializes in Tajik, Afghan, Uzbek, and Iranian dances. Her name is Aliah Najmabadi. I leave you with an image from her blog, showing an artist family in Badakhshan who are performing music, where the solo dance is performed by a very young Tajik boy. Don't you think that little boy's pose and facial expression is priceless? It is so clear that however he was taught, he has learned to understand and feel dance in his little body and soul! It is so touching to look at that concentration on his face. For all the affinity I feel for Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, and Afghanistan as neighbors who share so much in culture, language, and history with Iran, I feel awful that life in those countries must be marred by consistent violations of human rights. Take a look at this article. When will we be free? I hope you relax over the weekend, and feel close to those you love. I hope angels kiss your eyes to dream good dreams, as I used to wish for my children every night! I hope there is respite from war and evil at least over the next few days. Have a good weekend.

Blogger's Game: Significant People

Well, honored as I am to have been invited by Leva, I now realize what a tough assignment this is! People who have affected my life in profound ways are: Thirty eight people in my immediate family, starting with my parents, who present the mosaic of my identity, all that it is and has become. Mrs. Kamali, my grade school principal, who would take me out of the line to give me a merit (karte sad afarin) on Saturdays for my scholastic achievements, and would again pull me out of the same line on Thursday, to hit my little hands with a wooden ruler (with metal siding), for having misbehaved. She taught me to hate school, studying, discipline, and unearned authority. To this day I am convinced the song “Bad Teacher,” (Moalleme Bad) by Ebi was based on her. I learned from her to hold and kiss children’s hands, respect children and young people, and to give them encouragement and hope because they hold the future in their hands and hearts. Mrs. Javaheri, my seventh grade English teacher, who insulted me because I couldn’t make out the English alphabet, poking mean fun at me, driving me to work day and night to learn English in Tehran, to teach her and myself a lesson or two in a short nine months, and then through the rest of my life. Ali Moussavi Garmaroodi, my eighth grade composition teacher, who taught me to read significant books, and encouraged me to write, write, and write. He provided me with the outlet that has saved my sanity throughout my life—I wished I could say the same for those who have to read my writings! My brother-in-law, who gave me my first job at 15, helping me realize that I can work and not need to be financially supported by anyone else. Sohbatollah Khan, (The Saraidar), the Kurd building caretaker of a company I worked for in Tehran as a young woman. He taught me that commitment in a relationship (in his case marriage), is a very good thing. My friend, Mandana, who is one of the most unusual people I have ever met. She is bright, well-read, and a deep thinker. Above and beyond her many intellectual capabilities, however, she has the most unwavering set of values, an open mind, and a heart of gold. Mandana is the kind of friend everyone should hope to have. With her, even during my darkest days, I have never felt alone. From her, I keep trying to learn how to be a woman of my times with love, honor, and integrity. My friend, Linda, who has taught me all I know about American life, values, lingo, and heart. An unnamed woman in Mashad. Some day I will write on this woman in more detail. For now, I tell you that she is a mother of four sons and two daughters. All her sons served during the Iran-Iraq war, one of them was killed, one of them returned 70% disabled from his injuries during the war, and one of them came back with mental disabilities as a result of his tour of duty. Her son-in-law was also killed in the war. She taught me strength and hope. Nargess Khanoom, a woman in the village of Ghassemabad Olya on the border of Mazandaran and Gilan, from whom I learned that among all the darker things we see and feel in our fellow countrymen, there are bright beacons of light and hope, trained not by schools and universities or books, but through circumstances that could pull a woman out of a corner, and put her in a prominent place in her family and her community, commanding respect from all. Nazanin, a woman I met at a barbeque party in the Bay Area, during some of the darkest days of my life. Despite her chic and modern appearance (very gherty), in contrast to what a clergy might look like and say, on that day she reminded me that when we believe in God, we don’t have to worry about every little detail of our lives, and that some of that heavy burden can be left to God to carry for us. My life changed after meeting her, I believe. Sheila Williams, a woman who gave me my first job in the US, trusting me, and believing that the shy foreign student she had in her charge, could do things even that young woman didn’t know she could do. Two men who helped me run the gamut of feelings and experiences in relationships. Though my overall evaluation of both of them is not very high, more so in retrospect, I cannot deny the profound impact they have had on my life. Enough said. One hundred young Iranian men and women who worked with me during the fourteen years I lived in Iran, for teaching me a thing or two about the new generation of Iranians, their strengths, their weaknesses, their hopes, and their fears; for teaching me when I felt lost and displaced that Iran is mine and I am Iran’s, and that to sweat blood for a cause as dear as building hope for it, was a worthwhile effort which paid for itself in joy through and through. Young Iranian journalists, who are intelligent, wise, and brave, teaching me every day of my life that thought cannot be erased, suppressed, or stopped even through imprisonment, torture, and accusations, even when there is no newspaper in which to write, even when people fear reading the things they write, even when the day looks darker than the darkest nights. Hossein Mokhtari, Mohammad Jafar Pouyandeh, Dariush and Parvaneh Foroohar, and the other victims of serial killings of intellectuals in Iran, and Akbar Ganji, whose lives and deaths and near-deaths have helped me find new understanding and hope in the future of Iran. My list is not complete, but I believe there is a representation of the hundreds of people whose good and bad acts have touched me and have made me ponder and act in the best ways I knew how. My life would be a lot less, and less meaningful, if I hadn’t known each and every one of them. Now I would like to invite Mrs. Shin, Tameshk, Rahnavard, Peyvand Khorsandi, and Yek Negah to the game.

Flamenco

Last December*, my friend Kathy and I went to see Eva Yerbabuena Ballet Flamenco perform in Bereley’s Zellerbach. Certainly, as beautiful and moving as I find the flamenco, I understand that appreciating it is an acquired taste. I love the music, which is sad and sweet and full of energy, and I adore the dance, which is so poetic and is able to convey such a wide range of emotions. Of course, I certainly don’t want to say that I know that much about it artistically, as I am just a loving spectator of music and dance. I watch it and I feel it. That’s all. Eva Yerbabuena is one of the new generation of Spain’s Flamenco artists, who have introduced innovation and new interpretation in their dance. She is a world-class dancer, and recipient of Spain’s most prestigious dance award (the Premio Nacional de Danza). Eve and the dancers and musicians of her group sizzled the stage at Zellerbach during that performance. Watch this if you’d like to see what she does--watch her feet any chance you get, she is amazing, especially towards the end. I loved watching her perform and will go back again when she comes to Berkeley, as she frequently does. Enjoy. *(Quite by accident, I deleted several entries I had written in December and January. I am trying to reconstruct the worthwhile ones here.)

Bloggers' Game

Sweet Leva has invited me to participate in the newest Iranian bloggers' game. I am honored and touched, as I have never been invited to any such thing! For those of you who don't know how this works, a blogger (has to be one of the better-established ones for people to pay attention), thinks of a new game, writes the question, answers it, and then invites several others to answer the same question. Except for the first person, no one can participate in this game, unless they are invited (very classist). Once invited, most bloggers oblige. Blog audiences also keep tabs on who got invited and usually make a point of reminding bloggers that they have been invited to participate. The game which was done over the Winter Solstice (Shabe Yalda, the longest night of the year, an event celebrated by Iranians with many different rituals), for example, asked bloggers to name five "facts" about themselves that nobody else knew before. Or, the one before this, was to look at each blogger's "wish list." So, this time, the question is: Name people who have had significant influence in your life. I thank Leva for her kind invitation, and will oblige soon. Oh boy, I feel like I am preparing a speech for my OSCAR award! Hahaha!

My New Article in Iranian.com

My piece on Identity was published in Iranian.com yesterday. (And at this very moment, quite inadvertently, I just learned how to create a hyperlink! I am so excited! I am ashamed it was so easy, though! That's great--at the dast-afshani & paikoobi levels!).

Eric Clapton-Old Love

I can feel your body When I'm lying in bed There's too much confusion Going around through my head And it makes me so angry To know that the flame still burns Why can't I get over? When will I ever learn? Old love, leave me alone Old love, go on home I can see your face But I know that it's not real It's just an illusion Caused by how I used to feel And it makes me so angry To know that the flame will always burn I'll never get over I know now that I'll never learn I saw Eric Clapton perform in England in 1998, when he was on tour, promoting his Pilgrim album. The man is awesome. I have so many memories of his songs living, loving, dancing, losing, finding, suffering, crying, and dreaming. He never gets old for me. His guitar….his guitar plays on my heart, every emotion filled accord plays on my heart, it does. He rules. Take a look at this clip of the song, though his "Unplugged" rendition of the song remains my most favorite version.