Tag Archives: Modern Iran

Mar15

Kolakchaal Part I

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Early in the morning, when Tehran is in its graceful peace, when it is still dark and the chill in the air is not interrupted by pollution and heat of the day, we leave my friends’s house. She tells me to enjoy the temporary serenity of the country’s capital. We take two buses and a taxi to Kolakchal hiking trail. My friend and her husband live in a small rental apartment in South Tehran. Getting to the Northern parts of town where Alborz mountains envelope the city can be a tiring mini-trip. As the old bus pushes uphill, I watch the sceneries of the city slowly change from gray dusty buildings and small shops to colorful streets and elaborate western-looking gift shops. My friend points out to famous streets we’ve grown up hearing about. We both giggle. Being from a small town, we’ve grown up hearing about the glamours lives of uptown Tehranis. “Which one is Elahiye?” I ask looking at the nicely trimmed hedges and colorful arts on the walls. “I think we passed it,” she whispers and looks back to check if we have really missed it. We have not. The bus stops to drop off some passengers and pick up some others. I read the small, simple, almost unnoticeable placard on the wall. Elahiye is printed in the traditional Persian calligraphy. “I want a Shohar from Elahiye!” I joke in a thick Isfahani accent and we both laugh. My friend plays a long with my joke and answers in a thicker Isfahani accent that a husband from Zaferaniye would be better since the properties are more expensive there. I argue that the fashion district is nicer in Elahiye. She argues for Zaferaniye again. For the rest of the ride, we laugh carefree and excited for our time together. Her husband is sitting in front of the bus, the male-only part. I mention Civil Right Movements I learned about in American schools. She is fascinated and asks some questions. Soon we both drift away in our thoughts, probably wondering what it would be like if Iranian women refuse to ride the buses in order to break away the gender segregation laws. I notice that the entire time we were laughing about rich husbands and questioning segregation a beggar boy has been staring at us. I buy a green wooden folding fan from him for a dollar and look out the window searching for Gheytariye.
By the time we get to the entrance of the hiking trail, the sun has set and some people are leaving at the gate. I wonder if they had gone all the way up to the summit. They could very well live in the neighborhood so they had set out really early that now they are leaving the trail.
Living in the neighborhood! I repeat to myself imagining life in North Tehran where many things are different from the rest of the city. Even the air is nicer, cleaner and less polluted up here. Some North Tehranis are known for thier “western” life styles, excessive parties with booze or expensive hobbies such as skying and weekends in dubai and Antalya, Turkey.

Cobblestone pavement, circling a fountain in the middle of a large courtyard sits behind the gate. There are green cypress trees and flower beds surrounding the courtyard. A few wooden benches are scattered. People in groups of two or more are standing around talking. A couple are exercising. I notice a middle aged woman wearing silver Adidas sweat pants and sweater. A matching silver cap is holding her white scarf tied behind her neck. I want to make a joke about the space-suit looking clothes she is wearing, but since I am in an Islamic country and nothing about her clothing looks Islamic I say, “Oh My God!” Her lean middle aged figure in the sport suit, tightly covering her body is a contrast against the world outside of the gates. I stare at her. Her face looks fresh and her skin glows. She smiles at me. I ask in disbelief if she’s seen what I have. My friend is not surprised at all. With her usual calmness she says it’s just the beginning. She kneels down to fasten her shoe lace. “Let’s go. You will love it” she says and starts walking toward the trail.

Mar1

Windows to The Age of Rebellion

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“But I’m not wearing a maghna’e,” I responded when Mrs. M asked if I want to go with her. ”It’s ok! Your scarf will do,” she said genuinely, but I pretended to worry about her (not for myself) ”I don’t want to get you in trouble.” “Naaah,” she stretched her answer with a mocking tone. I even thought she was laughing inside her head for how stupid I was for making monsters out of my own people and their system. “Schools have changed,” she added and grabbed her purse, walking out the door;  A silent gesture for me to go along.

The ride took about fifteen minutes. Even though we were going across the street, the twists and turns of the  freeway and their exists, made the ride longer. I had no idea where we were. I would have never been able to navigate my way if I were to go on my own. I remember Mrs. M’s house was in the middle of vegetable field. My mother used to take my brother and I to her house so we could run around and play with her children. “Do you remember our fields?” she read my mind, but didn’t wait for my answer. “After the freeway was built, we lost most of it, but Alhamdulellah the price of our house went up.”

We had reached and my silent meant “Alhamdulellah.”

Retired Mrs M. taught PE at a private middle school. I wasn’t surprise at the arrangements of her class at all. I had gone to a similar private school in mid 90s also. Since the government can only finance public schools, most private schools in Iran use an actual house or an apartment complex for the school building. Often with a small back yard, schools end up renting gyms for PE hours.  Mrs. M whose house happened to be near the gym didn’t need to attend the school except twice a year to get her roster and to turn in the grades. She spoke about her unique situation in a such excitement that made one wonder working after retirement could be fun and something to look forward to.

The dead-end alley leading to the gym was narrow. She let me out the car first and parked close to the wall to leave some space for other cars.  She looked around and said her girls are not there yet. “Let’s go to the office and rest for awhile.”  A small cubical cement office with two big windows guarded by fences was located in the far end of the yard.
The yard looked brutally quiet: Just some yellow lines marking the basketball and volleyball courts, two cement ping-pong tables with metal nets and a row of water fountains, with a faucet dripping.

I knew this courtyard. Identical to rest of the gyms and school yards I’ve been to. Each PE hour, an identical courtyard held thirty plus girls all dressed up in a same school uniform, with heads covered up where sweat dried in their hair and their half-grown breasts soaked in sweat behind the blouses or bras. I looked at the basketball poles. One was completely missing a net and the other just had a torn net hanging from it. I could smell the body odor of all my classmates who were missing from the quiet basketball court. Sometimes the piercing smell of sweat and puberty was stronger on those who didn’t wear a t-shirt underneath their uniforms. You couldn’t blame them. It was the only way to cool your body down…One could do anything underneath the Hijab as long as her utter self was covered.

I looked up. Little windows were staring down the courtyard. Maybe hundreds. I knew the number was an exaggeration, but every thing seems multiplied when one is being watched. Windows from the neighboring all-girls high school on the right, and windows from the residential apartment complexes to the left, windows from buildings in the distance were looking straight down on me. I pulled my scarf closer, unintentionally. Those little eyes were the reason we had to sweat under the uniforms, I remembered, intentionally this time.

“Next time, we will come on Friday to play soccer,” Mrs. M. walking in front of me said, but corrected herself, “we have to make sure that it’s not a boys-only friday though.” the thought of playing the most favored sport in Iran was appealing at first, but  quickly went back to the thought of windows again:  Do Namahram windows look down on the yard–with awe and lust–when it fills up with energetic young girls ad when it is boys turn look away?

“Get out of the sun!” shouted Mrs. M.

I had not yet settled down on a black chair wrapped in its original packaging plastic that a woman walked in with a tray of fresh tea and candies. She welcomed me and put the tray on the only desk in the small office.

“A perfect Persian hospitality,” I thought, wondering how to get away from drinking the hot tea without being rude in that hot late spring day. The office walls were covered with flyers, announcements, a picture of Ayatollah Khomeini and Khameniei, and some Hadith about the benefit of sports. A young woman fully dressed in a black chador with a clip board on her lap was sitting across a student. Maybe “a teacher-to-be?” I remembered university students coming to our schools and interviewing us for their thesis or for their field work. I shifted in my chair to be able to hear them better. “How do you feel about yourself now?” I listened and I immediately changed my mind about her profession. “She must be a counselor,” I decided and drifted into memories of having such young professionals coming to my school. My classmates and I used to make up stories to make fun of them. Back then, counseling was a new phenomenon. Most schools even didn’t have a full time counselor. Once every two weeks, a psychology graduate student would come and use the make-shift prayer room to set up and office to meet with troubled students. She would end up standing in the door way and watch students mingling during the recess. Those of us who were gutsier than others, had the courage to mess with her. Once I led a team of five girls to write a letter. We said that “my” father wants to marry me to a 50-year-old man, he beats “my” mother and “I” want to marry my neighbor  instead. We chose the code name, “red rose.” The desperate counselor who would post answers on the bulletin board. kept posting “Red Rose please stop by my office.”

The girl looked comfortable talking to the counselor in chador. In her laughter I saw our own laughter when the counselor kept refreshing the message on the board. Could she really help the fictional “me” if our story was real? I thought while looking at the consoler’s moving lips.

“My girls are here!” said Mrs. M taking me away from high school days. The tea was cold by now. I took a sip from the bitter tea and got up to leave. The counselor and her student didn’t even noticed me. “I am definitely participating in the games again next year to…” I listened till the conversation dissolved.

When I walked into a big arena that looked like a Futsal pitch/indoor volleyball court, almost all heads turned. The conversations stopped and everyone stared at me. I became conscious of my scarf again pulling it closer on my forehead. I think Mrs. M noticed it. She cheerfully ordered her class to get in lines for excercise. “This is my friend, Pah-reesa,” she said to a small group who were standing near by. I wished she would stop there but I knew there was more to come. “She’s from Em-reeca and has come to visit you today.” And to my–not–surprise, the crowd began to walk toward me. One after another, sometimes even at the same time I heard questions about my name, my age, my marital status, my state of residency of exclusively LA or NY, my favorite hollywood actor, and the field of my studies.
Parisa. “nice name.” “Oh, we have a Parisa too.” “Hello there, Parisa.”
Single. “cool,” “So is my brother,” Giggles. “And is my uncle.” Giggles.
25. “You look younger.” “No she doesn’t.” Giggles. “Shush.”
Massachusetts. “God forbid, Chus!?” Loud laughter. More giggles.
And then I said “Women’s studies.” I don’t know why I did so. I have been saying I studied English. It started as an old trick my father had suggested a long time ago to spare me fears and worries. I used it when he was around just to avoid any arguments, but after a while, I got used to it. Plus, it really was easier than trying to explain what the use of journalism and women’s studies in a culture that sends its children to the West to become doctors and engineers were.
“What is that?” ”What is there to study about women?” The first few questions were serious but then someone cracked a joke and everyone else followed. “Is it an art of finding a hus-baand?” “Nah, I think it means studying the female body.”

I had no way out of this now. I smiled, but my silence began to grew awkward. “For example, it’s about history of woman’s movement,” I desperately tried.  ”Oh, Where do women move to?” Jokes followed. should I say it’s about empowering women?  ”Hadn’t Iranian women already empowered themselves by taking up more than half of university seats and almost half of the work force?” That’s it! I had found the correct description in just a minute of being surrounded by some middle schooler who were probably more eager to know about Em-reeca than what women’s studies is. All of a sudden, a loud lasting whistle  interrupted everybody’s fun, and my what (I thought) brilliant answer.
“I said get in lines for the exercise,” shouted Mrs. M hugging two badminton rackets and a ball on top of her clipboard. The crowd around me quickly dispersed. She called out two names and asked them to lead the exercise.

“Here,” she handed the rackets to me. “I called Sara to come and keep you company.” I had met Sara once before. She was the superintendent’s daughter. She used to play badminton for the national highschool team. She had actually made me promise to visit the gym to teach me some badminton tricks. Few minutes later, she walked in with a big beautiful smile.

“You came!”

“Yes I did.” “How are you? Your family?”  We exchanged Persian pleasantries and walked  to the far end of the pitch where she showed me how to distinguish the colored lines from one another. I just figured that for Badminton I should stay within the blue lines. Amidst the commotion and echoing sound of screams, talking and exercise, I struggled to listen to her and ask her questions about her school and her newly-found part time job.

Not long after, we started to play and somewhat useless struggled to carry a conversation in the sound-echoing pitch, a group of girls began to sing. When I paused our game to look over, I found a circle of clapping people around two students dancing in the middle.  One girl was tapping on something I could not clearly recognize. Sara could tell I’m eager to join them and said “Ok, let’s go.”

“But, it’s the teacher!” I repeated in disbelief when I got  loser and saw the PE teacher of the high school class who was tapping on her clip board while others sang, clapped and danced. A young woman, maybe in her late twenties, was feeling her students’ need to have fun. “We used to do things like that hiding from our teachers,” I said in awe and disbelief. But but Sara confirmed calmly, “times have changed.”

Few seconds later, I was clapping and moving my hip, forgetting my astonishment and remembering memories of my own high school years. One or two girls would guard the door while others sang and dance in class. We would occasionally get caught and punished too for our un-Islamic behaviors, but it was all worth of the adrenalin-rush and the excitement. It was our version of youth rebellion. however, what I was seeing, was clearly not “rebellion” for these girls.

On our way back, Mrs. M hoped I had a nice time. “Did you see how “gherti” the high school kids were while you were worried about your headscarf!” she mocked me and stared into the distance. Then, she told me about one of her students who ran around the basketball court without her Hijab. She had to blew into her whistle and shout at her. “Don’t you see all these windows facing the courtyard?” she had to remind her and ask her to wear her maghna’e. “Do you know what bothered me the most?” she asked me, but I didn’t have anything to say so she answered her own question, “That he father was an akhond.”  ”To be the daughter of a Muslim clergyman and to run around the public gym courtyard without the head-covering” said Mrs. M is because of the “pressure.” It bothers her, she told me, to see how easy and quick Islamic values have disappeared from the generation she teaches.

These young girls talk back to their elders the way my generation did not dare. These girls have “boyfriends.” A disgraceful act my generation rarely dared to do. These girls have found a way to bridge the gap between their parents and their own values.

“That’s it.” I thought I found yet another brilliant answer, this time to Mrs. M’s concern and to my own puzzled mind. “That’s their rebellion.” I was ready to tell Mrs. M that her students’ behaviors are not entirely involuntarily and out of pressure, rather is their version of youth rebellion. But she pressed her palm on the steering-wheel, cursing a young man who cut her off on the motorcycle.

“bar pedaret..ahmagh…bi hameh…” my thoughts dissolved in the piercing sound of horn, Mrs. M’s curse upon his parents who should have taught him how to drive and my wondering what would have happened if the car had hit him.

Dec16

Winter Solstice and Persian Parties!

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Celebrating Shab-e-Yalda or winter solstice is amongst the most ancient Persian social gatherings. One of my favorite memories of Shab-e-Yalda concerns an old tradition of honoring newlyweds on

Watermelon is the most essential part of celebrating winter solstice.

their first Shab-e-Yalda as married couples. It is customary that the groom’s family sends a gift–often a piece of gold–along with edible items to the bride’s house. Families who could financially afford serving guests would invite a group of people to witness the process in which a long line of people from groom’s side with trays of sweets, fruits and nuts and gifts enter the bride’s house. I remember as a young girl growing up in Iran, I was overjoyed to see how a long night is spent in excitement and laughter. And above all, the colorful gifts and decorated fresh or dried fruit baskets offered to the bride seemed like a royal treatment.

However, there are more to celebrating this night. Take a look at my recent piece for Parsianesquemagazine.com to find out more about the significance of Yalda and its history. Yalda celebration has lost its religious meanings today among Iranians, but has stayed unaltered as a social festival of spending time together. Getting through dark and cold winter and honor the upcoming spring when Persian new year takes place are some of the fundamental basis for this special occasion.

Nov20

A Star in Hyperstar

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When we arrived at Hyperstar, my friend suddenly acted like a tour guide and began to point to different stores and food courts explaining how the newly opened French international hypermarket chain, owned by an Arab real state developer functions.

United Colors of Benetton and Prada stores in Tehran! She asked if this mall resembles any thing like American shopping malls. “I swear to god, it does” I said with a desperate plea as if I knew she would not believe me. But she smiled and said, “I know! I believe you.”

The boutiques displaying designer dresses and leather hand bags made me proud. At first, I found it ironic to be proud of the display of materialism, but soon I was sure that I feel proud only because I could go back to America and tell every one that we have shopping malls in Iran too.  Not only shopping malls, but also “American looking” ones.

A row of check-out counters separated the mall from the main department store called Hyperstar.  The deli, an elaborate collection of different types of cheese seemed neglected, but the electronic section was crowded. Iranians are very keen on owning the latest mobile and electronic technology. For example, it is common to see people who have no use of internet access on mobile phones own a very intricate mobile device or at some instances even own two cell phones.

An older man who was opening a double door refrigerator to examine it, looked at me and said, “Khanoom, wants one of these. Our kitchen is half of the size of this. You see what I mean?” We both smiled and went our ways, but I thought about his wife who wanted a large, LG refrigerator with LCD monitor display. I imagined an older woman who wants to impress her friends or maybe wants to protect her aberoo–prestige–a very common Iranian concern.

I felt I was walking in Target in Tehran. Something I know many Iranians dream of having in their own hometown.

A couple were arguing over what brand olive oil to buy. She was arguing that the turkish brand is famous, but he was saying that the Iranian brand is on sale.

I found myself at the personal care and hygiene aisle staring at the tampons. I remembered when I was a child my father brought a box of tampon for my mother from Germany. She was disgusted by the thought of it and secretly gave them to our neighbor who had told her she wished there were tampons in Iran.

Lost in my thoughts, half way through our tour of the symbol of “modernism” in Tehran, and overwhelmed by the crowd, I looked over to ask my friend to leave. Suddenly, she noticed a crowd  and ran toward it.

“Abtahi! Abtahi” she shouted to me.

At one glance, I saw an old man in a long navy-blue trench coat who was standing behind a shopping cart. A young woman draped in black chador was standing next to him. People were stopping him to point their mobile phones and cameras at him. they were greeting him. Men got close and shook his hand, women put their hands on thier chests and slightly bent down to bow down.

I slowly walked toward the dispersing crowd and found Abtahi smiling. He would  shake hands with men or bow down to women with his hand on his chest. Occasionally, he uttered a word of two: “Thank you” “You are most kind,” but in general he stood quietly and smiled.

Mohammad Ali Abtahi was the former vice president during Mr. Khatami’s presidency. He, who was the first politician to blog out of office, later served as the advisor to Mr. Karroubi in 2009 presidential election. Followed by turmoil of the presidential election, he was (along others) imprisoned in June and made several videotaped confessions where in he claimed his accusations about fraud in election has been false and he tried to topple the government. The fifty-two year old Abtahi who was known for being a chubby, smiley clergy in the traditional turban and clergy dress, came out of the prison looking so old, frail, thin and bare from his clergy clothing.

My friend stopped in front of his shopping cart occupied with a box of Clinex and a small girl–I suppose his grandchild. Without any introduction, she said that she is so proud of him. Her sentence was not fully finished when she began to choke and shiver. Tears rolled down her eyes and she struggled to say Iranian people knew he was innocent.

I was standing behind her and nodding my head in respect. I looked at Abtahi’s wife. She was a beautiful middle aged woman. Her hair was fully covered. She wasn’t wearing any make up, but her face had a radiant beauty about it. Her hands holding the two ends of her chador were crossed on her chest. She wasn’t taking her eyes off of my friend. She was crying with her. My friend wiped her tears with the back of her hand and said “don’t worry about the confessions, if I were in your position, I would’ve even denied Allah.” The innocence in her claim made Abtahi and his wife laugh. A big smile appeared on their faces and they both thanked her.

“Mozahem Nemishim” we didn’t want to disturb them any longer so we let them go. My friend ran into the lady’s room to wash her face. She kept apologizing to me  for not being able to control her tears.

I told her it was perfectly fine.

We had seen a real star and Hyperstar didn’t matter anymore. I quickly paid for a censored version of Newsweek Magazine which was missing four pages and the image of Hillary Clinton was stretched out somehow to cover her bare neck.

When we were navigating our way out in the parking lot I asked my friend what she thought of the little child.

“oh, was there one?”

“Do you think she knows what happened to her grandfather?”

“I thought she was his daughter,” my friend thought out loud.

The parking lot was designed just like any other parking lot in America; different levels connected by a spiral drive way, parking slots separated by white stripes and exist signs flashed from the ceilings.

“What did you think?” I asked again, but my friend was busy cursing a driver who was entering through the exit door “these people  liyaghat e Hyperstar nadaran…”

Oct27

American Sleeping Bag in Iran

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My friend sleeps in her American sleeping bag.

We get to Bandar Anzali, a seaport city in the North of Iran, late in a cloudy and humid spring afternoon. An almost non-stop, eleven-hour ride from Isfahan has made me tired and restless. My head wrapped in a head scarf and my body entrapped in an uniform are sticky from the sweat and immobility on the passenger seat.  Fifteen people are about to squeeze into a small villa for a week and I need to refresh.

As soon as everything is unloaded from the four cars and taken inside the villa, I take out my towel, shampoo, a soap and some clean clothes. I ask for the bathroom, but a sudden laughter ruptures and in the amidst of commotion someone asks, “why Amrikayiha are so fond of taking showers?”

“Americans?” I protest. I am an Iranian who lives in America. Why do people here like to insist that I am not one of them?

My uncle stops laughing and smiles at me. “Parisa-joon, we just arrived. It takes some times for the water heater to warm up the water,” he says and invites me to be patient.

Somewhat embarrassed for behaviors that brand me as a foreigner, I sit on the couch and watch others unpack, claiming a corner of the small living room for themselves. One of my friends is undoing a knot on an army-green cover bag. Her husband who seems to notice my embarrassment decides to embarrass me further. “If you were a real Iranian, you would be asking for a sleeping bag right now! It’s nap time.” He declares and the group’s laughter follows.

They finish spreading the sleeping bag and trying its zipper and buttons for functionality. He taps it just like a proud parent would pad his child on the shoulder and says with a triumphant tone that the sleeping bag is from “my” country. I don’t want this Iranian, American identity joke/tease go any further, so I tell him that it must be from China cause almost ever thing in the US is made in China.

“Nah khieram!” “Nope, come see for yourself. I bought it in Isfahan’s bazaar for 80 thousand Toomans–something around 90 dollars.” I read the large white tag inside the sleeping bag and pause on the word American Army.

When I was in the US, I had heard rumors that after that Bam earthquake in December 2003 which killed up to 50,000 people, USAID and Red Cross goods such as sleeping bags and tents illegally made their ways to the markets of other Iranian cities and provinces. I was ashamed when I heard the news and hoped that it was untrue. It seemed that the devastated Kermanis never got to sleep in warm and waterproof American sleeping bags which were a part of President Bush’s temporary lift of US sanctions on Iran, allowing supplies and financial aid to the victims of the natural disaster.

Yet, the proof was right in front of my eyes. The exultation in my friend’s smile and words meant that my shame would mean absolutely nothing. My criticism would be insignificant while the quality of almost nothing else in Iran could live up to a much-desired American product.

Hopelessly, I ask him if he thought of the people of Bam when he was paying for the American sleeping bag. He said, “I was thinking about the cheap price of an Amrikayi sleeping bag in Iran.“

Oct18

Tea House and The Time Tunnel

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Smoking water pipes is a popular pass-time in Iran

Tuesday Evening.

When I get out of my Spanish class, my friend calls and asks to meet me at the Hakim-Nezami intersection in Julfa–Isfahan’s Christian quarter home to some of the most trendy shopping malls, cafe and restaurants.

As I am waiting for him to show up, I pretend to be looking down at my Spanish photocopied book. I don’t want to see any one familiar. I am at the neighborhood where lovers, boyfriends and girlfriends meet. Singles hang out here in hope of making small talks or meeting a potential partner.

Even though I am considered a western woman now, I cannot bear to be seen waiting for a boy. I am still so caught up in my Iranian upbringings that forbade the mingling of the sexes without the supervision of the elders or before marriage. Even though the friendship of the sexes is very common in Iran, I cannot seem to be able to act like any normal Iranian youth. I am, sadly one might say, still bound to my upbringings before leaving for America.

While the small boutiques are crowded by costumers shopping for the latest clothing, shoes and accessories, side walks are frequented by couples holding hands or window-shoppers enthusiastically biting onto a grilled cheese sandwich loaded with sausage and salami known in Farsi as Es-nah-k–snack.

Though I always love watching my rapidly changing Iran, this time I try to not get distracted and keep my head down on the Spanish book.

I hear my name. Lost in the sound of the loud music coming from the newspaper stand and the overwhelming traffic, I assume I am mistaken.

A white, Peh-Ride–an Iranian built Kia Pride–maneuvering like a maniac between the row of parked yellow taxis, moving cars and numerous pedestrians stops half a meter from where I am waiting. I hear my name again. It angers me.  Doesn’t he know it is not proper for a woman’s name to be shouted out load?

I quickly hop inside and I say “salam every one.” My friend introduces me to the driver and a beautiful woman sitting in the back seat. Before I tell them to please speed away before I am seen, the driver madly races through the streets of Isfahan.

I can’t quiet figure out why I am so worried about being seen. There is no relationship between me and the boys in the car. I am actually kind of abusing their friendship. My mere reason for hanging out is my curiosity about the Iranian life. When I left Iran at the age of eighteen, none of such friendships and relationships between boys and girls were appropriate. Less than a decade later, Iranian youth are racing time to defy every thing they were once told not to do.

The driver and the beautiful girl are meeting for the first time through my friend. I, myself know him through someone else’s husband. “A clique of strangers,” I think. They ask me questions about living in America and I ask them what they do for living. No one is interested in telling me what they do. They brush off the question by saying we are all bi-kaar (unemployed.) Instead, they want to know about ways to get Green Card.

We are heading to a Chai Khaneh or a traditional tea house. They ask if I’ve been to a tea house before. I am embarrassed to say I have never been to a tea house. My father, a western educated doctor looked down upon traditional tea houses.  He had taught us that tea houses are often unventilated, filled with smoke and frequented by what he called “low class bi-kaar” people who had nothing better to do except exposing themselves to cancer.

My father wasn’t entirely wrong either. For a long time before Mohammed Khatami’s presidency, my father’s description of tea houses was relevant. By late 90s, when he was elected to office, there began a new area of cultural reform. Tea houses, for instance, became fashionable places for the young to mingle. Smoking hookah which was previously reserved for the elders, now became the most stylish thing ever. Boys dressed in Western clothing and girls with heavy make up and loose hijab sat in tea houses for hours, laughed out loud and had a good time. The fruit flavored tobaccos that were imported from neighboring Arab countries or Turkey replaced the “nasty” Iranian tobacco, thus making it suitable for the younger generation to use.

No matter how fashionable tea houses became around the time I lived in Iran, I can’t confess anything to the people in the car about my ignorance. “Could they think that I didn’t believe in Khatami’s reforms?” “What if I project the false idea that I am too good for a tea house?” Such thoughts cross my mind and at last I say “I have never been to this particular one!”

We arrive at the tea house. The place is owned by the head of Tea House Owners Union. It feels like I am in a time tunnel heading toward the past. The tea house is located in the back allies of Isfahan’s main bazaar. A long wide corridor that is decorated by hundreds of antique objects guides the costumers to the court-yard.  Rusted iron battle hoods, shields and swords are hanged from the walls of the corridor. Tall wine-jars, human-size barrels and gigantic cooking pots are resting against the walls. More than twenty old transistor radios are carelessly wrapped in plastic bags and are stacked on a rack that is covered by glass.

At the end of the corridor, there is a sudden change of scenery. The court-yard is dark, dirty and not maintained. Stacks of crushed boxes and garbage are everywhere. A green tall cage is visible at the far end of the yard. Hamid, the driver, calls me over and starts reciting something in a news-anchor tone. “Slow down,” I demand and wonder where he’s learned to talk like a tape recorder. My friend who is in a rush to get to the tea house, passes by saying that Hamid is a part-time tour guide.

There are myths about what lays under the cage. Some say, an Imam-zadeh (offspring of a holy Imam) is buried there and others claim that there is a dry well underneath. Whatever is there, it has clearly lost its value today.

Immediately after the court-yard, a slight turn to the left takes us to the tea house. The decorations matches the tunnel outside. It’s like a time tunnel here too. A rather narrow hall with tables and chairs in two perfect rows against the walls makes the tea house. There is a thick cloud of smoke smelling like a mixture of imported fruit tobacco and cigarets. The walls and the ceilings are covered by pictures of people from centuries ago. Photographs of Iran in Qajar Dynasty are scattered between the rows of silver pitchers or hand painted China plates.  It is brought to my attention that all the antiques belong to the owner’s private collection. Some even have ridiculously high prices on them.

We sit on the only table available across a group of Europeans with their Iranian guides. Two hookahs, two glasses of doogh, and a plate of Goosh fil–a pastry that is literally called Elephant’s ears due to its shape are ordered and arrive right away.

I am lost in the antiques and the pictures of ancient women on the walls. It is suffocating and I cannot help but think of cancer. My head against the wall keeps hitting  a silver set of Kashkool–the begging bowl and axe of Sufi dervish.

I cannot wait to leave. But I am enjoying myself too. I stare at the girls in their short, tight clothes smoking a thin cigaret between their fingers. Their fingers with manicured nails are holding the hookah pipe.

I enjoy being a part of the Iranian life.

Hamid explains the history behind any object I point to. My friend pulls out my pencil-case from my bag. He can’t quite grasp why I have glued pictures of Leonard Cohen inside the pencil-case. The beautiful woman asks if I write poetry. The commotion is loud. The sound of water bubbling inside the water jar is somewhat soothing. Costumers, some gently and some inattentively, put down their small crystal tea cups on the saucer and make a familiar noise. Hamid stops explaining and says–rather asking himself–if marriage is an easy way for getting Green Card.

Display of a private collection of Iranian anitques

I look at the Europeans. One of the Iranian guides is holding a piece of rock candy in front of his face. With his heavy Iranian accent, he shouts the word “rope.” It is really loud in the tea house and his voice is hardly reaching the end of the table. One of the European women looks puzzled. “Is there a piece of rope inside it?!” she asks in disbelief.

Iranian rock candies are made the same exact way that any other rock candy stick is made. The only difference is that the sugar crystals are grown around another piece of hard candy hanged by a piece of thread. So when the sugar is crystalized the only visible thing inside the often white or yellow hard candy is a piece of thread.

I want to shout “thread,” I want to tell him that he should say “a piece of thread is inside the hard candy,” but I know that my voice won’t reach them.
Oct15

Women with Purpose

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My uncle was a handsome man. Dark black eyes, olive-skin and thick black hair made him look like a classic Persian prince. He had a masculine twang that soothed the ears. He was charming with a lively laughter and an enchanting smile fixed on his face. He was a generous man known among family and friends for giving away any thing he owned from money in his pockets to clothes on his back. My uncle always had something to talk about. Whether it was the stories of his extravagant childhood or mischievous youth in Germany, he would tell the story with such energy that any one wanted to experience the fun of being expelled from every single school in town or illegally crossing the Turkish border. Being the only son born after five daughters, he got any thing he wanted; An European tour by car at the age of seven,  an apartment in Tehran, a villa by the Caspian sea, a house in Isfahan, cars and  and the best of every thing.

My uncle was the perfect bachelor, but he had one big problem–or at least that’s what his mother thought. His step mother–rather my grandmother’s co wife–had cast a spell on him. So his heart was shut to love and no suitable girl for a stable marriage could win his heart.  So, any time he visited Iran, a council of jobless, nosy women would gather to find him a wife. Whether it was to drag him to a staged party for meeting a girl or to show up at his door with the excuse of my-friend-and-I-were-just-passing-by the business of finding him a wife never stopped.

In one of his trips to Iran, my grandmother had a fit which ended up with her passing out on the floor, crying out to her late husband reminding the dead man that his surname is soon to be vanished! Thus the word got around and a kind niece decided to save her old aunt and called for an ultimate remedy.

A hot July afternoon, my mother despite her disapproval, piled five ladies in her 1980 cream color Renault and drove off to unfamiliar neighborhoods of Isfahan. Squished between the passenger door and a chubby kind cousin, I watched my mother navigating her way through narrow old allies. She occasionally pressed her lips in anger and disbelief that these women are making her to drive to some spooky neighborhood so her brother lack of interest in a wife would be fixed.

When we found the address, she parked right outside the house. The kind niece who had gotten us there ordered us to walk quickly to not to attract any attention in the neighborhood. Behind a thick curtain hanged in front of the entrance door, a very small cement front yard was waiting for us.  A narrow cement staircase took us to the basement. Furnished by a worn out red carpet and two rusted black chairs, the room was small and damp.  A young woman in a loose white Mickey Mouse T-shirt that had turned yellow and a pair of floral pajamas was sitting cross-legged in front of another young woman draped in a black chador. Two pieces of copper that looked liked starched dice and a piece of paper were placed carefully between them.

“Just soak this do’a–prayer–in the tea-pot before you serve the the suitors,” the woman in chador repeated and asked “will this make him like me?” My grandmother’s friend who was accompanying us–also for the sake of her middle-aged unmarried daughter, jumped out of her seat and asked if she could have the same thing. The woman who seemed to have noticed us gave her an impatient look and reminded her that not every one could use the same amulet.

When it was my grandmother’s turn to sit in front of  the do’a nevis, A little girl who was crying frantically walked in and climbed her mother’s lap. Every five minutes the woman would scream from the top of her lung for someone upstairs to come rescue the child, but there was no answer. She rolled the dice quickly, memorized the numbers and handed them to the child to calm her down.

She had not yet uttered any thing significant other than my uncle’s young age and the fact that his troubled mother is worried about him that some one in the room whispered the word, Havoo.

“Oh, yes!” “unfortunately, it’s true.” “yes, she has a havoo” filled up the damp, suffocating basement.

The woman’s face lid up. She declared that she also sees the same thing in the numbers; “oh, yes! co-wife” “It’s her spell.”

My grandmother exhaled deeply in relief, but soon snapped out of it and abruptly asked for the remedy.

“It’s the wind kind,” the woman answered. “He is so mischievous and restless, unwilling to settle down because your co-wife must have fastened the spell out side, in the wilderness on the way of the wind,” she went on and on without taking a break.

After half an hour among the stream of questions and attempts to quiet the child, she prescribed her remedies, collected her small fee and boosted up some spirits.

***

Now, many years later, my grandmother is gone, my mother has lost a battle to cancer, my uncle destroyed his beauty, his wife and children by drugs, the friend’s daughter is married to a rich man, the kind niece still talks about her efforts to find my uncle a nice wife and probably the poor accused co-wife is spending the last years of her life somewhere quietly. I can’t help but think that every single woman in that basement had a purpose.

My grandmother, her friend and her niece, in their own ways, had good intentions to bring happiness to some body’s life. Nonetheless, their way of looking at happiness was limited to a definition their culture had taught them. For my grandmother, loyalty was letting her husband’s name to live on. For her friend, a good fortune was defining her daughter’s status in the society through a husband. For the kind niece,  happiness was participating in the benefit of helping some one for marriage. I was there because I was desperate for a story to write for my composition class: “How did you spend your summer?” But what about my mother?

At the time, I didn’t find anything exciting about the unventilated basement with bunch of women worried about somebody else’s marriage. But I wonder if my mother took me with her because she wanted me to despise the smell of stale food in the damp basement. I wonder if my mother wanted me to hear the deafening cries of the child or listen to the nonsense the woman was saying about sewing the anti-spell prayers to my uncle’s pillow cover. I wonder if my mother–beyond just serving the wishes of her mother, wanted me  to learn to never take refuge in superstition.

Oct13

Colors to Cheer You Up

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Shaadi in her bright cheerful colors with her daughter

The first thing I take out of my souvenirs luggage is a hot pink Revlon lipstick. My cousin snatches it out of my fingers and screams Rev-Loan!? It costs 20 dollars here.”  Her two sisters scream after her and call her a lucky bitch. She walks away and I hear “Maa-maan look…” I reach for the next cousin’s souvenir, a box of Cover Girl eye-shadows and decide to not to mention anything about the 50-cent lipstick from the clearance basket in CVS.

My cousin stands in front of the mirror to apply her lipstick. With her mouth half-open and her right hand gently moving  left and right on her lips, she murmurs “I’m going to put it on tomorrow to the party and show it off to that witch with her 10 dollar ugly red Bore-joys rouge-French adapted word for lipstick in Farsi.

***

Iranians are obsessed with the West–the very same place that was snatching their Islamic values so they had a revolution to get rid of any distractions on the way of being Iranian and being Islamic. Any European or American and in some cases of electronics Japanese and Korean brands are to be adored and paid for in Iran.

On the other hand, for many women, cosmetics are  necessity not  luxury. So, why not buying the best of what you need the most? For a group whose bodies are forced to be covered, faces and hands have become the center of attention. Since the Shia laws in Iran do not demand the covering of the face and hands, one would see many made-up faces, carefully manicured nails and fingers adorned by expensive rings. Also, no matter what religious background a woman has, using make-up is a proper and pleasant idea. If one is not necessarily religious, the heavy make up would be accompanied by a hair-do covered barely by a small often see-through head scarf. And if one is a believer, a full covering of the hair is accompanied by different degrees of make up.

***

“Rev-Loan is the best, right? Even better than Oh-Reh-All?” my cousin asks with a pleading look on her face. “you know I never wear make up. How would I know!?” I answer thinking I will be left alone. First my older cousin protests that I should since I live in Iran now and then her other sister applying her eye shows says Rimmel has always been the best. “It’s British at last, aren’t I right, Pari?”

I have no answer, instead I play the smart kid from the US and preach “it’s pronounced L’Oreal and Bourjois!” “The chemicals are bad for your skin, you know!” “Every thing is made in China anyways…”

But no one seems interested in how American pronounce things and the rain of questions about other brands and products shower me.

***

Less than a month later, ironically, for any small occasion I am gifted cosmetic products. A light pink blush, a dark black eye-liner and a beige lipstick of brands more popular in Iran such as the Turkish one, Pasha or the German one, Manhattan. Now even I apply–but still a very pale or subtle layer–makeup any time I hang out with my cousins. If I appear Sadeh-plain, all three of them will scold me. I have not been successful in finding a husband in Iran or in USA because they tell me I am so Omol–the common, not sophisticated Persian word for plebeian.

I, unlike many Iranian woman, do not find pleasure in making myself look, I dare say, like a drag queen.  For I have no desire to attract attention, I prefer to go about looking as simple as possible. (Yet I must admit that on occasions I have attracted enough attention to be told by men and women staring at me on the streets–it is perfectly appropriate in Iranian culture to stare–that I need to pay a visit to the beauty pallor.)

I, unlike many Iranian women, do not have to fight the system and its common summer crack downs on bad-hijabi or not proper hijab by rebelling against the forced dress code.

Finally, even though I have never believed that my education could hold any thing against me, I just spare myself an argument with my father who warns me to not to look flashy. He believes my trip will be ruined if I ” get arrested” and  ”be identified as an American educated journalism student!”

***

One of my cousins is what we jokingly call jelf–gaudy. She owns a manteau, the French adopted word for overcoat, in any bold color ever entered Iranian stores. And if there is a style or a color that doesn’t exists, she makes sure to get it stitched by her personal tailor.

“I am Shaadi–happiness.” “I have to wear happy colors,” She says when I am going through her closet. “What about the hijab police?” I ask, holding a hideous black wool uniform with red, yellow and green patterns sewn on the hem.

“Boro Gom shoo! I would say or just have my daughter cry and scream frantically so they would let me go” she declares in happiness and triumph.

Shaadi cannot grasp why I am always in black. For her, black is the color of revolution and the disappointing years that followed. Green is what she likes to wear, not much due the fact that she protested couple of times for presidential elections in June 2009, but more because it is the color that cheers her up. Black is for those who lost their hopes and souls after Islamic Republic failed to fulfill its promises of equality and democracy. For her, red is for those who may lost heir democratic vote, but still have the courage to make a statement.

Whether my cousins and millions like them wear dandy colors and put heavy make-ups to please themselves, I found it important to acknowledge that Iranian women have strong reasons for what they do. Those who tighten their Hijab, but wear heavy make-up are saying that there is no contradiction between being a proper Muslim woman and being beautiful and modern like the woman in Oh-Reh-All ad from the satellite TV. Others who wear the heavy make-up and show as much as hair possible are saying that “I am not a woman to be covered up.” Even those who go out of their ways to get products of Western brands are making a statement. Loving the West might at first seem like an inferior complex–and it is at some degrees. However the desire for Western products is a short cut to connecting with the world that has been blocked for Iranians. It is a simple act of–desperately–saying unlike what you think of us, we love you.

Every color, every action, every word has different meanings. Meanings that have been functioning in harmony of one another  for many years are the very core of this society. Whether it’s a color to cheer you up, or it’s a brand to set you aside,  it is a statement that needs to be read carefully.

Oct8

Majid Market

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Majid Market is small. It can only fit three people at once; the owner, Agha–mr.–Majid, his old mother who sits on a box of can food in a dark corner and a costumer in front of the counter. But there are always at least seven people cluttered inside the shop.

I think “fire safety” when I walk in to the shop for the first time, “If we were in the US, Majid Market would defiantly be violating the fire safety laws.”

Behind the counter there is only enough space for one person standing and from the entrance door to the large refrigerator at the back, one could only get to the end of the store by walking side ways and maneuvering between the potato chip stands and unopened boxes of food and products left unattended on the floor.

There are no visible walls inside. Products are stacked in blue metal shelves on top of one another. A piece of crooked card board separates rows of can food and bags of grains from one another any where a space could be used to create a new shelf. Long rusted tongs are leaned against the refrigerator and only Agha Majid is allowed to use them to carefully grab something from the very top shelves. He smiles in triumph each time a costumer’s order travels safely down the shelf. He announces, “I have stacked them so well not even an earthquake would move them.”

Majid Market is the busiest store on our street. There is only a block distance between the next two super markets with bigger spaces and more variety of products. But it seems that the entire neighborhood shops from Agha Majid.

The first couple of days of my visit to the store, I stand motionless in an imaginary line with imaginary people in front of me and behind me, waiting for my turn to reach the counter. It never works. Any one who walks in, cuts me through, makes a purchase, chats with Agha Majid and leaves while I’m still waiting my turn. Even though I have been noticing that Iranians are standing in lines at the banks or in official buildings where waiting is required, I am yet to see a line respected in small shops and non-governmental places.

After a while Agha Majid notices me. He calls me Hamsaye–his neighbor and asks people to move away so I could reach the counter. I never tell strangers that I live in America. It bothers me that I have an opportunity many Iranians long for. But a sudden urge of I-stay-in-line-because-I-have-manners-I-learned-in-America feeling haunts me. I resist, pay, thank and leave.

My brother “boycotts” Majid Market. He finds him superficial and his prices high. Too claustrophobic. Despite his warning to not to shop from him, I find myself going back there every day. I stand back with a foot on top of a newly arrived box of Maggie instant soups and bouillon cubes and with the other on the way of customers to step on. My hands begin to get cold from touching the sliding door on a small ice-cream refrigerator. I scan every corner of his shop and don’t even feel that I am in Iran.

A neatly displayed row of Dove shampoos, Gillette Fusion Power razors, Always pads and Kellogg’s cereals whose woman on the the back is covered for Islamic reasons of censorship sit next to each other on top of Iranian brands of the same products. An elaborate glass box displays Eclipse, Orbit, Stride and Icebreakers gums on the right hand side of the counter. At the bottom of the glass display there is a crushed, neglected box of Iranian brand chewing gum, Khorousi which he hands to costumers instead of few remaining coin change–equivalent of some Pennies.

I look for unfamiliar brands. There are none. If I can’t find anything that could also be found in US groceries, there is definitely an “Iranianized” version of it. A bag of Tortilla chips reads tour-tee-la in Farsi and a bag of mozzarella cheese reads moo-zeh-reh-la. There are also bottles of Zam-Zam–the Iranian version of soda–packaged exactly like American Coke which makes one appreciate not having copyright laws in Iran.

One of these days when I am drowned into fascination with almost every thing so “American,” a costumer rushes into the store and asks for a “good” toothpaste. Agha Majd hands him a box of Colgate toothpaste. He looks at it and protests. “Give me something American. This is Chinese!”

The Iranian in me gets offended! Why should my fellow Iranian cares about American products?

I unconsciously raise my voice. “Every thing in America is made in China.” All of a sudden, heads turn and every one begins to notice me.

“You are right, says Agha Majid, “but once I saw a Chinese made Cool-gay-t from America. It was very good.”

“Yes, they send the top Chinese products to Em-ree-kah and we get the crap,” the toothpaste man agreed.

After that, Agha Majid’s attitude towards me changes. When he sees me from far,  he yells “salam Lay-dee” and uses any excuse to tell people where I live or to brag to his costumers about his only American costumer. He asks me when I would have time to teach him some more English and any time I buy a bottle of Doogh–a traditional salty yogurt drink–he asks if there Americans like Doogh.

He looks at me in disbelieve when I say it disgusts them.

Agha Majid has the best costumer service I have ever seen. He is friendly, knows every one by name. He calls the doctors by their last names and refer to their wives as Khanoon Doctor or Mrs. Doctor. Kids rush to pick up a bag of chips or some Lavashak–sour fruit rolls–and he writes down their father’s name in a thick brown planner to charge them later. He baby-talks with a spoiled Armenian teenager who brings her tamed bird to the shop to show it to her favorite shopkeeper. He bows down to the Colonel who shops two hundred thousand Tooman worth of groceries.

After a while, I too realize that his prices are high and his collection is limited. I am often forced to buy the imported olive oil, Thai tuna fish or the for-export-only Iranian mayonnaise because he doesn’t carry the Iranian brands. Yet I keep going back to him. There is something attractive about him and the way he does business.

He has a BA and he does not talk like his brother, the dirty mouth, vegetable-seller next door. He tells me about his CPR/costumer service classes. He notices that I am very fond of Iranian cinema. He makes sure that I look at his newest collection of DVDs for sale and if I have seen the film already, he starts a deep philosophical discussion about it. He even tells me that I am so down to earth for being an American educated woman and he feels honored to have a costumer like me.

But the real reason for my attraction to Majid Market is that it resembles the modern Iran where a university educated man replaces the old image of an old grumpy shopkeeper.

It resembles the paradox of modern Iran where the American style costumer service and products differ immensely from the spiteful image of Iranians who hate the West.

Agha Majid is from the young educated generation of Iranians who are globally aware and the world around them is not limited to the life their government wants them to endure.

The paradox of living an Iranian life and longing for an American one lies within most of his costumers. And he is smart enough to make sure they are getting some of it even if it can be found in an expensive tube of Colgate toothpaste  or bottle of Heinz ketchup. He also offers them a tiny space to express their opinions. Whether it is a political discussion comparing the future of Obama’s and Ahmadinejad’s administration or a brief complaint about the Chinese products, Agha Majid’s costumers find comfort in his store.

Perhaps, I find myself indulged because any time I visit Majid Market, I discover a new piece of a country which has undergone substantial changes and I meet individuals who are–admittedly or unwillingly–part of these changes.

Oct1

A Moment!

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A young dark-skinned, lean boy approaches me from across the street. I immediately notice a batch of white envelopes in his hand. He sells Faal–fortune papers containing a verse by Hafiz, the greatest Persian Poet of 14th Century and a brief interpretation of it which is supposed to tell you what is ahead.

When I came to Iran, I promised myself not to turn down any mendicant, child or handicapped beggar who comes my way. Now, after less than three months my scrap-book and my purse are filled with fortune papers, laminated Quranic verses, band aids and unopened packages of gum and hard candies.

So, I tell myself maybe I should turn this one down. But before I make a decision, his low and honest voice rings in my ears.

“May all your wishes be granted, buy one.” “Allah protects your family, buy one” “Please, may you live a long healthy life.”

“How much,” I ask him and he says “your karam!” My generosity is 200 Tomans, a roughly equivalent of 20 American Cents. It would buy him two pieces of flat bread or four eggs.

I ask his name and where he is from and he says Behzaad from Bam. My heart drops and I hesitate to ask him if he lost any one in the devastating earthquake of 2003 with the death toll of more than 26,000 people.

Later that night when I glue my fortune paper to my scrap-book. I think of the fourteen-year-old Behzaad, who lost his father and two brothers in the earthquake and moved to Isfahan with his mother. In the Fall, he will begin high school. He works in summers to help his mom. He wants to become a mechanic. And his tired face is full of hope for the future.

I think how much I want my fortune to be his; My fortune paper says: “better days will come.”