My Country In Flames

As I write this, I'm watching HBO's Letters to the President. We have been glued to our computers and the TV for the past couple of days, following the aftermath of the elections in Iran. Chances are, if you have been watching the news or cable channels, you don't know what's going on. CNN had an interview with motorcycle repairmen yesterday. MSNBC had something about Ted Kazinski.

The Revolution is not being broadcast.

Chances are you don't know much about my country. I don't blame you. You don't know about my people's generosity or their frustrations, you don't know of their dashed hopes and dreams. You don't know what is like to have lost your family to war; to have gathered in a house with your extended family praying that you survive the nightly bombings. You don't know what it is like to bury your sons who fought for the survival of a government they didn't believe in. You don't know what it is like to be seen as ignorant and repressed; international pariahs.

What you probably know is the caricature of a president that is made even more ridiculous in translations. You don't know that he was elected last time because the majority of the electorate boycotted the elections to make a point to the Reformers. You don't know that the he was elected by people who can barely see past their own day to day survival and are willing to vote for anyone who promises to build a road to their villiage, or give them a loan to buy a home. That is not to say those who voted for him were ignorant or stupid. It is to say they are just like us, responding to their basic needs as a people.

Two days ago, elections were held and something did not go according to plans. I tried to block out thoughts of the elections, I did not vote. I no longer live there and don't feel I am entitled a voice in a system that doesn't impact me directly. I was wrong. That system impacts my family who mostly live there, my friends and their families, my people and my culture. I was wrong to not vote, even if my vote would be lost and the loser would be hailed as the president. I was wrong not to vote, even if I didn't have much faith in any of the candidates because there was a lesser evil and even a window of hope. I was wrong to think that the rallies of people in green were just an excuse to get out and mingle. I was wrong to be so cynical about something that hurts my people.

If you look, you can see what is happening in the aftermath of those elections. There are cries of protest, there is violence and there is bloodshed. Those are my people. The pictures you see are of my sisters and brothers, my cousins and friends using the songs and calls of the last revolution against the government. Those cries of Allah-o-Akbar coming from the rooftop are the same cries that brought down the Shah 30 years ago. The cries of 'Azadi, Azadi' (Freedom, Freedom) are being used by a younger generation and thrown back in the faces of the people who are repeating the mistakes of the past. If Khamenei and his ilk have any memory of the past, they should be more than a little worried.

I am sad that they are suffering, I worry about the people I love. But I am proud that they did not accept this in silence. I am proud that they are braver than I ever could be. I am proud and hopeful.

The Day Imam Died

As I now live in the US and am minimally aware of Iranian 'holidays'*, it almost completely slipped my mind that (Imam) Khomeini passed away 18 years ago. I remember the events surrounding his death clearly, as they were truly strange days in a time when strange was almost normal.

Looking back, I remember Khomeini more than anything, as a stern face, hovering over masses of people as he sat on the balcony of his complex, with devotees at his feet chanting their loyalty and devotion. He was mad, but not as mad as he is made out to be in the US for obvious reasons. He was--I think--a pragmatic opportunist who at once held a country together and shattered it to pieces. Oh, and he single handedly made Salmon Rushdie famous for a book that would have never been read had a death sentence not been associated with it.

When my parents decided to move to Iran in 1984, they were truly trend setters. Most people were giving their worldly possessions to leave Iran at that time, my parents decided to sell everything they had, pack up their bags and go home. When we arrived in Tehran, we were surrounded by family, friends and chaos. At the time, Iran had been at war with Saddam's Iraq for four years. People were displaced, embattled, tired and angry. Yet, the message was clear: we will not compromise, we will not give up an inch of this land. For all of the talk of martyrdom, heaven and revolutionary ideals that are publicized, many, many men voluntarily fought and died in that war out of sheer nationalism. The war was a unifier, creating a strange brotherhood of people of different religious and cultural beliefs. Many, my family included, supported the young men who were giving their lives to protect us, in spite of Khomeini's looming face.

So it was a relief when a cease fire was finally accepted in 1988. In his letter/speech to the nation explaining his decisions, Khomeini said accepting the cease fire was like "drinking a glass of poison". People, who were exhausted from the death, destruction and toils of war, rejoiced wondering why he was still alive after his drink. His death couldn't come soon enough.

In May of 1989, Khomeini was hospitalized and everyone knew he was dying. The death watch was as close to a media circus as two state owned television stations could provide. We watched as he sipped broth, prayed and talked to various members of the government. Students like myself wondered if death would disrupt finals and how many days off we'd be granted. By the end of May, there was practically a count down.

On that June morning, I raced to put on my school uniform and scarf and got myself to school as fast as possible, not in a rush to take my final, but to meet my best friend. When I walked into the building, our school janitor who lived on the premises was sitting in her usual place on her rusty folding chair, her face in her scarf, crying as if someone in her immediate family was dead.

"Imam is dead", she sobbed. I looked at her, not understanding why she was hysterical.

"He was like a father to me. He gave hope to the poor, he kept this country together, he saved us." I kept staring at her, not knowing what to say. I felt a tap on my shoulders, it was my best friend E.

"We don't have a test today, right?", I asked getting to the most important issue. She gave me the look she always gave me when she thought I missed the point entirely: a mix of amusement, surprise and sisterly affection. The school was almost empty, except for the three of us, the principal and her assistant sitting in their office waiting for instructions.

"I think all of finals will be canceled, at least half of them. If you play along we may be able to get extra credit for something." I looked at her in awe. She was from a religious, baazari family and had lost a favorite cousin and a young sweetheart in the war. She hated Khomeini and his ilk for the war, for her loss and for the constant 'insult' to religion in the name of religion. She had no qualms milking this situation to her advantage.

"If you want to cry about anything, this is a good time to start.", she whispered as we stood by the weeping janitor. I started giggling, because for almost five years, I had developed a reputation for crying at the drop of a hat. I had been chastised, mocked and soothed into stopping. Today, my best friend was encouraging me to give in to any unwept tears. Unfortunately, it was not a good time to be laughing, but her stern look only made me laugh harder.

This made the janitor look up to me in horror, practically screaming, "You spoiled, ungrateful child! How dare you? Don't you know what a calamity has fallen upon us? Ingrate!" Normally, a stern look would have sobered me, but on this day, of all days, I started laughing louder, doubling over and gasping for air.

E. looked at me with annoyance. "Forgive her, mother. She is in such deep sorrow, she is hysterical." And before I could try to apologize, E. smacked me in the back of the head with a force that was impressive from such a skinny girl. I almost fell over, still laughing, with tears streaking down my face.

"See, she is hysterical.", said E. apologetically. "I know her, she is devastated."

Our principal and her assistant walked out just in time to see me, leaning against the wall, gasping for air with tears rolling down my face. The assistant came and gave me a hug. "It's God's will. Join us for a prayer." E. came and put an arm around me, guiding me toward the office, hissing in my ear, "Stop laughing before I beat you. You'll ruin everything. Just cry--you do it all the time!"

Needless to say, the only tears running down my face that morning, were as a result of my laughing and gasping for air. By the time our principal had instructed E. to make sure I got home safely, everyone was worried that I was so heart broken in my grief, that I would have to be sedated. As we got into the cab, E. had taken her chador out of her school bag and covered her mouth as she whispered calmly, "I think it will work out alright. They think you have lost your mind."

For the next week, all government organizations, including schools were closed to allow the nation to properly mourn The Death. We watched the hysteria on television, wondering who was on the streets. Iranians, ever the conspiracy theorists, came up with all kinds of crazy ideas: the body in the cooler being paraded though the streets wasn't really Khomeini at all; people had been throwing rocks at the glass encasement, expressing their hatred; as the body was being lowered into the ground, people were pulling the corpse apart...This is how Khomeini was buried, in a swirl of conspiracy theories, hysteria and curses.

Almost instantly, a shrine was erected over his grave. What is actually forbidden in Islam, was done in honor of the man who had forced religion onto a nation in chaos. People started organizing pilgrimages, field trips, and picnics to his shrine. While open insults would be severely punished, 'subtle' games were the stuff of legend. The glass encasement around the grave, open enough to drop in donations and alms was suddenly being filled with dirty diapers and underwear. Of course, re-tellings of what people claim to have done while visiting the grave are the stuff of legend, everyone trying to outdo each other. Regardless of these claims, there it stands, so gaudy and big, you see its gold dome from the air before you land at Mehrabad Airport.

As for me, my performance on that day became a legend of sorts. I didn't take any more of my sophomore year's finals. My principal so moved by my emotions and by E's gentle caring for me "despite her own grief", that she insisted we only return when we feel ready. We did not feel ready until the following autumn. I was especially mentioned to teachers and administrators who weren't there that day, because "although I had grown up in the US, my grief for the Imam was overwhelming". I realize I should have put an end to the madness somewhere along the way, but I didn't. It was one of my most bizarre reactions ever, and I finally had a legend of my own. I wasn't ready to destroy it.

* Iranian 'holidays' refers to celebrated and recognized birthdays, such as the birth of the Prophet; deaths, such as the death of the Prophet--and more dramatically his grandson, Hossein; religious Eids; and traditionally Iranian/Persian holidays such as the Winter Solstice and the Persian New Year (which as an Iranian, you'd have to be dead to ignore).

Sadly, I'm not in Kansas (City) anymore

For the first, and possibly the last time in my life, I wish I was in Kansas City so I could rescue these books. It's strange that this bookstore owner would set fire to books no one wants as a form of protest. When I lived in Iran in the 80s, I literally hunted books the way most kids my age were hunting for contraband American movies and music. I learned Farsi for the express reason of expanding my reading possibilities (oh, and not getting the life beat out of me for failing in school).

The strange thing is, I just read an article in the NY Times, about how literary reading has been going down in Iran, because the publishing industry is constantly under attack of new rules and restrictions. Sadly now, as when I was living there, one of the few and most popular books in regular supply are Danielle Steel novels (the first time I heard of Danielle Steel was in Iran, when a bookstore owner recommended her books as "very popular with young ladies"). It confused me then; and it confuses the hell out of me now. Of course, traditional Iranian poetry and literature is abundant and rich--but it is not enough. Unfortunately, from what I have seen, the younger generation doesn't read traditional literature because it's familiar and sometimes too rich. It seems there aren't many alternatives: Rumi and friends, or Ms. Steel.

So it seems once again there is an abundance of imbalance. Too many unwanted books in KC (for lack of interest) and too much lack of interest in Iran for dearth of books. Ideally, I'd like to go to KC, pack up the 20,000 unwanted books and give them a good home--my home. Or maybe if I'm very altruistic, a local prison. Hell, why not ship them to New Orleans and donate them to a library that was washed away there?

How bad can a trip to Kansas City be?

Mmmm...Bread

I love food. Not in a gourmet, eat out all the time kind of way, necessarily--but I do love food. I love the togetherness it entails, the cultural windows it opens, the love that goes into preparing it. I love expressions like "breaking bread", "sitting at our table" and all the other food related sayings that every culture has promising community and generosity.

Lately, I have developed a craving for fresh bread. Back home, one of the simple luxuries--and favorite errands--was going to get fresh bread every day. Since traditional Iranian breads are flat, it doesn't take more than a few minutes in a blazing stone oven to bake. You stand in line at the bread bakery, tell the baker how many you want (with or without sesame seeds) and a few minutes later you're walking home and stuffing your face with beautiful, fresh bread.

In light of my new craving, and the sudden availability of guilt-free time due to the completion of my graduate project, I have decided to try and bake bread this weekend. And cook. I already cleaned the place last weekend, so I'll be good for another month or so. But I will definately be baking and cooking. I don't know what exactly, but I'll be cooking.

Come on by, there should be plenty of left-overs by Sunday.