IranWrites

Woe to Life When Friend Dreads Friend

2009-11-03T19:34:00.003-05:00

Listen to the Silence by Diane Babayan

2009-11-03T10:25:00.001-05:00

Listen to the Silence
Diane Babayan
translation: Mina Zand Siegel

Listen to silence 
It is there, all aound 
Away from your sight
 It is in full bursting
 Conceived to give life
 Like an egg to be hatched 
Transparent and fragile 
But strong for its form,
 A perfect curve 
That repeats itself,
 For eternity. 
Listen to silence,
 That will talk to you
 If you lend it your ears
 It will retell you your life
 What has happened 
In the course of time 
Without ever stopping
 But it will sow its story
 From the time past  
To the future 
Over the path of your memory 
Listen to silence 
And you will hear the life
 Of yours And of others 
Those buried treasures
 Under the mountain of noise
 The wastes of wars 
Of lies and deceptions
 Listen to silence 
And you would be able to save the life
 Yours  And others’
 Who hear nothing but the noise 
These sounds that imprison  
The silence of life.

By Diane Babayan

Toronto, April, 30 2004

Translated: Mina Zand Siegel

Postcards addressed to the United Nations: An Interview byPantea Bahrami

2009-10-26T22:54:00.002-04:00

Postcards addressed to the United Nations

Pantea Bahrami

Translated from a posting in Radio Zamaaneh.

It is a 9’ X 9’painting, a tapestry whose texture consists of human beings, falling and rising yet again, with women whose bodies testify to decades of toil, suffering, struggle, humiliation, and strength, and finally, relief and freedom.

There are circles in swirling motion. These are the cycles of life, with no gap between them, in continual, ceaseless motion.

There are tens of colorful pencils, the symbols of the age-old history of human struggle for freedom, with the dazzling rainbow of their diversity, beyond their ethnicity, religion and gender; and there are ropes which have bound humanity for ages, and on-going efforts by men and women, day and night, to untie and free themselves from them.

Truly, human being must have been very tolerant to have survived so long against such hardships. Moreover, they must have had a love for and faith in something well beyond tolerance that made them continue their struggle, a belief and faith in protest and a hope for change. It is this desire and hope for change of the unacceptable and undesirable that made them to survive so far.

This is the description of the painting by Alireza Darvish, the painter and the filmmaker who lives in Koln, Germany. He says:

This painting does not refer to any specific geographical location, but has a universal and general objective. We live in a global village; we can neither isolate ourselves artificially from others nor avoid responding to events happening in it, regardless of our immediate location or interests.

At a cursory glance, the painting may appear to be a mere reflection of current events in Iran, but this is certainly not its point.

There are two different aspects to this painting, the inner circle and outward motion. The outer view regards human involvement and reaction to the events, and the crises of life, and inner view regards the artist’s inner personal reflections as well as reactions to these events and crises.

But this work does not have any specific emphasis on Iran today. Indeed, it has a much broader issue in its content.

This painting is published on post cards in the United States to echo the voice of millions of people and to make an ocean of protests from them.

“In condemnation of Coup Government of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s crimes against humanity,” is written on the back of the cards.

Mina Siegel, the cards’ producer, explains:

The main impetus was, of course, the events which arose after the elections and the crimes which were revealed—the murders, rapes, tortures and forced confessions. They were all terrifying events, but what I have in mind when I say “crime against humanity” is way beyond those events. By “crime,” I mean the kind of crime which happened and victimized a vast majority of the people, something that we have got used to and thought of as not so important since it is so common that it has become a matter of fact, ordinary.

These last thirty years, I have come across Iranians, many of them my teachers, writers, playwrights, scholars, and artists, whose lives have been devoted to Iranian art and culture, whose identities were profoundly intertwined with the Persian language and culture. They had no existence beyond that and now they have no options.

These were the most frightening things I have ever faced in my life. I thought we should do something, we should raise our voices.

In fact, those she has in mind are greater in number than those experts who, after leaving the country, were not able to function without their mother tongue and become creative and survive. What she refers to are those who are stripped of their identity an therefore their dignity, those who have to step down just in order to make living, namely a vast majority of Iranian in exile.

Mina Siegel continues:

Our pressure on the UN to condemn the Islamic Republic for all the crimes against humanity is quite symbolic. This is crime against humanity that is happening all over the world and not only in Iran. Our country is just a small spot in the world; we won’t live in peace if the world is not in peace, and the world is not going to be a better place if each of its small members won’t live in humane condition. We do not get any better if we keep silent. We are the only ones who can possibly solve our problems.

These cards are addressed to the Secretary General of the United Nations. Mina Siegel talks about the quantity of these cards and the way she expect to become global:

Under these circumstances I unfortunately had to publish these cards with my private funds. Due to my limitations, I have published only ten thousand and another ten thousand are in the process of being printed. Hopefully we can increase their volume as we go along.

I have no intention of limiting these to Iran or Iranians. I hope this will become a global movement. In the United States I have counted on university students, young people and all those who are concerned about the future of the world we live in.

The stamps or the post cards that are published so far in Europe and elsewhere about the green movement have been very straightforward and the viewer will notice the message at the first glance. This is exactly what distinguishes these cards from others. In this regard, Alireza Darvish believes:

We should not expect to impress our audience with simple polemics alone. A work of art can sometimes be more impressive by its implications.

I have used the colors very consciously. I have filled the gray colors that surrounded the atmosphere with sharp and vivid colors, and by so doing I have expressed my own hope in that particular moment.

I think the events unfolding in Iran involve everyone in the world. Though the people in Iran have experienced them in their flesh and bones, we all, wherever we are in the world, have experienced its pain, their pain, as well. We all carry it in our minds and hearts wherever we are.

I asked Mina Siegel what would be achieved if 30,000 or even 50,000 of these cards would be sent to the UN? To that she responds:

Our main goal is to take the Islamic Republic to an International Court and put it in trial. This is a petition for the Secretary General to deliver the Iranian case to the Security Council in order for it to deliver it to the International Court of Hague. This is in accordance with existing protocols; the Iranian case cannot be filed directly with Hague.

Truly, the green movement, with its bold and sound actions of the last few months, gave me the encouragement to embark on this project, to raise our voices in support of this legal suit.

How could one obtain these cards? Mina Siegel explained,

We can send these cards to Europe with no difficulty, and those in Iran could ask their friends in Europe, Canada or US to fill some up on their behalf and mail them to the UN.

Our email address is : un4iran@gmail.com and our website is un4iran.blogspot.com

Pedal 4 Green: Ambassadors of Hope

2009-09-13T00:36:00.005-04:00

Hassan Alizadeh and Amir Hossein Ahmadi were not unfamiliar names to us. I met Mr. Alizadeh at the Brooklyn Film Festival in 2005. I think it was his demeanor and athletic comportment which impressed so many of us and compelled us to put aside our competitiveness and wish that their documentary, made about their four-year trip around the world, would win the grand prize. Unfortunately, well-wishers were not the jurors in the festival. But the features of these two champions won the prize of our hearts and minds. My husband and I had no difficulty recognizing them as they walked into our home. “Yes, that’s them!” I uttered as I led them into our sitting room. Indeed, the entire documentary came back to me.
While staying with us, Hassan and Amir Hossein created another documentary worthy of another prize. This time, the documentary was a live narrative of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s downfall and the grand jury consisted of my family of five, plus my two dogs. They won the prize unanimously with six votes. (One of the dogs, Omar Khayyam, nicknamed “Mojtaba,” abstained.)

“When did you leave Iran?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” one of them answered.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not dreaming. “Just 24 hours away from the news? First hand news?” I could not believe it.
“How was everything? Do people know about the news? Is everything kept away from them? Do they hear from us? Is what we are doing here important? Do they hear us at all? Do they have any expectation from us?” I could not wait for an answer before launching into another question.
“Oh, by the way, are you hungry? Do you want something to drink? Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap until dinner time?” And again, here I was with another series of motherly questions, not giving them a chance to answer. Finally one of them, I think it was Amir Hossein, replied: “No thank you. We are fine.”
Serioja, (nick named “mini-Mojtaba”), our little dog, ran downstairs and sheepishly crawled over Amir Hossein’s shoos and grabbed the string of his shoes which led him to discover the edges of his socks and then the rims of his pants and here we lost both our dog and our guest together. They were running from room to room playing hide and seek with each other with a mixture of laughter and barks.
The round of telephone calls started. Friends wanted to know what we all wanted to know. BBC, VOA, and few others called back. The press along with the rest of us wanted to know not so much about them but about the life in streets of Tehran, “Allaho akbar!” on the rooftops, injured patients in the hospitals, prisoners in Evin, journalists cooped up in the offices of the closed newspapers and finally the young defenseless people in the street meeting danger and even ready to die. In response to every question these trubador-champions unveiled with ease the mystery of this phenomenal courage. Well-informed and fully aware, balanced, devoid of bitterness or anger, very humbly with their answers, they created another puzzle, they themselves turned into the object of curiosity.
Passing by them, on my way to kitchen while they were on the phone, I could not help but overhearing their conversations with their wives, friends and a few interviews they gave. I do not make any apology for hearing them, nor for repeating them. Explaining their mission, knowing that they would very likely wind up in Evin Prison upon their return, I would hear them saying over and over, “The movement belongs to the people, it does not belong to Mousavi or Karoubi for that matter, though I voted for Karoubi myself. But they are far behind the people. We pedal for the movement; we want to bring the movement to the United States more than any other place,” without any boasting or reproach or even defensiveness.
“But your wives?” almost everyone seemed to asked them. “They knew whom they married, and still, they are no better or worse than all those women in prisons. They would have done exactly the same as we are if they were in our position” They said this not only with certainty, but with respect and love. I could envision their wives as lovely, caring, independent women whose trust and confidence in their husbands had encouraged them to such an undertaking.
They were not anxious, not even when the bicycle store called and made lousy excuses for delaying the delivery of their bicycles and helmets and other accessories. They were not annoyed when the activists who were supposed to welcome them in New York were too busy to see them. And they never lost their temper when they were repeatedly checkmate by my brother. However, if I could attribute their mental balance and their acceptance of failure and loss to their general athletic training, I was most puzzled by a very unique character which sports alone could not possibly explain: their air of freedom.
The champions carried with them an aura of freedom unique to themselves. Surely it won’t match the one in Islam’s encyclopedia or Ahmadinejad’s. It was not lawlessness which some erroneously takes for freedom. Not of the kind in which one allows ones self to indulge in bars. It was not one which carries guilt, either, or, for that matter, not one that prevents others from pursuing their happiness. And above all, it was not the kind for which one needs permission. Their freedom was part of their being, something they were born with, a guilt-free freedom, the kind of freedom which allows one to live the life s/he wants to live responsibly, with a clear mind, without force and without any pressure from inside or outside.
I think it was it was this sense of freedom which they shared with our other youth in Iran. Here we were fortunate to see in person the full and live image of what we have seen these last few months, in disbelief, on TV or online, the kind of freedom we observed in the face of all those determined youth who faced brutality with courage, the one we saw sadly in Neda’s last look, in the innocent face of Sohrab, in the courageous departure of Rouholamini, in Kianoush Mehrassa; It is the same we saw in brilliant actions of Iranian women during last thirty years, and our youth during the last two decades, a kind of freedom that is given to us directly by God when He created us, the most beautiful gift from our Creator that we all would make sacrifices to hold on to it as long as we live.
Being a host to these two young athletes, I learned that we Iranians have finally come up with our own definition of freedom, thanks to our young generation who defined it for us. It seems that Iranians have finally departed from the classical-mystic definition of the term, and have defined it in terms of taking the initiative to stay in charge and accept responsibility for their lives, political or otherwise.
For twelve days and half I saw only two, but heard and envisioned millions of young, handsome, healthy, happy, cheerful, responsible, intelligent, well-informed, and clear-headed Iranians going forward without doubt, but carefully; knowingly, but not arrogantly; steadfast and determined, but not aggressive to where they want to live: somewhere in a land of light, freedom and equality. They were going to spread the message of Iranian youth wherever it is appreciated.
We took them to the Brooklyn Bridge to depart, the bridge which brought so much excitement as when a poet-writer, Stephen Crane named one of his collections to the occasion “The Brooklyn Bridge” as a symbol of connection. The choice was as deliberate as our champions were here for a mission: to connect.
We bade farewell to them, but yet we did not. We just said something very vague, something like when one doesn’t know what to say, like mumbling, like whispering. I don’t know if we said “take care” or “comeback soon” or “have a safe trip.” I do not know what we said, but somehow I heard a voice, “Yes, that was it,” though I don’t know who said it, which one of us said it, I think it came from over the bridge as they pedaled away from us, turned back, and waved to us, before disappearing into the traffic of bypassers over the bridge. The voice was stilled heard; it was not one or two , it was like a wave, like a chorus, a huge chorus of some millions of voices. I kept hearing it, it got stronger and stronger: “We are not going away, we are just gathering, we are just getting together, we are growing, we hold hands, and we raise our voices. We stay together, we stay together, we would never say good-bye, never say good-bye, never say good-bye…..”

"Islamic Republic, Nothing More, Nothing Less"

2009-09-06T11:12:00.004-04:00

“Islamic Republic, not a single word less and not a single word more.”
At two in the morning, I anxiously went to the computer room and clicked on Facebook. Masih Alinejad was online with people in Tehran who were giving a minute by minute report from the “tahlif” ceremony, an Islamic term for inauguration.
At 4:30 I fell sleep after I was certain that Ahmadinejad would be our next president, if not by our vote then just by the measure of the Supreme Leader and his cronies’ chutzpah. Later on, when I woke up, I roamed around to find something comforting. Roozbeh Mirebrahimi had a wonderful article on Gooya News. Balanced and professional as always, he wrote about the slogans and goals of the green movement and Mousavi’s controversial statement in response to the current slogan chanted by people, “Esteqlal, Azadi, Jomhuri Irani”—Independence, Freedom, Iranian Republic.

He denounced the slogan and dissociated himself as well his office from it. He very adamantly repeated Khomeini’s statements early in the revolution that “Jomhuri Islami, not a single word less and not a single word more.”

While Mousavi leaves himself open to some criticism, particularly from those abroad, still, he wins some support as well. Roozbeh Mirebrahimi defends him, even finding his conservative view advantageous. He believes that Mousavi, a legitimate child of Khomeini’s revolution, sincerely brings about those promised ideals which had never been achieved and makes a commitment to reviving them as part of his agenda. However, while admitting that slogans evolve as the movement progresses, he leaves aside the necessity of the natural emergence of this particular slogan (Islamic Republic, not a single, etc.) and emphasizes the necessity of unity among the protesters for the sake of attaining their goal, a democratic government and the rule of law. I assume, by combing these two arguments, he is trying to convince us to ignore the phrase “Islamic Republic, not a single, etc.”

The Green movement’s slogan, “Where is our vote” changed to “Mousavi, Mousavi retrieve our votes” when faced with resistance, and then to “Death to dictator” and “My dear martyr, I retrieve the blood you shed, I retrieve your vote” when they were confronted with bullets. Obviously it was the situation which changed the slogans and not the other way around. The changes of icons in our Facebook took place in the same fashion. Early days “Where is my vote” with green background was turned into bloody hands over a green background when the police turned to violence and murdered the people, then changed to a green sign reading “I confess” after the wave of forced confession aroused sympathy and compassion in us. However, the slogan of “Jomhuriye Eslami” being replaced with “Jomhuriye Irani” did not resulted from any evolutionary change of events, but is the outcome of an historical process and political maturity. It is not only the change of situation which calls for chanting such a daring slogans, but an awareness of a fundamental question which should have come much sooner.

The rise of the Islamic Republic was so rapid and unexpected that none of us found it suitable to question the fundamental principals or the justification for the institutes established by its founders. Even the referendum took place without people knowing what they were really voting for or why. As I recall, it just gave the people the chance to confirm the Islamic Republic even before the constitution of Islamic Republic was composed. The result was thirty years of chaos, murder, imprisonment, imposition and backwardness. (To be fair, it also meant lots of pretty highways, and universities on every corner, though many of them do not have enough faculty and staff.) One might also, sadly and embarrassingly, add the ignorance and political immaturity of our generation as one of the major contributors. So the Islamic Republic’s founder, Khomeini, was left unchallenged as to what he meant by Islamic Republic and its governance, or the legitimacy of Islamic rules for a country with such a secular history.

To question the legitimacy of a regime or even the foundation of the governmental system is not the domain of elites or scholars. Any responsible citizen has a right to question the legitimacy of its government. They have a right to ask any amount of words they like, Why shouldn’t they ask for nothing more or nothing else but the Islamic Republic? Really, why not? What is so virtuous in an Islamic Regime? Didn’t it kill? Didn’t it rape? Didn’t it torture? Didn’t it cheat? Didn’t it lie? Didn’t it strip people of their dignity? Didn’t it violate people’s basic rights? Didn’t it demolish all civil foundations? Didn’t it abolish whatever was left of something called “law”? Didn’t it ignore the Constitutions? Didn’t it violate all humane norms? And didn’t it do all this according to the laws of the sharia? Really, what else didn’t it do? What else should it do for us to question its legitimacy, or even desirability?

“Real Islam…” is the usual cliché which has been used again and again during the last thirty years to cover up all the abuses. The reformist clerics and laymen have used it equally as if it is another denomination of Islam. But we are still wondering as to its actuality and its virtue. Where was that real Islam to save all these cleric and ayatollahs from free fall? Why could it not stop the pious from walking to hell? What is good about a religious system if its “real version” would become mixed up with its “false version” so easily, even being indistinguishable to the experts? And what guarantees that the one which is called “real” today won’t turn out even more “false” tomorrow? Is human instinct for corruption so strong? Is the seat of power in this earthly life dearest too? If yes, then why bother? Why should we bear such an imposition? Why should we follow those rules which could not save those who are supposed to be immune from fall, those who are the God’s emissaries?

Unfortunately such embarrassing statements, coming from the man who is supposed to be our legitimate president, won’t help the movements at all. Mousavi could have ignored the slogan and just maintain his individual right as to take his distance from it. He should have known that he is not the leader of this movement, but just an elected president. And he should have known that he has no role as to what people in street will chant, the chants are the direct result of people’s “experience” which translates into one word: Democracy, not a word more and not a word less. People did not stumble on this word and did not receive an instruction from anybody, foreign or native, and won’t alter it on anybody’s advice. They have learned that the Islamic regime won’t bring them even close to what they call democracy.

However it is so fortunate that our third generation, moje sevomi ha, know what Mousavi doesn’t. It is so fortunate that they are wiser than we were some thirty years ago. It is so fortunate that they are bolder. It is so fortunate that they are more liberated. It is so fortunate that they have more self-confidence. It is so fortunate that they know for sure what they want. It is so fortunate that they are not willing to settle for anything less than what they want. It is so fortunate that they want democracy. It is so fortunate that during the last thirty years they have learned that Islam won’t bring them democracy. It is so fortunate that they, willingly, would let Mousavi go if Mousavi does not want to follow them. And finally, it is so fortunate that Khatami is a witness to all these, and can tell Mousavi “listen kiddo, these are not those naïve kids of thirty years ago. They are tough. I know what I’m talking about. I trained them. It is true you are the legitimate son of Khomeini’s revolution, but these are the legitimate kids of the Khatami School of Reform and Liberation.”

Mahbod Seraji, The Rooftops of Tehran

2009-08-20T23:03:00.005-04:00

In chaotic atmosphere leading up to the election, or worse, the election’s aftermath, when all the human codes of decency have been ignored, and when my countrymen and women have been striped from their last thread of dignity, I felt it is so untimely to remind myself and my readers of what we were once upon a time. It was in that spirit that I delayed my review of The Rooftops of Tehran. I hesitated, too, fearing that few, besides ourselves, would believe the gentility, peace and wisdom displayed in this novel to be the genuine and true textures of Iranian culture. I wanted to leave my review for a better time to come to, the wonderful day that I can envisage coming soon. On the other hand, the similarity of the situations, hammering on my mind, urged me to write. I could resist no more.

The story is happening as during the last days of Pahlavis when the people’s dissatisfaction merged with their fearlessness and lead them to street protests. Mahbod Seraji, a teenager at the time, I guess, recorded his own account of the event as a witness to history. Oddly enough, his testimony comes exactly when our younger generation is protesting against the very same regime whose foundation Seraji’s characters paved the way for. Very likely, most of our young protesters today are under the impression that their predecessors were responsible for all they pay for with their lives. I think this book stands by the truth, tells us things as they happened, and shows the way we were!

Seraji’s account of the last days prior to the revolution is more colorful than the black and white pictures fed us for the last thirty years by media, analysts, academics, political scientists and even by few writers who tried to gives us a taste of those days through their memoirs. What distinguishes his narrative from the others is that the narrator, who appears not to be so courageous, takes refuge in the rooftop of his home. In the safety of that elevated enclave, where the entire community becomes a big family under the sky, where only an unguarded short wall sets the moral, ethical and physical limit for each, and where unspoken laws guarantees everybody’s privacy and security, he observes from a distance what those who courageously fight in the streets could not see themselves. Protected with the love, compassion, and friendship he enjoys within his family, friends and community, wrapped in wit and humor, he feels secure enough to observe life as it was. Dicken’s “it was the best of times, it was the worse of times,” echoes all through his narrative.

From the rooftops of Tehran, we hear a harmonious chorus of young Pasha, Zari, Ahmad, Fahimeh, Masked Angel, Doctor, and their parents singing a melodious song that is not so unfamiliar to our ears. Love, compassion, friendship, trust, and respect echoes into each other to provide a safe haven for our youth to grow to amazing individuals who are willing to give unhesitatingly and as graciously to receive.

What I liked the most about the story was that author traced the last vestiges of men and women in our pre revolution history whose action and whose behavior was not dictated by the books, slogans, and fashionable political ideology but from their youthful experiences, seasoned by their old culture. The story opens up with our fellow narrator, Pasha, teases his mother for her homeopathic remedies and concoctions she makes for his mental and physical stability, and grouches against his father who made him and Ahmad to abide with the unwritten codes of fraternity of athletes which forbids fighting with those who are weaker than oneself, the rules of a non existing society!

As the story progresses, the narrator moves slowly away from his mother’s homeopathic pantry and his father’s non-existing fraternity athletic society, to the periphery of the neighborhood beyond their alley where there is something called authority, force, police, security, batons, guns, arrests, prison, torture and murder. Oddly enough, his high school is where he received his first taste of each. His math teacher, the embodiment of the whole system, forced him to decide the road to his future. That is where he chose his father’s way of life, maturity, wisdom, justice, and freedom. He never regretted it to the end.

Along with other characters in the book, he learns to defy the injustice and to fight for his rights not through ideological training or the fashionable theories dictated to him, not even through what was generally believed, the militant or revolutionary religious teachings, but through following numerous national elites. The ideal society of The Rooftops of Tehran is not formed or modeled by the Communist nations aiming to achieve a proletarian government, nor to create a model of religious Medina. Love for democracy is the heartbeat of pre-revolution Iran.

Indeed this novel is so unique, even iconoclastic, as a literary piece. No clash between the characters, no clash between the classes, no clash between generations and no clash between genders. No opposite forces, no personal conflicts, inner or outer. What we have studied in the development of the story fails us right from the start. The favorable response of Zari, Doctor’s fiancé, to Pasha’s love and their warm innocent, guiltless love for each other might even surprise our Western readers. Zari’s parents’ recognition and acknowledgment of their relationship is unexpected, even though they knew that there is a very strong emotional bond between them. The freedom these young people enjoyed and the respect their parents showed their choice and decision counters all the stereotyping in the region’s culture. Fahimeh’s courageous and liberated decision to reject the suitor her parents had chosen for her and her steady relationship with Ahmad, for example, are not exactly classical tools in writing a love story. The absence of love pain and love sickness, family or gender abuse, emotional cruelty within the family and friends that in normal sense is a receipt for failure, makes the story even more attractive. None of the above detracts from the charm and sweetness of this work, nor does it diminish the reader’s urge to read further. The curiosity it arouses in the reader is not due to an artificial or cliché conflict, but to a genuine excitement of watching a skillful performance. Indeed, these groups of kids with an awesome maturity, half intuitively and half thoughtfully, go through a life full of turbulence and emerge magnificently. The characters in this story enjoy a kind of freedom provided to them by Seraji’s generosity more likely to compensate for what they lacked in their real life and what was denied them politically and socially.

In his review Thomas Vincent mildly objects to so many heroes, almost everyone, in one novel. “It is too good to be true,” he says. I felt a bit flattered by this objection and I think any Iranian, including Mahbod Seraji, would feel the same. I would like to reassure the critic that by no means is it fanciful to have all these heroes in one story. Thank Heavens we have live witnesses on our side. These last two months, Iranians by the millions have displayed such an amazing show of gentility, humanity, and culture that no one should be surprised to see a book full of heroes. Seraji could have written a novel with hundreds of heroes if it were technically possible. Yes, “too good to be true,” but hey! That is who we are: exactly, too good to be true!

Mani's Conversion

2009-08-06T19:40:00.007-04:00

I rushed to the kitchen to prepare food, sabzi polaw and fish, my usual fast food! My guests very graciously had let me neglect my duty as a host, and I wanted to make it up to them in their last night’s stay in New York on Friday. Food was simple but the table was elaborate, with all my sets of green china and glasses to match not only my green dinning room but our Green Movement and our Green Youth and hopefully our Green Victory.

After dinner, my guests started to pack. Elahe has promised Darya, her granddaughter, to be in Montreal before 4 pm on Saturday. However Mani, my friend’s son did not want to go back on Saturday. I felt something very emotional was happening since Mani switched to French, the language that he is more fluent in, when he said grumpily, “I should stay for tomorrow and leave the following day by bus.”

“We all came together and we should all leave together,” His mother declared authoritatively.

“It is all my fault. I said I can go alone by bus and you all can come whenever you feel like coming,” Darya said with tears in her eyes.

“No Darya jan, your grandma won’t let you go alone. They feel responsible to take you back home as they promised to your parents,” Mani’s mother said.

“I can go by bus on Sunday. I know how to get the bus. I should stay here for tomorrow’s march,” Mani said, as if knowing he was crossing a narrow line.

“But we all should go back tomorrow, you knew it, and you agreed, didn’t you?” his mother said.

“Oh, please, we are not in court and we are not putting a kid on trial,” I wanted to tell his mother but I kept quiet.

“Ya, I did, but that was three days ago; do you understand? Three days is a long time, Mom! Something has awakened in me during last three days. I feel something now that I didn’t feel before; something that I did not even know existed. Tomorrow, everybody is marching, people from all over the world march for us, from South America, from Europe, form Africa, from Australia, they all march for us when I, who should be there, sit in the back of the car and drive to Canada to go the a party! No, I can’t do that, I must be here.” The words were pouring out of Mani’s mouth as if he had no control over them, as if he did not need to think about them.

“It’s entirely my fault, I should not have come, I know it is my fault, I ruined everything for all of you. What if I go tomorrow by myself and you can come after the march.” Darya said, almost crying.

Mani went toward her and gently patted her on the back and said, “No dear, it is not your fault. You did not do anything wrong. It is me who is changing his mind and can’t help it. You did nothing wrong, otherwise I would not talk to you.”
“But listen! Don’t be so childish …” his mother started to say but stopped suddenly and just stared at him as if in disbelief.

I felt an urge to jump in and give my unsolicited advice to his mother. I felt an urge to scream at his mother and tell her “The hell with the stupid party you want to go. Remember your own youth and your own rebellion. Remember when your father brought you from Tabriz, to Tehran to go to law school. And remember the promises you made to your father about staying away from the line of opposition to the Shah, and remember how you broke them all and did what your heart told you to do. Remember that you never regretted any of them. Remember that was some forty years ago, and you were a little provincial girl and not a youth person grown up and educated in cosmopolitan cities such as Paris and Montreal, and remember that by breaking your promise you did not fall into disgrace. Remember that nothing happened. Remember that for years in law school, in spite of everything, again and again, you have used promise-braking as a paradigm for the most unethical behavior! Yes, I wanted to tell her you broke your agreements with your father on such an important issue and you still became such a dignified lawyer. I wanted to tell her that a little contradiction and deviation of this sort seems inevitable at certain age. I wanted to tell her…

I had the urge to say even more. But I did not. I just felt the futility of it all. Not that she won’t recall what I wanted her to; very likely she would. But the futility of urging someone to do something that she is not willing to do. I felt it is irrelevant if Mani comes to the march on Saturday or not, or even if by some miracle everyone decided to stay for the march on Saturday, or simply let him to stay with my responsibility to arrange his trip back the following day. What was most significance was Mani’s spontaneity and his eagerness to grasp the new breath of his experience. Sitting in a rocking chair and swinging back and forth, he looked more like a mother nursing her baby with passion. Indeed, he was nursing a new born, a precious little feeling. It seems the last three days he was transported to another life and was returned with an adopted child which he did not want to let go of. “Yes, I must stay here,” echoed vehemently, though, it was uttered gently as a whisper. I felt the young man sitting a few feet away from me was miles away from the little boy I saw in 2000 with all the characteristic of a twelve year old so absorbed with his personal needs. Responsibility, compassion, sympathy, love, and connectedness towards millions unknown has found a venue for display, and he was wise enough not to loose the opportunity.

I felt no need for my interference. I felt what was supposed to be achieved had been achieved already. Mani in French expressed what his new friends, who were unknown to him up a few days before, would have expressed in Farsi on the streets of Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz or Mashhad, I had no doubt that he would have marched with his friends in Iran somewhere without fear, without hesitation had he been there. He had truly become one with those millions in Iran.

It was three a.m. when I left mother and son to decide the way they made other decisions in life. A few hours later when I woke up they were loading their belongings into the car. Mani was going as well. He gave me a warm hug and said “Khaleh Mina, I’ll be back soon.” I responded with a much warmer squeeze and wished him well. I stayed on the road with a pitcher of water to splash at the back wheels of their car for a safe trip and watched until they disappear into the traffic.

I have no doubt that Mani gave in so easily because in reality he did not give in. I’m convinced he thought the way I thought. I’m convinced in his heart he felt it does not matter if he would march with us in New York City or ride in car to Montreal. In the reality of his heart, he had made a bond with his fellow Iranians that he felt no need to display.

I went to the march thinking all the way about Mani and his excitement. A memory came back to me. I recalled when some seven years ago I obtained my Iranian passport after twenty five years with a not-so-flattering photo of mine, wearing a black scarf, attached to its first page, along with usual personal information. I read that few lines of information at least hundred times a day for a while. The passport was placed on the night table next to the books I read at night. For months it was the last thing I would look at before sleeping and the first I would look at on opening my eyes. I even thought that photo was the prettiest I ever had. Even to this day I have never cherished anything more than that sudden sense of belonging given to me by touching that little red booklet or reading its content. I can never forget the sensation of reading my name and my family name, most significantly, the place of birth! I would never forget the pleasure and a sense of security I found within that little booklet.

I felt I had found a place to live safely, among a clan who would give me refuge with love and compassion if it is needed. I felt I’m not lonely anymore, I felt I’m together with many, with so many. I felt “fear no more.”

I was marching and thinking of Mani in the back seat of the car, secure and safe, knowing he is not alone, knowing he is with many, and would “fear no more,” listening to his favorite musician, Alizadeh. (Mani is student in a music academy.) I thought he is as excited as I was with my Iranian passport. I wished I could have taken a photo of Mani’s feeling, I wished I would have been a painter and draw that sense of belonging, that sense of awakening, and then I would frame it, frame it with pure gold and place it in a high place somewhere, very high, close to God maybe, on a prayer matt, above the piano he plays, over the fireplace he gazes, at or simply next to his bed, to look at it every morning and every night, the first and the last.

Four Glorious Days for Iran

2009-08-06T18:18:00.019-04:00

Three days of hunger strike ended with a most beautiful day of solidarity

rallies all over the world, including our city of New York. Words said, pictures taken, interviews done, speeches made to condemn the fraudulent election and violations of human rights, and pleas made for peace, and encouragement given to the world not to forget us on our way to democracy.

I have so little to say about who said and did what. Yes, we all had the green wristbands, we all participated, some few thousands of us in New York alone. Lots of people came from Canada, Washington State, Virginia, Washington DC, Pennsylvania, Florida North Carolina, etc., many with their family, many even with their dogs. And many missed the occasion as well, most likely because they were busy, though, I should say they missed so much.

Among those who did not come, I regret the young children of my friends who had gone to the movies or to the beach. Not that the movement was damaged by their absence, but they missed one of the most precious experiences in life: being a very genuinely proud Iranian, and something more even: to be a witness to a golden page of history.

For three decades we Iranian were imposed upon by a government of abnormity, a government of innovation created out of a vacuum of statesmanship as well as wisdom and foresight. For three decades those bearded clerics sprang out of nowhere, ruled according to their will and ignored whatever Iranian culture or international norms prescribed. The abuse of power had never been reached to such degree in Iranian history even during reign of Arab Muslims, Mongols or Timorids.

Most intolerable is the deceitfulness involved in their ruling. The ruling clerics not only violated all norms in the name of Islam, (I should admit that I can’t possibly care less about this) but our name, Iranians, as well. Not only have they represented themselves as the emissaries of God and His appointees on earth, but as our delegates. The world around us, being preoccupied with its own problem, sluggishly and carelessly embraced the idea. We all were portrayed as friends of Hamas and Hezbollah and were tagged as terrorists within a short period of time, a picture that we all resented in every way.

On Saturday in front of the UN, excited and energized even after four days of walking and talking and fasting and after a long walk from Times Square to the UN with quite a bit of zigzagging, from the South African Embassy to the Office of Iran’s Delegation to the UN, I ran to some old friends from our student days, all happy and smiling, proud and content at have come back together for a glorious conclusion. Lots of kisses and hugs, “Isn’t this elegant?” I asked rhetorically. “Yes very elegant, exactly the kind of revolution you like,” one of my friend teased. “Why not?” I thought without making any apology for my taste. Indeed I do not take the word elegant so lightly. Isn’t it always coupled with orderly, cultured and civilized?

Indeed, how else we could describe the movement? How many nations reacted, in defiance, like us to a military coup? Half dizzy and half excited, I look around in order to find something to concentrate on. Though I could not decide where to focus, I finally managed to fix my attention when Faramarz started to play his sitar and sing, accompanied by a saxophone and daft. In one corner, a lady with her beautiful Papillion in her arm was singing with the crowd, another man with his pooch, name Apple, lying on the ground in fatigue, standing there attentively. (Thanks to all those pooches who came to rally with a green band around their necks, not only to show their support but to restore our reputation: Iranian do not hate dogs!) Across the fence separating the demonstration from First Avenue’s by passers, one could not miss the admiring look of the people who were watching us. Puzzled by what they were looking at, more likely they would have thought us as holding a celebration if a few signs of “Free All Political Prisoners” had not betrayed us.

Later on, looking at the gallery of the photos from the event, I was so pleased to see indeed we looked very elegant. Noam Chomsky looked very cheerful. Gee, he was even smiling! Reza Bareheni though looked much older, appeared quite content, very likely since someone remembered his theory of Masculine History. Ganji looked as if he had never heard the word fatigue in his life; Masoumeh Shafii, smiling at someone very shyly. I think she was explaining that she is not Fatemeh Haghihgatjoo ; Nayereh Tohidi, gallant and dignified as always, seemed to be offering her seat to someone else. Does she ever loose her attentiveness? I wondered. Kazem Alamdarian looked as fresh and happy in all the pictures taken from day one to the last. And oh, yes, my beloved husband who fasted all three days and left his computer behind for four consecutive days, was almost on all the gallery photos. I do not know how he did it, I mean leaving the computer!

And finally those kids! Sadra and Company with their yellow shirts, warm, pleasant, proud, and happy. They did not need to be in any photos, they would stay in our heart forever for all their composures, style, management, and smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiles! Oh yes, fear no more!
Food was brought for those who had fasted. I ran after my husband, preventing him form eating much, but it was too late; he already had got to desert, sholezard. Well, I had to be a little generous; he really did not eat for all three days. I had just a date which with my luck was not sweet.

The program ended like usual Iranian gatherings: no one wanted to leave. “We should get together again,” “Lets not to wait for the next crisis,” “We really should not let go of this momentum,” “Call me and let’s get together,” “We really….”, and more hugs and more kisses, and handshake, again and again.
It was six o’clock that it was announced that we should leave. In fact, we should have left some half an hour earlier. And again the traffic of invitations and promises for the next time and again lots of “We should really….” We were the last one leaving, followed by janitors with brooms and garbage bags sweeping after us.

“Did they ever see such a jolly adult demonstration against brutality and violence?” I thought to myself when leaving.

Look at my husband's blog!

2009-07-16T18:01:00.001-04:00

Dear friends,
VOA accidently posted the address of my blog instead of my husbands! You're welcome to visit here, but please also visit his blog, at http://www.qlineorientalist.com/IranRises
Thanks!
And here is the rest of it.

Lessons of Revolutions Past

2009-07-05T23:12:00.001-04:00

The presidential elections in Iran started with huge excitement, followed by grief, followed by disappointment, followed by shock, followed by devastation by the shameless brutality of men who came to spread peace and justice to all, and finally, came to a standstill. We Iranians of the older generation sadly remember the uprising of 1979, and some even the 1953 coup, and wonder what to expect next.

Although there are none among us to remember the constitutional movement of 1906 which put an end to the absolute monarchy and started a new page in Iranian history, many of us, the students of history, are delighted to detect the lessons learned from those golden era are being faithfully implemented by our younger generation today.

In 1979, as a student in the United States, I was glued to the television when Ayatollah Khomeini emerged from obscurity to fame and from exile to leadership, thanks to the media. Passing from anger to amazement to despair to rage and back to resignation in a heartbeat, I came to understand a page of our history which I had missed as a child then, the 1953 CIA coup that toppled our democratically-elected government of Dr. Mossadegh and returned the Shah to power. In those days, the excitement of revolution did not let us see the similarity of the events, which would have prevented us from going astray, and so we did go astray. But today it seems the younger are much too wise and better equipped (thanks to the internet) to commit the same mistake we did.

Witnessing these two uprising with the same intense interest, from the same standpoint physically, emotionally, and intellectually, I’m amazed not only at the emergence of more and more fundamental difference between the two recent events, but the degree to which the traits of the Constitutional Revolution can be observed in the recent uprising.

The sectarian nature of 1979 revolution naturally did not embrace us all. Not only the minorities, but the secular Iranian had to force themselves and hide their disappointment under a fake veil of “after all we are Muslims.” When the leftists came to the game with their artificially-induced “class struggle”, I felt the last nail was hammered into the coffin by the Islamic Republic as an Islamic coup against the Iranians’ legitimate demands for democracy.

It happened that it took us some thirty years for the shock to wear off and for us to accept our failure and, more so, to accept responsibility for our mistakes and the price we ought to pay for it. Though it happened that those of us who made the mistake are living in the safety of “old age”, well-respected by Iranians, the price to pay is left to our offspring!

It took us some thirty years to learn that there is no “class struggle” in Iran, but cultural struggle, and that neither of the preceding movements was anything but a demand for democracy and the establishment of democratic institutions such as a constitution and a parliament. That the participants in those uprising crossed over the divisions set by class, gender, or ethnicity, and their demands were more in the nature of cultural change (as much as I try to avoid the terminology for fear of being identified with Maoism) than political.

It took us thirty years to find out that we did not need to have any leaders, charismatic or otherwise, with beards or without, with a halo or a ring, to shepherd us. If there were a few who appeared as leaders in Constitutional Movement, they were in fact just like a placard and banner whose function is to carry on the message written on them by others; and Dr. Mossadegh always considered himself a representative rather than a leader. It seems that where there is no such hierarchy of the leadership, the movements have a better fate in our society (i.e. recent Campaign for One Million Signatures, and various minor revolts in sport arenas, such as the setback of government in dispute over the TV program of 90.)

And finally, it took us just thirty years to tell God’s emissaries that we do not need their God. We Iranian know our God very well. Our God respects freedom; our God has created us all equal; our God has created each of us to be his emissary on earth; our God has appointed us directly to be the guardian of good; our God has given each of us a mandate to with evil, liars, scoundrels, murderers, thieves and those who turn the lights off to cover their crimes.

It took us thirty years of daily practice to realize that we value culture over the empty rituals and appearance of culture and so-called ideology, be it religious or otherwise. We proved that we would guard our humanity as it is passed to us for centuries through our literature and our customs. We showed in practice that we prefer death to life in disgrace.

And finally, we all came to realize that what unites all Iranian is just a simple voice, a Neda, which no matter from how far it emerges, it will always be heard by all those who consider themselves Iranian.

It is odd that a century ago the king Mozaffar od-Din Shah, signed the constitution which limited his very own power. Unhappy as he was, he had enough Iranian blood in his body and love of the county in his soul that he preferred to step down from his throne but not to detach himself from those opposed to his absolute power. Even the last Shah of that dynasty was wise enough to abdicate. And oddly enough Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, for all the wrong he did to the people and the country, has enough love in his heart and wisdom in his mind to leave when he faced the choice of being with people and leaving or to stay and remain as opposed to Iranians.

Two weeks ago in a conference in Columbia University on the current issue in Iran, I asked two of the participants, Dr. Fatemeh Haghightjoo and Hojjat ol-Islam Mohsen Kadivar, if it is realistic at all to expect for there to be a peaceful solution to this crisis someday, or if either of them could foresee the possibility that one day anyone could get into dialogue with the Islamic Republic and make them hear the voice of reason. I think my question was out of the norm, but still I received a warm smile from Kadivar, which I took as an acknowledgement, and a good response from Haghighatjoo: “Lets hope, after all, that is all we have, that is all left for humanity.” A simple and wise a response, as was expected from her.

Yes, “hope” is the torch we Iranians carried faithfully through history and passed on to the new generation. It took us through the bleak days of our failure and defeats, it took us to the street to demand our rights, it made us to reclaim what was ours, and it gives us the sweet promise of a joyful future. That is all we have, and that was all we ever had. But something more, it worked in the past and it will for sure do so in the future. Let’s pray it will stay alive in our hearts. It is our only ally for the days to come.

Brave Iranian Majlis Member Stands up to the Reactionary Majority

2009-07-05T21:39:00.005-04:00

You can see Masud Pezeshkian, representative from Tabriz, a former basiji, a former Minister of Health, standing up to the reactionary majority in the Majlis.

Shiraz Kids Ridicule Ahmadinejad

2009-07-05T09:27:00.006-04:00

Click link below to read the explanations about this song.

The translations in the subtitles are by Mina. Warm thanks.

Some of the references are a bit obscure.

Gordon should read "Kordan", referring to Ali Kordan, who was Minister of the Interior in one of Ahmadinejad's cabinets. He was forced to resign when it was found that his "doctorate" from Oxford was a blatant forgery.

The reference to oil money is to how oil prices under Ahmadinejad did not translate into support for social services. "Election slogans promising to place oil money on people's dinner tables," according to one article.

The reference to Ardebil is to how Ahmadinejad, to how Ahmadinejad used his power as governor there to make one of his buddies in the military brass, Sadeq Mahsuli, extremely wealthy.

The reference to the bank is to his effort to get the Central Bank to give a crony of his a $700 million loan. The director of the bank balked, saying that he would have to get this order countersigned by the Majlis or the Leader. This led to Ahmadinejad getting into a struggle with the bank director and his evicting him from his position. (This was alluded to during the candidates debate and fleshed out further on a campaign stop in Tabriz.)

The halo reference is to a conversation Ahmadinejad had had after his speech at the UN, where he told a group of clerics of various miracles he performed while he was speaking, including the appearance of a halo around his head.

Ahmadinejad passed famously passed out potatoes before the election.
--From IranRises

Mousavi: The Triumph of Ordinariness

2009-05-17T14:26:00.004-04:00

What came as a relief when Sayyed Mohammad Khatami announced “either [Mir-Hosein] Mousavi or me” soon led to further distress. Mousavi's candidacy, a hybrid of reform and fundamentalism, became a sore subject for many reformists, not only for his ill-timed response to Khatami's call, but by his becoming more and more the candidate of nothingness.

One of Mousavi's supporters summarized his political strategy as “breaking the artificial division and artificial contrasts between his rivals. While he commits himself to the most democratic fundamentals of reformism, he makes it clear that reform is never in opposition to the fundamentals of the religion. He also believes that true fundamentalism needs to take some reformist view and action in order to make the religion dynamic.”

It is very difficult to know what exactly the above statement means, as it is difficult to know if it is intended to say anything meaningful at all. However ambiguous as it might sound, it says something about Mousavi's approach to politics and his system of management which his supporters claims to be his strong asset.

Mousavi, with his noncommittal, wordy , redundant, and empty talk, promising the obvious, the unavoidable, and even the trivial, reconfirms what is said about his policy and his ideas in the above statement.

In one of his meetings with university students to launch his campaign, Mousavi was advised by a student to be frank and forward in his talks, and by another, to refrain from the use of so many clichés when he travels to various regions or in his meetings with ethnic groups. The student was referring to his use of adjectives zealous (ghayoor)” and gallant warrior (salahshoor) when he was in Ilam-Bakhtiari. Mousavi responded “I'm very forward and candid,” and “Why should we give up good words such as ghayoor and salahshoor? They are indeed good words.” Another student asked him why there is no street named after Dr. Mosaddegh while we have street called Khaled Eslamboli (Anwar Sadat's assassin.) To that he answered, “When in a country people do not acknowledge their great men, it indicates that country has a problem.”

Though one can justify the desperate attempt of the reform leadership to highlight Mousavi's competence, one can be only more confused and puzzled by the journalists' soft and accommodating tone. Journalists who are supposed to be demanding and questioning, those who have to give a hard time to the candidates to help them clarify and explain their views and their positions to the public, seem have become foot troops of one of the candidates rather than the guardian of democracy, as the Constitution demands. Our pro-Mousavi journalists have generally forgotten their responsibilities, are stuck in the heavy traffic of politeness, confused in how to distinguish between respectfulness and silence, or, on pretext of “not weakening the candidates,” avoid any tough questions which might expose a bitter truth.

Oddly enough, our leading candidate has not received any real endorsement so far. Even those who remember Mousavi since the old days are at a loss as to how to give him a meaningful endorsement. Attaollah Mohajerani recalls an anecdote about him. During the Iran-Iraq war, then Prime Minister Mousavi called the mayor of Kermanshah, Mr. Nikou'i, at home late at night to find out if the government had found a proper place for a Crazy Hasan, who was living in the middle of some ruins somewhere. Mr. Nikou'i, not knowing who Crazy Hasan was, reassures the Prime Minister that he would get in touch with the governor on this matter and would inform him as soon as possible. He immediately called the governor and governor took care of Crazy Hasan. Since by then it was past midnight, he postponed calling Mr. Mousavi to the next day. However the Prime Minister did not wait, and very humbly called back at one thirty in the morning just to make sure. He told him the governor had already taken care of Crazy Hasan and that he could sleep peacefully since Hasan was sleeping peacefully in his bed somewhere thanks to the Prime Minister's attention.

Gholm Ali Raja'i, has outdone everyone else by far. He compared Mousavi to Imam Ali who, after twenty five years of solitude, reemerged as caliph fresh, as if all those years had not passed! (Mousavi had five more years to wait and I don't know why he was in such rush!)

Mostafa Tajzadeh recalls when he was the deputy to Khatami in the Ministry of Islamic Guidance in Mousavi's cabinet, he once received a call from Prime Minister Mousavi at home late at night to tell him that he liked the outcome of the project that he has been in charge of. This had been done against protocol, which calls for his sending the message of thanks to the minister in charge, Sayyed Mohammad Khatami.

In reality, the endorsement as such might qualify Mousavi for a mayor of a provincial town , but not for president of a country which is in the middle of an international as well as domestic crisis. While his friends and supporters try to highlight his kindness or compassion, they seem to forget that running a country of seventy-five million takes a little more than a charitable heart. The success of those in the leadership of a country is judged by the success of the institutions, causes, and systematic achievements they leave behind, not by anecdotes about their charity or courtesy, no matter how grand its scale.

Worse than friendly endorsements are those statements which his supporters express here and there to make up for lack of any outstanding feature in Mousavi's record, like, “He is the only one who can save the country,” without thinking why the country should be in such a condition that only Mousavi can save it. Or when they emphasis on his war time management record, without thinking that somewhere people can find out that his record was not so brilliant.

In the absence of any meaningful way to answer hundreds of questions raised by citizens about his candidacy, Mousavi's supporters tend to silence the public and invite them to “be quiet and just vote, we will settle it after the election,” or even appeal to intimidation when they consider a question as being “unappreciative” or “ruining the candidates.” They suffice it to emphasis his only alleged asset, his management skills.

Unfortunately, what is not achieved so far is the enthusiasm and excitement expected in presidential elections. Even the recent speech of Khatami, clarifying that there is no disagreement between him and Mousavi, and his exit from the race has nothing to do with Mousavi, or that there is no one pulling the string in this campaigns, could not help to lift up the general mood of a mild resignation.

The failure to galvanize the public around Mousavi owes itself to a simple miscalculation on the part of the key decision makers of the reform movements. The reformist' goal to achieve an artificial excitement, hope, and optimism around their candidates, and election in general, is too far-fetched and is so devoid of any real rationale that it sounds more like a farce than reality. Abtahi in his blog writes very frequently that “we should take the election among the public.” This is a brave admission on his part that the election has nothing to do with the public. “We have to take it to them, it is not enough to campaign and send text messages among ourselves,” is his unconsciously honest description of the political situation in Iran in this election.

Lack of credentials is also a problem for Mousavi. He is not charismatic. His calculating personality, the way he considers himself as an outsider despite his involvement, indeed, in key positions such as the advisor to the president and member of the Expediency Council, and the unexplained unofficial silence during all these twenty years, and his official silence during all those years that he has been prime minister, do not make him look the way his supporter try to make him out. Though the reformists try to enhance his features by attributing to him qualities he does not possess or exaggerate his record and leave out those which might tarnish his characters, he still does not seem to excite anyone.

However, Mousavi's only asset has remained unmentioned, and that is his ordinariness. His supporters should not trouble themselves to make something out of him that he is not. Indeed, it might be a great opportunity for all of us to take advantage of this current political situation, in which none of the candidates has any worthwhile credentials, and free ourselves from the habit of expecting too much of a candidate, and of elections in general. It is also a great chance to stop expecting sudden changes, which is neither rational nor sensible, from one election. In a recent speech, Zahra Rahnavard, Mousavi's wife, who is even more unpopular than her husband, said “God willing, we won't have any political prisoners any more.” I have no idea if she meant to be taken seriously (Nabavi joked,“Which country does Mousavi wants to be the president of? Finland?) or if she wanted to mean anything at all. God bless her, she is a Ph.D. and she should know that such statements should have meaning, that not having political prisoners is not determined by God's will, that God has nothing to do with it. The constitution, the judiciary, SAVAMA, the office of the Supreme Leader and dozens of other institutions who are active in running the country officially and unofficially have more say in that regard than God. Also, God is not running for president, Mousavi is.

In spite of all these blunders, Mousavi is a front runner among the reformists, and the reformists' poll shows him much ahead of Ahmadinejad. Given the circumstances, there is a chance that Mousavi will emerge as a winner in this election. But if that happens at all, fear of four more years of Ahmadinejad aside, it owes itself to the political maturity and wisdom of Iranians, the growth of their political consciousness, and the lessons learned from past experience, and not the flaky campaign of candidate who has not reached even a proximity of anything original. Mousavi's supporters should keep their congratulating cards for a while and rewrite them, addressing them to the Iranian people instead. This election is not Mousavi's, and it has never been. This is our election and our victory, a triumph over the tyranny of the rotten idea of seeking a great man to come as our savior. Surely such a victory deserves a big celebration. Liberation always deserve one.

Honeymoon in Tehran: Two Years Of Love And Danger In Iran

2009-03-28T17:35:00.007-04:00

I keep reading to catch a glimpse of romance, or honeymoon! Oh, cruel Azadeh! Not even a line? But I keep reading. Then, I give up. Forget about the title, lets get to the subtitle “Two Years of Love and Danger in Iran.” Lets look for love first, modern love, it is nice, I'm sure it is somewhere in the Islamic republic. Islamic love?

No there is no trace of love there either, though there is an encounter with a young man, Arash, in Laleh Seddigh's stable. The author is there to “spend some time with” (not to interview!) the “race-car- driver.” Her friend, Nasrine, had invited Arash to meet the author. Well, one might think reading a tabloid about Paris Hilton or Britney Spears; but, no, it is about an experienced journalist from Time and a “race-car- driver” over a guy name Arash. The journalist, Azadeh is even a columnist!
In her first step to this love story we find Laleh, an airheaded, superficial, spoiled rich, selfish, delinquent, self-centered, and ignorant woman who “thinks Nepal is a mountain”, in her way. But our journalist who is, as opposed to the “race-car-driver”, intelligent, deep, sincere, and not at all self-absorbed, manages to win him over. When Laleh appears on the scene in her “silver BMW with her pouty, collagen-enhanced lips and a nose job better than the most wearing a velvety hunting manteau,” it is easy to guess who is the winer in this rivalry.

Later on, based on the information from Wikipedia, I found that Laleh Seddigh, at the age of 28, is the 2006 champion of 1600 GT car racing, she has been awarded an International drivers license to qualify her to race on any circuit in the world. She is qualified for competing in 1800 GT for the coming year, and has a reputation for selecting very sophisticated and complex strategies. At the time of the interview, she was a Ph. D. student and is now a teacher at the Tehran Technical College.) I wonder why our young journalist insists on portraying her so differently? Professionalism aside, she makes the error of trivializing her opponent. What is such a big deal about winning a competition against an air-head?

Going back to the love that is promised in the title, it seems she has sent us on a wild goose chase. If there was any love affair in her real life, there is no trace of it in the book, no, no love, no honeymoon, and no romance. But Tehran is there and Iran too. And danger? Ah, no danger either. But there is something, lets call it fake danger, induced fear, and artificial suspense. Well, at least she does something in this book beyond making a collection of her articles written for Time from 2005 to 2007. Yes, really the book is a collection of previously-written and published articles. I do not intend to get involved in copyright issues, however the reader needs to know that this is not a romance book, and not a memoir per se. And those who review the book should take the trouble at least to check what they read.

In the Author's Note she writes, “I benefited tremendously from knowing in advance that these two years of my life would be transformed into story. I have reconstructed most of the dialogue and events from notes, some more detailed than others. To fill the lacunae in my journal, I have relied on the help and memory of those who shared the experiences with me.” Nowhere in the book is there any reference to the articles written by the author in Time, nor is there any mentioned of this in the bibliography.

Am I the first to notice how scattered this memoir is? Am I the only one to notice that almost all the articles, written for, and published by Time are glued together by some half gossip, and chit chat stories just to created a fake, pale imitation, and Iranian version of Murphy Brown?

Our young journalist employs whatever she can to create excitement, though she fails to arouse genuine curiosity or interest. The pregnancy out of wedlock, living together, and hassles over officiating her marriage, all seem artificial, and all equally without rhyme or reason, purpose or justification. If she wanted to get married, why didn't she do so six months earlier? Or if she wanted to get pregnant, why didn't she do so six months later? Do we know why she should get pregnant in such rush before getting married? Were there any obstacles? Did she not know how to prevent it? Did she not know that she is living in the Islamic Republic? Could she not read the Islamic penal code first to learn that stoning is not applicable in her situation? Or did she just want to do something exciting? More likely the latter, though the whole scheme does not even impress her minder, Mr. X.

The character Mr. X, if real, does not help either. It might excite a few teenagers in California who might think Iran is a month in the Islamic lunar calendar, but those who know Iran a little beyond the articles Azadeh sends to Time or writes in her book, know that there are plenty of Mr Xs in the Islamic Republic. Our dear journalist would not have been that much excited if she would have been in contact with any of the women activists to tell her it is merely routine to receive those intimidating calls and summonses from one of those minders summoning them to one of those spooky places at odd times like ten at night every so often. They would have advised her that she should simply ask for a rescheduling or tell them she should not go by herself.

There are a few other scattered stories, like two chapters on how to find an obstetrician, in the country which has the most sophisticated women-related medicals facilities in the Middle East; another chapter on how to find a pediatrician qualified to vaccinate her son; and another chapter devoted to vaccination, and the advantages of German vaccines over the Iranian ones, and how she brought vaccine from Germany to Iran so her son won't be affected with fever after vaccination. One chapter concerns the inadequacy of the hospitals with talkative nurses and wailing women in labor pain. And of course the repetitive subject of finding contradictions and paradoxes in Iran, which really becomes deadly boring.

Nagging is also extended to other hassles she has to go through. There is er mother's pressure to invite all her friends and family for the wedding reception, to which she responds by first eating ice cream for three consecutive nights at three a.m. and finally ends up with visiting a counceller. Finding someone to make a dress for her without referring to her five months' big belly is a hard chore, to which she finds a good convenient solution by flying to Europe to get one. Choosing the caterer takes another chapter. School programs - private as well as public-are a disaster and takes another chapter. Youth are not spared either. They are not rebellious enough. They are only “concerned with freedom in their immediate ten-foot radius.” However, women are spared; not even a single word about them except in connection to plastic surgery and their vanity in prefering C-Section to normal delivery. And journalists? None of the thousands of people in that field are even mentioned.

But this book is not even about any of these either. This book is about Azadeh Moaveni's view of life, her taste, her liking, her disliking, and her standards in a short part of Azadeh Moaveni's chronicles. It seems that for every two years of her life she is determined to write a book.

I personally do not have anything against those who think too much of themselves and take their whims and likes and dislikes so seriously, particularly if they are women. Honestly if it were not for them, their obsessions and their self involvement, Edith Wharthon, George Eliot, Tolstoy, Flaubert, and many others would not created those fascinating masterpieces. But I'm not reading a novel and she is not a character in fiction. She is like a rowdy child who is spinning around herself, splashing everything, and getting out of control. And I'm like a mother who does not know what else to do and, knowing that eventually she would fall, prays for a safe landing.

She is at the airport, I'm holding my breath, what if something happens, what if she finds out that she is barred from leaving the country. I pray to God for Mr. X not to appear all of a sudden with theRevolutionary Guard to arrest her. I really wish her a good luck in leaving the country and take her dear son to a civilized country, somewhere that she can walk into a drugstore and buy any brand of dipper, shampoo, lotion and baby formula for him, otherwise in two years there will be another book tilted “Kids and Toiletry in the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

It seems God heard my prayer and answered it. She left the country without any surprises. Her book has been published by a no-nonsense publisher, Random House, she was interviewed on NPR for a full forty-five minutes. She has talks here and there in her book reading, and she lectures on various aspects of her observations; however, I have no idea why she has to be so clueless and tone-deaf.

Sign the petition against the medieval persecution of the Bahais

2009-03-02T10:56:00.005-05:00

There is really very little to say about this. Either you believe in freedom of conscience and the right to worship the Deity in accordance with your beliefs, or you're not. Sign here!

Here are some articles to educate yourself:
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/babylonbeyond/2008/05/iran-bahais-rou.html
http://iran.bahai.us/
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1008126.html
http://www.monitor.co.ug/artman/publish/oped/The_persecution_of_Baha_is_in_Iran_must_stop_80705.shtml
http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/meast/05/16/iran.bahais/index.html
http://news.bahai.org/story/341
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2128317632629440784
http://www.metimes.com/International/2008/02/11/dire_situation_for_irans_bahais/2651/
And, for those with the stomach for it, the Islamic Republic's view: http://www.presstv.ir/detail.aspx?id=85798&sectionid=351020101

Saïd Sayrafiezadeh's When Skateboards Will Be Free

2009-03-02T09:40:00.005-05:00

If I would not have known the world Saïd described in his book with plenty of Mahmouds and Marthas and plenty of Saïds emerging from their unions, all awaiting a promised land that would follow a golden revolution, I would have thought this book was pure fiction and in fact a masterpiece of fiction. I would have thought another Antoine de Saint Exupery had written a modern version of The Little Prince.

However knowing what I know, I should say that the book is like nothing on earth, simply a breathtaking epic written brilliantly by a genius.

A young couple on a nice sunny day, strolling along the streets of their town, stumble across a flier promising as paradise of justice and equality. They pick up the flier, subscribe to its publication, and then become members of the party which published them. Very soon they are foot soldiers of an army, marching to spread justice and equality all over. Enchanted by the mission they bear, the young couple becomes immersed in it; and in full excitement, they forget about everything else, including their children. Their three children slip out their hands and roll into the unprotected wilderness that the parents see the need of turning into a paradise.

The youngest one, Saïd, only nine months old, abandoned by his father, clings to his mother, who herself in turn, is abandoned by her husband, detached from whatever tradition she has been familiar with, cleaves to an illusory hope that someday the world would turn into a paradise. It is in the process of his adulthood and maturity that Saïd realizes that not only would the “inevitable revolution” never come, but the hope of its advent is an iron sheet protect his parents, both of them, from perceiving the painful realities of life, as well as reacting to them. The idea of “when the revolution comes, there won't be any pain” relieves them of all parental responsibilities. But, “When will it come mother, the revolution?” he asks. “It will take a little longer,” she replies. “When I become six? or eight? or eleven? or eighteen?” He asks. “Yes eighteen,” she answers, without even recognizing the impatient cry echoed in this inquiry.

Dragged behind his altruistic, self-sacrificing mother, who not only voluntarily denies life from herself, but also from her own son, and longing for a self-assuring heroic father who, like a grand emperor, is constantly away, fighting to bring on the revolution which never arrives, Saïd tries to make sense of the incongruity, incomprehensibility, brutality, abuses, unkindness, and prejudices existing in the world around him all by himself.

Soon he becomes a little soldier himself to help the mother in her crusade, just by wishing for one more copy of The Militant to be sold, one more subscription, one more by-passer to stop by and ask a question, if not give a favorable response. However, he fails to stifle his increasing craving for boycotted grapes or overcome his sleepiness in the back of the room when his mother is talking politics with her comrades.

His absent father, fighting for a noble cause, becomes identified with the cause, and is gradually infused into a more familiar persona associated with the same cause, Che Guevara, has presence in his life in the form of a fading, yellowing photos pinned to the wall above his bed.

In his naive and innocent quest, he is waiting for all to appear in his life, the father, revolution, justice, equality, and a home with functioning toilets. None arrives except the functioning toilets, and even they come fairly late, when he is almost fourteen.

Strange world is the adult life, when a comrade who wants to bring about paradise on earth indulges in child molestation, when a mother who should take care of her child entrusted him to a total stranger so she could be free to protect other victims, when the institution, which is supposed to save the world, sanctions the crime with the excuse that, “Everyone has a problem in capitalism.” And the world is unbearably cruel when the child feels that his father “would judge the same.”

Saïd innocently accepts his father's absence and follows his mother, continues his life, and reaches his destiny. Sometimes he obeys, sometimes he defies, sometimes he avoids, sometimes he circumvents, sometimes he ignores; nevertheless, he never evades trying to make a sense of it all, if not then, sometime in the future. And sure he does it so well.

I have rarely come across anyone who could explain the inexplicable so well, one who sees so deeply the nature of this kind of blind devotion and steadfast zeal towards a promise, just a promise, better than Saïd Sayrafiezadeh. And I have never come across anyone who had come to that realization so patiently and so compassionately as he does. Recalling his memories so vividly, he takes us with an immense generosity to the dark parts of his life, without shame, without guilt, without bitterness, without rage or anger. There is no sense of blame or regret in any of those tales, since he has learned the futility of it in adults deceiving themselves by placing all the responsibility on a “sad missing” point in the history, on a thin line decision, or “if only it had been otherwise.”

His story is the celebration of life, a walk towards liberation with open eyes, embracing freedom, and untangling himself from the vacuous balloons of the false promises tied to him to prevent him from landing safely on the ground, all grand, giant and majestic. The father is a god-like figure above all. It is only in the course of few meetings and one letter he received from him that he turns gradually into a mere bullying brat, best illustrated in the Persian restaurant in the Garment District. He is trying to tell Saïd about the garment industry's history, of which he is ignorant, and when he orders Chardonnay, he does not know it from Red or Rose wine. Yet he knows how to thoroughly maltreat the waitress. And the mother, who has a saint-like self-sacrificing nature, desperately quits her job, Party, and life, all at once, admitting she has failed them all.

And finally, ideas, and the reflections of the giants, Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Castro, that are so faithfully collected into heavy volumes and sacredly placed on bookshelves? He finds out, when he opens them, that they had never been read. Much later, he notices that if there were anything to be learned from them, it was only what was written on their covers!

Free from all the bubbles, our little prince lands safely on the ground. The landscape may not be as green as he had imagined as a child, and skateboards are not free at all, but there is enough beauty to be enjoyed. With exceptional wisdom, he simply lives in the reality of life and looks out for real happiness where he can find it. And he finds it, right in the office of Martha Stewart's Living, where he designs labels for potted plants, and on the rooftop of his apartment building, observing Manhattan skyline.
It is a book that should be read by all, Iranian, non-Iranian, young or old, left or right. Just make sure to read it on a weekend when you have no appointments; it is impossible to put down.

And yes, the author is Iranian. Well, in reality, only half, but so what, let's claim him fully. He is generous enough to let us to have him all. Am I right Saïd?

P.S.: Reading this book, and knowing Saïd's father—I met him only once at our home, but have heard about him a lot—and knowing his generation well enough, I am sure that his ideal writer should be Maxim Gorky and his favorite selected book should be the Gorky's Mother. It is such an irony that his son turned into such a brilliant writer, amazingly brilliant indeed, and writes a book which is a reversing mirror reflection to that of that work. Given that they are only one century apart, I 'm wondering if Gorky was that wrong, or are we the misguided ones, or if the world has changed so much.

The Upcoming Elections in Iran

2009-02-01T01:24:00.003-05:00

Barbara Slavin in her book, Bitter Friends, Bosom Enemies, compared Iranian political system to a square dancing with the supreme leader in the middle and the rest of the people are called by him to come to the middle to take their turn. None are dismissed for good; they stay on the side, since they may become useful later.

How true her observation was then, and how ordinary it sounds now that she made it. Mir Hussein Mousavi, Iran’s prime minister during Iran- Iraq war, was among those staying on sideline waiting to be called back after almost two decades. His being called back surprised many; however, when President Khatami, after a long deliberation on his own nomination for the presidency, and after a visit with the Supreme Leader, announced that “either Mousavi or myself will be a candidate,” all the newspapers and web sites affiliated with the reformists appeared ready to prepare the public for his candidacy for the presidency. I think his announcement today that, “If Mousavi does not come I will come as I have promised,” confirms that Mousavi is our next candidate and very likely our next president.

Mousavi was the last prime minister of the Islamic Republic, before Rafsanjani abolished the office of prime minister and integrated its executive power into the presidency. The rumor has been around that Mousavi did not have a good relationship with Supreme Leader Khamenei, then the president , and his appointment as prime minister took place under the pressure from Imam Khomeini himself.

Apparently Mousavi left office with a good and effective, though very centralized, economic and management record during the reconstruction period; but not such a transparent one regarding other matters, such as his prior involvement with Israel in Iran-Contra arms deal, which is now a matter of public record.

For the last twenty years if anyone heard from him was through his painting exhibits. His wife, Zahra Rahnavard, was more vocal as the head of Al-Zahra University until she was removed from the position just a year ago by Ahmadinejad’s government. Mousavi and his wife’s association with the notorious AMAL organization was not appealing to most Iranians, who are not happy about the Islamic Republic alliances with dubious Middle Eastern groups.

His wall of silence was broken with his interview with the site Kalemeh, just few days after Khatami’s announcement regarding the possibility of his candidacy. In this interview, he sounded as if woken up from hibernation, trying to remember what it was like before he fell asleep. He recalled proudly that he had managed the country with five billion dollars annually, that is one-eight of what is used today. But he did not recall that the dollar was only 400 tomans vs 1100 toman now, and the population was roughly 50 millions vs 75 million now.

He talked vividly about his economy record and very generously attributed his success to the poor, humble, but good hearted peasants and those from the rural and remote parts of the country, the “peasants form Qa'enat, Khorassan, who picked the best of their saffron and send it to his office to be sent to soldiers who were fighting the last stages of war with Iraqis.” The details of his economic expenditures were recalled again and again, and he said, “Nothing would have been possible if not for the good will of the poor and the peasants of the rural areas.”

Mousavi also talked about his economic philosophy rooted in the Islamic economy of the martyrs Motahhari and Beheshti as well as Ayatollah Taleghani’s brilliant thesis (has anybody ever heard of it?), though the practical wisdom of Imam Khomeini prevailed when the legislators wanted to pass a bill adding to the price of cigarettes. “The Imam adamantly opposed to the idea, and they let it go at ordering them to just increase the price of luxury cigarettes,” thus settling the matter.
Interesting was the convenient absence of Bani Sadr from the list of people who had influenced him. (Banisadr, an economist from the Sorbonne, was Iran’s first president and one of the very few close to Imam Khomeini such as Mousavi himself. He has written his Doctorate dissertation on “Eghtesd-e Tohidi,” or monist economics.)

Mousavi talked a lot about the economy of the previous regime (the Pahlavi), saying, “The Fourth Program was not bad, but the Fifth was a total failure.” He spent time comparing them to those of Islamic plans proposed by his idols, Motahhari and Beheshti, and those of himself. Nothing was said about the past twenty years, nothing about the most basics of economics, the role of the private sector, the limits of the government, the oil based economy, foreign investments, the Iranian investments in Gulf countries, centralized economic vs. decentralized economics (particularly Ahmadinejad fake version of it).

It seems that if he wins the election, and I think he will, we will wind up with a one issue president, an economic president.

And with the picture he drew, he should be expected to run a country very similar to the one which he governed some twenty years ago, a country broken and fatigued after years of war, with a population broken morally, psychologically, physically and spiritually, left with no energy to demand anything. Poor, humble, meek, giving, patient, content people from the rural area remain his ideal of citizenship of that visionary country.

The reporter for Kalemeh could have asked a few non-economic questions such as on the constitution, law, education, human rights, woman, elections, freedom of the press, the judiciary, national security, the environment, employment, the independence of the universities, youth programs, sports, police brutality, NGOs, among many others. Alas, it seems that the economy was the overriding issue and even that in its most primitive centralized government-based form. Our future president’s economics vision sounds more suitable for a tribal society with a limited population, a society devoid of a middle class, devoid of urban life, devoid of a sophisticated educated population, devoid of industry, devoid of any opposition, devoid of any diversity. And his notion of development is more of the charity-based economy very similar to Ahmadinejad’s plans, though perhaps a bit more original.

Many of us, the optimists, try to buoy our hopes by making parallels between Iran’s upcoming presidential elections and the one here in the United States. Regretfully the only similarity between them seems be a proper name “Hussein.” Nothing of that brightness, sharpness, strong will, determination, hope, desire for progress, modernism, or creativity is found in Barak’s Iranian counterpart. The difference between this Hussein and that Hussein remains to be “from earth to sky.”

However, in spite of all this, I personally welcome the choice. First, I’m pleased that it is not Khatami who falls into this masquerade of the Islamic Republic election for the second time. Second, we are going to be spared from Ahmadinejad’s vulgar language and his embarrassing demeanor for a while. Third, Mousavi’s candidacy is indicative of desperateness dominating the regime, since neither the Supreme Leader’s nor other ruling clerics are inclined towards him, and it seems this choice is more of a response to external pressure rather than anything else. I very strongly believe that the emphasis on the economy, and Mousavi’s exaggerated record on it, is a cover up for other reasons behind his candidacy, and it is just a tactic to divert the public from it. Finally, consenting to his candidacy, and consequently his presidency, indicates the failure of ayatollahs in imposing their autocratic rule to their heart’s content. Being forced to keep up appearances, and off and on arranging a show of elections, candidacies, campaigns, voting, and change, the ayatollahs reveal their failure more than what they are willing to admit.

Also, I can not resist taking notice of a parallel. The choice of Mousavi reminded me of when the Shah chose Sharif Emami after he delivered that historical speech and admitted that he heard the people’s message. History proved that he had not heard any of the people’s voices and had no intention of real change, otherwise he would have chosen Bakhtiar in the first place. Although I’m not so sure if the ayatollahs would meet the late Shah’s fate so soon, something inside me promises that Mousavi’s fate will be very similar to Sharif Emami’s; he will fail, whatever his mission.

As for us? We should make the best of it. If “electing Mousavi” could get us even few inches ahead by keeping the habit of being present in election, even if it is a fake one, and participate even in an election whose outcome is decided prior to our voting, still we have to grab the opportunity. The country is ours, we have to reclaim it, and we can’t do if we do not have a presence. No, Mousavi is not our man, but “election” and under this circumstance “electing Mousavi” is our only means, not to democracy, but only a little closer to democracy. May God be friendly to us all.

The Palestinians' False Friends

2009-01-19T21:06:00.005-05:00

For three weeks, while Israel’s Air Force continued to demolish so-called Hamas infrastructure and along with it, the lives of innocent civilians who happen to be in the way, and while Hamas, which must have been well aware of its limitations and its capability, declared war firing rockets at the greatest military power in the region , the Islamic Republic of Iran did not remain idle. The newspapers were not short of sympathy for the Palestinians in Gaza, and the ayatollahs seemed to be having the time of their lives. They delivered even more vehemently anti-Zionist speeches and fervently expressed their will to wipe the Israel off the map. Our beloved President Ahmadinejad, too, did not lose the opportunity to raise the Holocaust issue again, the topic so close to his heart that it has become his crusade since his presidency.

After three weeks, the show is over, Israel declared a one-sided ceasefire, meaning it can resume whenever it wants to; Hamas declare victory. And for us Iranians? Let’s see who will start shooting first!

In Tehran, the cradle of support for Palestine and the Palestinians, there was no sign of any spontaneous call for demonstrations and rallies by any of the activist groups, including the universities’ student groups, prior to the call by the government which took place during the third weeks of attack. The report came as some six thousand people gathered to protest Israel’s attack, though the rally turned into an anti-reformist demonstration when a few of the reformists showed up in solidarity with their Moslem brothers in Gaza. The slogan “Death to Israel” changed to “Death to Khatami” and “Death to reform,” indicating that the main target was to express anger against the domestic enemy and villains and Israel’s attack on civilian was merely an excuse, and those who participated in the demonstration were ready and prepared for such a diversion and were accustomed to using Palestinians as just a means for political gain.

My husband and I attended a rally in New York City the day after the first attack. To my surprise, some thousand people gathered along Fifth Avenue. I could see all kinds of people, mostly young, from a wide range of ethnicities, white, black, South Asian, old Commies, and, of course, Palestinians. A few young Israelis with placards reading “Do not kill!” and "Enough Killing in Sderot and Gaza" in Hebrew and a group of Ultra -Orthodox with their banners denouncing the legitimacy of the state of Israel were noticed. However, neither my husband Evan, who has a special talent in finding Iranians anywhere just like a magnet, nor I noticed the presence of any Iranians there. And none of our old friends who were active in solidarity with the Palestinians were present either. We might have missed some of them in the crowd, though one thing we did not miss for sure, was passion. That is hard to find these days in these kinds of events.

On our way back home, I asked him as to the absence of his old comrades at the rally and “the zeal and passion” under my breath. It seemed he did not hear the latter one!

“They gave up.” he said.

“Gave up what? They think the Palestinian do not need further support? Or they are just retired from activism?” I asked, and dropped the passion part.

“Neither one,” he continued “They very likely gave up because of the futility of their action.” (I was right, he had not heard me completely.)

Knowing him, I figured that “futility” was just a euphemism for the same feeling that has barred Iranians from any spontaneous demonstrations like the ones they held in the aftermath of the World Trade Center disaster or the other similar misfortunes, a sense of being abused and being cheated. Of course, we all are concerned when the lives of innocent citizens are jeopardized by any means, intentionally or otherwise; however when the life of the same innocent citizen is used as a means for attaining some political gain and when those innocent citizen, themselves, knowingly gave in to those abusers and call us further to support them and their abusers, I think sympathy gives way to a frustrating sense of humiliation.

It is so unfortunate that the intensity of Israeli’s aggression, and the brutality of its attack on defenseless people has created a situation where there is no room for any reflection other than blaming the aggressor and lamenting the loses. However, the recent ceasefire might be a good opportunity for us as outsiders, as well as the Palestinians to have a fresh look at the situation.

The whole situation in Middle East reminds me of an anecdote I heard once from Rabbi Sammy Barth. Once a college of rabbis made a summit to discuss the wisdom of creation. Was it wise of God to create such a world as it is, full of conflict, pain, and misery? After days of discussion and deliberation, they all unanimously came to the conclusion that, no, it was not so wise of Him to create the would as it was, and that it would have been much better if He had not done it.” Yet, they all decided, now that He has done it and now that the world is the way it is, it is our responsibility to make the best of it. Simple and naive as it might appear, was significant advice then, and always, in my daily encounter with life, political or else.

During the last thirty years which constitute the good part of my adult life, I have been so engulfed in Iranian politics that the turmoil of the rest of the Middle East would have been pushed into an obscure corner had it not been a prime interest of my husband and his friends. Learning a lot about the Palestinians and their cause through the venue they always chose, from the time they threw rocks at soldiers to the present, when they fire rockets at civilians, from the time that they had good friends around the world to the present time, when their old friends are tired and feel abused by their new friends and their political operators such as the Islamic Republic of Iran and its allies and proxies like Hamas and Hezbollah, I see more of them being misguided than having progressed.

We can appeal no end to analysis an analysis of the cause and effect of events, Hamas and Hezbolah as the effect of Israeli’s occupation, thousand of innocent people killed as a result of Israeli’s aggression, Mahmud Abbas’ having been weakened because of his moderation, Arafat’s failure because of his opportunism; we can spice them all by naming Israel whatever we want as we have done for the last forty years. Yet not only has the bloodshed and massacres not stopped, it seems violence has become the norm, and stirring emotions more of an issue than coming up with a remedy.

The cease fire may not be a good opportunity for Palestinians to reflect, though it is a good time for their well-wishers, particularly Iranian activists, to look with open eyes for a remedy rather than stirring emotions. It is a good time, after we lament the disaster, to remind the Palestinians that Hamas never did them any good, that Ahmadinejad and Khamenei do not give a fig for them or their cause; and painful as it might be, they should know that are mainly a political tool used only when they are needed. It might be helpful for them to know that the people of the world have many worries of their own, and with all due respect to their suffering, we ourselves are up to our necks in many miseries. We Iranians, for one, could hardly miss Khavaran’s nameless graves, the mass graves in Yazd and Hamedan and Shiraz and wherever else the regime tried to camouflage the human remains of their victims. We are not much better off than they are, we cannot even do or say anything about our condition without being accused of treason and losing our lives. We cannot have our elected government either before some self-appointed “better, all knowing” leader tells us whom we should elect. Yes, our Palestinian brothers and sisters should know that those who have occupied our homeland can not possibly be their saviour. Indeed we are in the same boat together the only difference is that while we row they just cry. Why don’t they stop crying and join us to row; we might reach a safe shore together, if they mean it at all. Or, just play deaf and continue to lament their fate.

Ayatollahs and the Hurling Shoes

2008-12-20T22:46:00.005-05:00

Yesterday Ayatollah Jennati, on his Friday prayer sermon, praised the Iraqi journalist who had thrown his shoes at President Bush and said, “Those shoes should be retrieved and be placed in a museum.”

In my life time, I recall many political leaders who were not popular with their own people, leaders who were in power and then left office in disgrace. Some were overthrown by military coup, some by popular revolution, some were put on trial in an international tribunal, some were assassinated, some were even voted out of office, some were forced to resign, and some lasted until their term was over. Each of these leaders met their ends with a degree of disgrace, though most of them gradually found a way to live in peace in oblivion.

Among all the these unpopular leaders, President Bush stands out because he is the president of the largest democracy on earth (next to India) and because many events happened during his two terms of presidency which affected the world immensely. When in our recent election he was not even invited to address the crowed in the nomination of his own party, when he did not dare to appear in public to endorse his own party’s standard bearer, when his popularity was ranked the lowest in history and when he was comforted that maybe in the future history would judge him more favorably than his contemporaries (of course if the historian happened to be a neo-con!), still I thought he did not receive what he deserved, until that memorable night when the journalist threw his shoes at him. Honestly, my first reaction was, “I wish he would have thrown his socks.” My sister disagreed, “They would not have reached him.” “They would if they were heavy socks smeared with a little oil or tar or mud.” I was worried that my joy would be ruined if the journalist had to pay a high price for his creativity. I would have felt better if they had been ballet shoes.

What was the intention of the journalist? No one even asked. The motive was crystal clear. Frustration, anger, dismay, and hopelessness were all fit into that famous pair of shoes. Oddly enough, none of us (at least those I talked to, and those people around me) saw any violence in the action and we were all happy that the shoes did not hit the president, and were relieved to find him agile enough to dodge well, and more so that he managed to keep his sense of humor afterward. He placed the action in the category of freedom of expression!

Soon we heard that someone from Saudi Arabia offered ten million dollars for that pair of shoes, and Ayatollah Jennati appraised it as a museum quality piece. I happen to agree with both verdicts though I keep myself arms and legs apart from both of them. I think the Ayatollah would have made the same verdict if the journalist would have thrown a hand grenade, a knife, or a rock at the president; he would have made the same verdict if he would have hurt the president. Obviously the assault charge was not his concern at all, and this kind of violence is immaterial to him and his other fellow-ayatollahs so far as it served their political agenda.

However, my excitement over the shoes was different. I admired the act’s creativity and spontaneity. It was very new and refreshing. When leaders throw garbage at us, I think they deserve to receive something in return.

I also liked the universality of the expression. Though throwing shoes at the president of the United States was something innovative, still throwing something as a mode of expression is very universal, something we all do when we are angry, frustrated, or abused, when we find ourselves in a hopeless situation. However very rarely one receives such an overwhelming positive response by expressing his- or herself in such fashion. Most of the time we are shunned in response.

It was obviously not just a simple universal expression of anger or frustration or disappointment, it was not even the creativity of it, and it was not even the courage which cause so much of ado. There must have been something hidden in this extraction, something else was spat out from the shoes, some wit, some humor or something else. Indeed it was that “something else” which was neither rage nor hate nor despair, wit, humor or any combination thereof which excited so many of us in spite of the hint of violence and rudeness. It was that “something else” which made even the politest, most genteel, most educated, most fair-minded applaud. Really, what was that ‘something else”?

Years ago in an exhibit, along with an ex-boyfriend who had no talent or eyes for the arts, I was dazzled at the famous painting of Chagall’s I and My Village. As it was his habit of challenging me, my ex called it crazy. “Any child can paint like this. What is this green face? Why not all yellow or blue? ” he added. “True," I countered, "Now this is done, anyone could do it as well. But in reality, only one person could have done it, and that was Chagall. He was the only one who did it. As for the color, I’m afraid it cannot be any other color but the one that is there, because he did so. Yes, it could have been yellow or blue if and, only if, he would have made it yellow or blue. The truth of the matter is he made it green.”

Luckily the world is constituted in such a way that our disagreements and our agreements amount to nothing when it comes to the truth. Chagall’s I and My Village withstands the challenges even if the whole world is united against it. His face would stay green and the piece would stay in a museum since it belongs to the museum. It is such an undeniable reality and expresses such truth that no one can dispute it.

The complex phenomenon of “hurling shoes”, unidentified as it is yet, stands as the “intellectual property” of its creator, quite unique to itself. The clip of film is viewed thousands of times all over the world. The president of the United States, dodging twice to avoid the hit, with disbelief in his face, wondering what to make of it all, probably thinking about the bouquet of flowers promised to him by Kanaan Makiya, will go down in history. If the journalist had a weapon and would have assaulted the president, if the journalist have had a chance to ask the most significant question or to make the most disturbing comments, it would not have had that effect of tossing his shoes at him. And, even if in a most democratic fashion the entire people of Iraq would have condemned President Bush for all the destruction he brought to the people of Iraq, it would not have had such an effect. As a matter of fact, those shoes thrown at the President Bush at this stage of the game, when he was leaving office in such disgrace, was such an indispensable closing statement to his presidency that nothing else could have taken its place. The journalist in question could not possibly have done it otherwise, he could not have written more dramatically with his pen, or taken a more dazzling picture with his camera, or have spoken more eloquently into his microphone. That “something else” was there in his shoes, the lowest part of his body, full of dust and dirt, smeared with others’ dirt, covered with the worthless of the worthless, that was the real true color of his feelings, that was the color he chose to paint his canvas; there could not have been any other color, but the color of “hurling shoes.”

And yes it belongs to a museum, just next to I and My Village, if I may dare to suggest. It was as unique, though not as attractive.

P.S. As for Ayatollah Jennati and his generous appraisal, he does not need to trouble himself to retrieve the shoes. Very soon the whole phenomenon, like most of the masterpieces in the world, will be reproduced and fill the markets; he and other ayatollahs, if they wait patiently, will receive their share of “hurling shoes.” Though none will make it into a museum since neither of them is original, the shoes or their targets. Forgeries do not impress anyone.

Obama and the Mash Hassan’s Cows

2008-12-12T19:37:00.001-05:00

perjJust two days ago my dear domestic help, Nancy, while complaining about the hard condition of life and bad economic situation, said:

“Hopefully your Obama will take care of the economy soon.”

“He is not my Obama, he is the

president-elect, and is elected by an overwhelming majority of people,” I responded.

“But I do not trust him.”

“Why not, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know, I just do not trust him. I mean I don’t like him”

Nancy is from Ecuador, a medical school dropout and a poet. The economy has driven her to the United States. But paying for a mortgage and taking care of three generations of single mothers, she really needs a better economy than this.

Being a poet, Nancy seems justified in taking her feelings into account on every issue, including when she goes to the voting booth. It also seems to me her poetic sensibilities would allow her to build her trust upon her likes or dislikes. But I think I have heard enough of

this cliché, “I don’t trust him” from people who did not have the slightest poetic sense to learn that the phrase is used as a euphemism for politically incorrect statements that they could never utter.

But the negative reaction to Obama among some Iranians is not racial, at least for many of them. I’m one of those who believe very strongly that Iranians are not racists. (I may sound a little biased, and as a matter of fact, when it comes to Iran and Iranians, I’m nothing but biased!) I do not have such a great argument in that regard beyond the general definition of racism, our history, and my extensive life experience and, for what it’s worth, my feelings.

Among all the articles on Obama, the most interesting was a very funny satirical poem by Hadi Khorsandi, which to do justice and not ruin his nice work I refrain from translating and

merely summarize.

Mash Hassan comes home after grazing his two cows in the pastor in a jubilant mood, demanding a feast of chicken, rice and eggplant from his wife. He is happy that Obama ‘has come’, meaning he has become elected. His wife jokes, “What does it got to do with you? First he has not ‘come here’, but is in the U.S.A. and second, what he is going to do for us? Does he makes our cows give more milk or will his coming bless our bull with milk? Indeed, the situation would stay the same: ‘The same old door but with a new hinge.’” She goes even further, saying “He is not working for us, as you naively think. He has come to serve that which caused him to come. Don’t get so excited. This black man is not the same black man we knew in tales and legends; he is a black who has come to power with the white’s money, and give him a chance to see how well he will loot and rob. He is another Bush only with a fresh breath! He would add to the grief and mourning of Iraqis and Afghans! And all this Obamania? It is just the Khatami bacteria which has spread.” Poor Mash Hassan, convinced, takes his two cows and return to the pasture.

But why did this poem generate such excitement? Is it really a realistic analysis, as some believed? Does our harsh social and political critic, really think that Mash Hassan (standing in for the Obamaniacs) is so naïve as to expect more milk from their cows after the election? Or do we expect a miracle, such as a lactating bull? Or it is his wife who is so stupid as to not understand that Mash Hassan, with all his simplicity and naïveté, might worry about global warming and other environmental hazards, genetically modified food, offshore drilling, nuclear waste, and the effect of them all on his cows that very soon have to rely on a chemical formula for their food. He might be worried that very soon he will have to play a video of a meadow for his cows so they not forget green and greenery. Limited as his life as might be to his cows’ milk, he might, just might, be concerned about its quality rather than its quantity. Limited as his vision might be to the view of the pasture on which he let his cattle go to graze, he might very well be concerned about its revival and continuation to the next generation of cattle. Mash Hassan might very well be interested in uprooting the entire economic system. He might very well be interested in some changes in the system of social justice, he might even be more interested in a new revolution; but he might, just might, think that the ballot box is not such a good place for all of them, not even a good place to start the revolt.

I really feel sorry for Mash Hassan’s wife’s cynicism. Not only will the bulls not yield milk, but even her cows won’t be helped by Obama to increase their yield!

I am so happy that Mash Hassan and his wife do not constitute the bulk of the citizens in the United States, otherwise Obama would have had a hard time getting elected. (Could you imagine McCain/Palin in the White House? Complete with all the hair styling and accessories?)

But for the Heaven’s sake, why does his wife, in the spirit of modern feminism, not give him a chance to talk? He might say “No dear, Obama is not Bush, he did nothing and said nothing so far to indicate he is like Bush, but he gave the people of the world a hope, just a hope, that they can change the situation if they want to; that if things have been very bad so far, it doesn’t need to stay that way forever. A little hope of ‘Yes we can’ deserves a little happiness.”

I think Mash Hassan, knowing his wife better, is not convinced but is simply resigned. He knows, as the French say, she is a “jamais contente.” He knows she shows her cleverness by finding faults in everything. He knows that it is her way of being avant guard, to be opposed to the general consent, and disagree with whatever every one else, speciall Mash Hassan, finds agreeable. It is a bad habit that she has picked up, from God knows where, to see everything in black and white and not a gray spot to be found. And he knows above all that his wife talks irresponsibly without thinking about the consequences, without thinking about their implications.

I think It was very wise of Mash Hassan to pick up his cows and return to the pasture. I pray for him that in his way up there he finds some mushrooms to eat, instead of he feast he expected from his wife, and I hope he does not forget to keep his reed with him. I hope he finds a fountain somewhere, with a soft mossy rock next to it under a shady tree, a willow tree maybe, so he can sit, gaze at the pure water, and play his heart to his reed, softly and smoothly, and let his wife stay home alone and grump to her heart's content,

Obama's Call

2008-11-01T14:10:00.000-04:00

Just few days left to the election’s D-Day and most likely, almost definitely, Barak Obama will be in the White House in January 2008.

What makes this election an historical event in the United States is not only the contrast in the president’s color with that of his place of residence, but the contrast in tone and climate that this man of color would cast with those of his predecessors in the recent American history.

What heightens this contrast is the exceptional exhibition of vulgarity, superficiality, manipulation, accusation, and lies employed by the Republicans in this race. Joe the Plumber became the symbol of the average American; Joe Six Pack sets the standard for working class Middle America; a hockey mom with a pregnant teenager daughter has become the symbol for the average American women; a vice presidential candidate who acknowledges that her $150,000 wardrobe is just “like lighting and stage props” serves as décor in this race, defining the role of women in politics; chatty talk show hosts and gossip columnists become advisors and consultant to the candidate; and actresses with fancy cloths and make up appear to judge the credentials of a Harvard graduate.

The Republican Party’s defeat is not a mere political defeat or a strategic defeat. It is a cultural change, if I dare say, a cultural revolution. I think it should be a source of pride for all of us that most of us, although not all of us, have reached a level of maturity and wisdom. The defeat of McCain/Palin is the defeat of vulgarity misapprehended as the simplicity of middle America, displayed by Joe Six Pack, the hockey mom, and the Joe the Plumber who joined the bandwagon in last days of campaign, all heading to the graveyard of history, thanks to their ringleader, John McCain.

The coincidence of the economic crisis with the election has brought about many discussions as if we are in the end of some era. If this is the end of Capitalism, Colonialism, American Imperialism, or any other -ism, I do not know. Heaven know it might be the beginning of something called “hegemonyism”. It might be, as one Iranian journalist said a few days ago, a new wave of right-wing populism as opposed to a new emerging wave of leftist populism forming in Third World countries. But I’m sure no one will ever again dare to come forth to run for the presidency of the United States claiming he/she receives his/her mandate from the Joe Six Pack or hockey moms, or establishes his/her policy based on Joe the Plumber’s dreams and demands. These average-simpleton-representatives do not exist any more, or if they exist, they are in the minority and on their way to extinction.

I’m not so sure as how green the future landscape of the country will be, but I’m sure that it is definitely fading where the workers are sitting in front of their TVs drinking six packs, women are always pregnant housewives, teen age girls attending high schools are getting pregnant, $118,000 tax offenders serve as spokesmen of working class people. Instead, I see more colors coming to the picture, brighter shiny eyes, more young energetic people with lots of hope, less fear, and abundant determination, and lots of older men and women adorned by wisdom rather than just the accumulation of years.

I’m sure it won’t be the end of greed; I’m sure there will be many people who want to make millions of dollars overnight; and I’m certain there will be enough people who think the road to riches is the road to happiness. Indeed I’m not equipped to challenge any of them. However, the praise for these ideas, the glamorous portrayal of “rich and happy” would be off the screen for a while. Vulgarity is not going to be pampered, and wisdom will not be displaced with simple repetition.

I’m not sure it won’t be the end of racial hatred, or the religious fanaticism, or monopolizing the God; but for sure we all would find a chance to trust “others” who appear different than us. It would be an opportunity to find out “others” are just the other side of “ourselves.” And it would be a great chance for God as well. He would be given a chance to enjoy democracy, to look upon all of us equally, as He promised us all!

I’m sure we are all going to speak English. Once again the rules of grammar will be in effect. The dictionary will come into use, words will be chosen with care and used according to their agreed upon meanings, and above all, they will be used to heal, to comfort, to sooth, to explain, to clarify, to lead one to the truth, rather than to deceive and misguide, hurt or abuse. The rules of logic, deduction and induction will be brought back into our discourse; manipulation will be left to mothers who want to keep their children out of trouble. Statements coming from the leadership will reveal some ideas, aimed at achieving some purpose, rather than meaningless statements thrown about randomly as darts. Heaven knows our youngsters might be delighted to find out that the president of the country thinks first, evaluates his thought next, appraises them to see if they are doable, and if so by what cost and if the cost worth it, and then comes forth to propose his plan. He might become a model for many.

After eight years of the promotion of illiteracy in the White House, the leaderships of the country will be handed to literate and educated people who speak good English. Both the President and the First Lady will be Harvard graduates and neither of them got there by using his parents and grandparents’ alumni ticket, but through meritorious scholarship. They can deliver speeches with beginning, middle and end with some meaning and significance, rather than a jumble of words, the English version of Ahmadinejad’s speeches. They are able to gather needed information, to argue and to discuss; attend press conferences. They do not need to be reminded through a script written for them before hand, but can listen, think and answer. And astrologers will certainly not decide on the issues in Camp David, and those who make the decisions will be more precise in their aims and reaching their goals than Dick Chaney when shooting birds on his ranch.

I’m sure it is not going to be the end of warmongers in the world, but we are not going to be grist in their mill. (Obama announced that already.) He would leave the bellicose talks of Ahmadinejad as a gift unreturned, rather than paying him in his own coin of war and bombing, a discourse he needs to survive. Serious, determined and confident, he would call for dialogue. It is the Islamic Republic now which is loosing sleep as to what to do. Obama will certainly leave many like Ahmadinejad out of job.

Barring misfortune, pride would replace the embarrassments and humiliation when our president speaks or appears in public. Who was not delighted by his speech in Berlin? Could we imagine a few like that every year? Could we imagine that the president talks to us as if we are not retarded? Could we imagine being treated as if we know where Pakistan is and where Iraq is? Could we imagine not being children, deceived by few empty words? Could we imagine that we are talked to as if we are able to think and decide? How wonderful life would be not to hear McCain’s and Palin’s infantile talks and arguments?

And finally, for four years, hopefully, we are going to be free of belligerent messages to the other nations, we are not going to be a breed apart, but one among many. We might hear the old-fashion talk of peace, since we heard already a call for unity and equality. I hear already a delightful melody coming from not such far distance. Let’s listen, let’s have hope, let’s pray. It looks like our golden opportunity.

Attonement: Keeping Our Agreement

2008-10-17T16:03:00.001-04:00

It was, Kol Nidre, the eve of Yom Kippur 1990. I knew it was a fasting day and the time for atonement. I had never fasted in my life and did not believe in it, but had decided to keep my husband company and minimize my eating to a cup of coffee and toast in the morning. However, there were other problems, such as staying a whole day in synagogue listening to and reading in a language I did not know and listening to alien creeds and prayers to a God who likes some of His children more than others, somehow different from the God I knew, and worst of all repenting from the sins of which I had no idea. Above all, where I was coming from one could not possibly commit sin a whole year around and then repents in one day.

Anyhow, sitting on the pew on the second floor mezzanine, immersed in my thoughts, wondering which one of the my deeds or thoughts or words could have been sins, and gazing at the 600 pages book which we supposedly had to be finish reading by the end of the next day, and thinking about the boredom of the day ahead, I indulged in memory of things passed and my childhood and school days and the feverish hours of Persian language class with occasional charming anecdotes and tales from Saadi’s Golestan or Bustan, or Mowlana’s Masnavi.

Once Moses dreamed of a shepherd who was wandering and, as if talking to himself, addressed God very casually: “Where are you God, so I can sacrifice myself for your sake, where are you that I can put socks on you and comb your hair, at night I could prepare your bed, kiss your hand and rub your feet?” Moses, offended, reminded him of the glory and supremacy of God; and forbade him from conversing with God in such a casual way. Then it is God’s turn to scold Moses. A famous line of this narrative poetry, “You are there to connect people to us, not to disconnect them,” was used commonly to scold those who create distances and draw a line to separate people form each other.

The soft voice of Rabbi Sammy Barth brought me to myself. No, I was not day dreaming and this was not an anecdote from the Masnavi. It was the Rabbi who was narrating this charming tale from a Jewish text. I extended my hand to squeeze my husband’s, which simultaneously moved towards mine. He saw the joy in my heart in my running tears, through his running tears. This anecdote, even with a very explicit reference to Moses, has gone much beyond its ethnicity and became a general tale of Iranian culture's wisdom.

That night, walking home, we talked about this little shared virtue. Still worried for the list of my sins, I thought I might borrow some of my husband’s.

The day after, I joined him in the synagogue a little later. The synagogue was packed; I had to squeeze myself where ever I could find a seat. My husband was not around to guide me through the Hebrew text and show me what page or line is related to the hymns or prayers. However, I felt less awkward. I knew I was not among strangers; we shared some wisdom, if not the “sins”, which was still bothering me.

Nevertheless, it was tedious and difficult to sustain a whole day. When the afternoon session started after a short break, I decided stop staring at the Hebrew text and just read the English translations of meditations. Little by little, the boredom vanished and the feeling of the previous night returned. The ethics and creeds were not much different than what I had learned; it was all the same and to the same points, towards a humane society, towards goodness, towards peace. Not cheating, not harming, not stealing and not killing, no adultery, not bearing the false witness against your neighbor, respecting your parents, worshiping God and avoid idolatry, keeping the Sabbath holy (we all keep some sort of Sabbath) were all what we human beings cherished and valued. (Yes, lying in general seems missing!)

It was towards the end of the evening, when the Rabbi gave his final talk that my worries gave way to an ease. It was then I noticed I’m a sinner just as everyone else. The Rabbi defined “sin” in terms of “breaking commitments”, any commitments including those we make to ourselves without uttering a single word.

It was a relief; I found what I was looking for. No more gaps between us, my husband and I, “we” and “them”; Jews and non-Jews. I won’t be one of the “others” and my husband won’t be thankful not to have been created like me as an “othes”. I was so glad to be sinful, at least virtually. Though I was still puzzled as to why one should repent his/her sins every year and turn to commit them again. To find the answer, I tried to look into the neighboring culture to Judaism, the Iranian’s. Our Mehregan, always in the corner, in October 2nd or 3rd, coinciding with Yom Kippur every few years, might come to some help.

Like almost all Iranian holidays, it has a purely cosmological foundation, it is just the position of the earth to that of the sun. Iranians decided to dedicate this unique cosmological position to an old Yazata Mithra pastoral god who governed agreements and the contracts sealed between the nomads as to the use of pastoral land to graze their cattle’s.

In a nomadic culture when the only resource was the shared pasture, to stay within the boundaries was not only ethical but vital. To break the agreement, thus, was not only unethical but threatened the survival of others, a great violation, and in the language of the time, it was interpreted as a declaration of war.

Mithra, the pastoral god, was the declared guardian and protector of the agreed contracts. Therefore he became the presiding judge over those who broke the contract, and thus the protector of warriors who defend these agreements and fought with those who broke them, and therefore the protector of those who seek and maintain peace, and therefore love and friendship. (I hope this quick chain of title and position would take care of the information we need for the time being. For more information Mithraism by Franz Cumont is useful.)

I found it interesting that our holidays coincide with each other not only time wise, but philosophically as well, both with a great emphasis on commitment and honoring the agreements we make with ourselves and others. They both indeed happen at the beginning of wintertime, just at the threshold of the uncertainty and hazards of the cold season in which any indication of assurance would be appreciated double. It is quite significant that both holidays remind us of any neglected responsibilities and our commitments.

As to the celebration of Mehregan, the religious significance of the holiday has given way to a festivity and celebration. Even with Zoroastrians the celebratory aspect of it overrides its religious aspect overwhelmingly. And equally Yom Kippur, though the religious ritual remains intact, the religious intents and ideas have become less and less paramount and more and more peripheral. I have witnessed Zoroastrians being surprised when learning of the dominant attribute of Mithra as the guardianship of oaths and agreements and the guardianship of love and friendship has come to him only through the chain of connections. The same surprise appeared in the face of my husband when he heard superficiality and irresponsibility is a sin as well as light headedness, and many of this sort.

It might have been the way of life and the virtues we find in secular life which has transformed all the religious rituals into a mere celebration or some practices devoid of real meaning. But nevertheless, it is the deep concept to these holidays which has kept them alive up to this time, even nominally.

It has been years since that memorable Yom Kippur. Many events have happened in our life as well as in the world. As the two of us lived together in life's ups and downs, there is no need for sin to come between to make us closer to each other. There is a deeper sense of life, its meaning and its ideas as a shared treasure which connects us together. And Heaven knows how much of it has come through our reading and discussing together the literature of our cultures and faiths, and the celebration and observances of our holidays together.

Last week at the end of a long fasting day, when he seemed cleaned of all the sins he had committed, I asked him teasingly when he is going to collect new sins. With his usual humor he told me “I can’t even if I wanted to.”

“How come?” I asked

“Our sage Maimonides teaches that it is like immersing in the water to clean myself while holding an unclean animal.”

“Wow! Where did you learn that?”

“Shul,” He said.

“That means the books won’t be splashed all over. The shoes and socks won’t be all over, and dogs won’t lick all our utensils?” I asked.

“That means I keep my agreements and guard it with the price of my life.”

I squeezed his hand and I’m sure he heard the whisper of joy in my heart.

(Dedicated to Rabbi Sammy Barth.)

Why Khatami Should Not Run

2008-09-28T11:54:00.000-04:00

Nay Khatami, Nay!

The recently-activated site Pouyesh is set to campaign for Khatami as president. Almost everyone affiliated with the reform movement has used a wide range of appeals, begging, advising, demanding, mandating, and appealing to duty and responsibility, ethics and morality, national crisis, the safety and security of the Islamic system, and everything possible on earth, to urge him to run.

It seems there is a general consensus in the leadership of the reform movement that Khatami is the most popular of their party in the country and the most qualified for the office of presidency. The reformists assume that his two terms of presidency have made him immune to further scrutiny from the Guardian Council. “To disqualify him would cost the regime a too much,” they reason.

While his friends are absolutely right on their first assumption, on their second assumption they are either too naïve or do not know the Guardian Council. The Guardian Council can disqualify God Himself if they want too without being accountable to any. Shariatmadari in Keyhan (the official voice of the regime) has already declared him disqualified on the basis of various charges including treason, and called him an American agent, all with its famed thuggish and vulgar language which it seems is very popular in the government higher circles. He even boasted bluntly that “many with much lesser and more trivial charges have been disqualified as candidate.” And Shariatmadari is only one of a dozen representatives of the Supreme Leader’s representative!

Recently, Hojjatoleslam Mojtaba Zolnuri, a cleric and the Supreme Leader’s representative in the Revolutionary Guard, in a similar tone, worthy of lowest of low, reduced Khatami to a nothing in his speech at a meeting of Ansar-e Hezbollah. Sadly, Khatami’s friends responded as if they aim to gain seats in heaven as martyrs rather than the office of presidency. Though once more the bitter truth of the Islamic Republic comes to surface; plain and simple, without heart, mind and wisdom, they have successfully reached the realm of, what we call it here, ‘beyond chutzpah!’

As for his popularity, yes, he is the most popular person in the country (of course next to Afshin Ghotbi, if I may say). Of this there I no doubt, nor is there any need to prove it. But is that enough? If I understand Khatami, the public figure we know, he is the first one to be against anyone running for the office on the popularity ticket. His two terms as president stand as a witness: Not only did he never try to be a populist; he never harbored the idea of becoming a hero or savior either. We all remember him quoting from Bertolt Brecht that when Galileo gave in to the Inquisition court and denounced his theory to save his life, his disappointed followers lamented, “Pity us to have a hero like him” and Galileo responded, “Pity you to need a hero.” If nothing else, he was notorious for urging friend and foe alike to take a lead in their lives and not to sit idly, waiting for someone to come.

Many of Khatami’s friends argue that he is the only one who can unify all factions of reformists the way that no other candidate would. Though this might appear as a good reason for his friends to urge him to run, Khatami would be, also, the first person to go against it as well. If we all understand him correctly, his commitment to democracy, even though it takes a back seat to his commitment to Islam, is nothing to remain unnoticed. It is his steadfastness in this regard that reassures me he would not submit to the static and absolute ideas that his followers hold regarding the various institutions of democracy. I think he is wise enough not to believe that the qualities attributed to him, even if proven true, would necessarily be positive or helpful for the advancement of democracy in Iran. In a democratic system the candidate, even sometimes unknown to many, comes into an open competition, with competing ideas and plans, to advocate certain causes. It is in the process of challenge and confrontation and disagreement that the fittest survives and not vice versa. Deciding beforehand that Khatami is the best brings us closer to the democracy of a “life time” presidency rather than the one we are hopeful to have.

And no, I do not have any problem with Khatami getting reelected for a third or even four term, provided that he runs for an election and competes with his opponent regardless of who he might be.

We do not need to have precedents, with or without a lapse, to justify his running for a third term. It is true that Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Margaret Thacher, and François Mitterand are among the examples given, but they were all elected for the third time only after they managed to compete with their opponents and their victory over their opponents was the only factor that gave their term legitimacy. Their third term campaigns were as fresh as their first. None of them won the election on the basis of their past record and their past term’s popularity. Let Khatami run a fair election, let him express his new ideas and his new plans, let him be challenged by his opponents, whomever they may be, and let him win. As it stands, we do not know what to expect from him yet.

Finally, it is the risk factor which is in the mind of his friends. His friends are more likely right to consider him the best qualified candidate and the least risky one among all, though what would we achieve by having our best candidate amongst the army of thugs?

Is Khatami a different person? Is he better equipped now to deal with those “third persons” who were “thorns in his way” during those two terms of his presidency? Is he able to run a country whose police, military forces, judiciary, national security, and, to a large extent, its foreign and interior affairs are all controlled by some other authorities? Is he able to run a country within a system which does not believe in representative government though it calls itself a republic? Is the Guardian Council more cordial? Is the Revolutionary Guard more polite? Are the fundamentalists more civilized? Reading article after article all urging him to run for office, I wonder if his friends are even concerned about why he should run at all. In none of those articles is there any indication as what is expected from him if he becomes president again. Within a corrupt, chaotic, primitive, unaccountable, demagogue, autocratic system, what can a person like Khatami possibly be able to do?

Undoubtedly he is popular enough to win by a reasonable margin if he runs against almost anyone at present time. But emphasizing on winning or losing is just evading the question. The presidency is not just occupying the office. It is about planning, organizing, establishing, producing, achieving, reaching, gathering, forming, and ultimately doing something. Is Khatami able to do anything? I mean, besides talking. (And please do not get me wrong. Talking is very important and Khatami is really good at it, both in style and in content, though at this point that particular skill won’t do us very good, particularly those of us living in Iran, some seventy millions of us.)

I’m sure Khatami’s friends are well aware of his limitations in dealing with those that, for better or worse, he is much closer to, by marriage, by his uniform, and by his faith to go against them; and too distance from them by his politeness, sweetness, civilized nature, and wisdom to be able to cope with them. Eight years was enough time to tell us that what we expected from him won’t ever happen. With all his differences from these people, he won’t turn his back on them as he turned his back to us. Yet, he is obliged to do precisely the opposite if he wants to be an effective president this term, and this is the choice that he will never make.

Truly if Khatami runs for the election, I will vote for him and so will many who believe in voting even if it is not a healthy election, despite my wish that he not run.

My ultimate hope and my wild dream is that Khatami announces that due to the corruption and lack of security and the absence of any guaranty for a fair election, he would refuse to accept the nomination. Also, consistent with all his teachings, I wish he would announce that due to his commitment to democracy, as it is in the nature of democracy, he prefers to pass the torch to another person whom he trusts and he endorses like many other presidents in other democratic countries. The fact that Khatami is popular is not a good justification for asking him to stay in office until he looses his popularity. People’s love and trust for him should be guided into helping the democratic process of the election and to strengthen other democratic institutions. A strong, systematic, healthy and responsible election process is far more essential than occupying the office of the presidency. Let’s give him that high place of the leadership and guidance, let’s make use of his virtues to our advantage rather than wasting it in the presidential office.

Sarah Palin, a Woman's Perspective

2008-09-13T17:41:00.000-04:00

Here is a link to an article I've just posted on iranian.com.

Birthday Card from Carmen and Alireza

2008-08-28T15:29:00.000-04:00

Thanks...!