Azadeh Pourzand

Reminiscence in Soap Water

2012-01-31T23:13:00.010-05:00

A closet actress, she was good at playing a little girl. Maybe in her own imagination, away from the huff and puff of this world, she never really grew up.

The little chubby girl with frizzy hair runs around the house and sings a song, “One day, a Mr. rabbit walked into a dark tiny hole where a mouse lived…” He picks her up, kisses her meaty cheek and takes her for the nightly bath. While sitting on her little pink stool with her feet in the large pink bowl designated for her nightly feet-washing ceremony, she taps on her dad’s shoulder who is busy washing her feet in warm soap water before bed. He looks up with a smile. She asks , “Babyee, will you come to my house when I grow up and get married and wash my feet every night?”

The spoiled little girl that she is waits for a pleasing response. Her dad chuckles while massaging her little chubby feet and says, “You will always be my little angel. But, I won’t be able to wash your feet when you grow up, little princess!” She pulls her foot from his strong hands and screams, “ No, you have to! I order you to! You have to! You must!” Then she starts to cry and calls out her mom, “Mummy, he doesn’t want to wash my feet when I grow up. Go away! I hate you. You don’t love me!”

While drying her feet, he lowers his head and kisses her chubby foot. She kicks his face and says, “No, you don’t love me. You have to come to my house when I grow up and wash my feet if you love me!” She kicks him with his every gesture of love. “Mummy, he doesn’t love me!” she screams.

Her mom walks into the bathroom. “What are you two doing here? Why are you screaming at your dad? Shshshshsh!” her mom says annoyingly.

She starts to cry even more loudly as he takes her in his arms and walks to her bedroom. It is time for a bedtime story. “He doesn’t love me!” the little girl says with a shaky voice while looking at her mom.

Her mom walks closer to them, wipes off the tears from her chubby face and asks, “Why? What happened?”

She begins to cry again and says, “He says that he won’t come to my house to wash my feet when I grow up! He hates me.” Her mom begins to laugh and her father kisses her short frizzy curly hair.

“You are a princess”, he whispered in her ear as she puts her thumb in her mouth while staring at him and commandingly waiting for him to tell her the same old story: “Once upon a time, there was a lonely princess…”

Twenty and some years pass. “You don’t love me anymore!” she whispers into the air while sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at her dirty feet. She smiles…and, little else to report.

He was a Dog

2011-11-13T17:57:00.007-05:00

He was a dog; pure and chaste. He was of the kind who had fallen in love once in his life and had lost that love due to shyness to express his feelings. Some call this quality of his a form of excessive pride. But, I think he is a chaste dog; a chaste dog whose morale is only fragile when it comes to politics. Once upon a time, he was a revolutionary. I do not recall in which place or year. I heard he was hanged once, but survived the execution by a mere coincidence the details of which I do not recall.

Such a handsome dog he is: fit and muscular, as white as a bridal dress of a virgin bride, stainless and with big curious eyes. He rarely barks and if he does, it is a gracious bark; one that has rhythm and commands respect. He looks seemingly indifferent to his immediate environment. But, he observes with the eyes of an eagle. He finds humans excessively boring and finds their ideas outdated and colorless. He especially hates those horrific animals, otherwise called humans, who violently show him affection as they pass by his owner and compliment the owner for her handsome dog. In particular, among the human race, he resents his owner. When his eyes meet hers, he conveys silent hatred and ridicules her when she misunderstands this revengeful glance as a sign of love and affection of the dog for her.

Her former lover called him disturbed. He thinks she was right. They only met once on the sidewalk when her owner was pulling her away from him. They fell in love on sight; or at least this is what he thinks. He thinks she was incredibly smart for detecting his disturbed soul on the spot. In fact, this might have been the reason for why he fell in love with her. Ever since, he embraces his own disturbed soul with pride as this is the only souvenir of that failed love extravaganza; as he calls it.

He does not recall when he was born a dog; he only speculates that it must have been when he faced the misery of his own revolution. He remembers giving a speech to a nation of sorts. He recalls millions of hopeful eyes staring at him in search of their prosperous future. He remembers killing them in the name of some glorious revolution of sorts. And, he remembers long evenings saturated with night letters, clandestine political lovemaking and glorious laughter filled with orgasmic fear of death and execution. He remembers dying and he remembers rising a hero who participated in bloody rebellions against his own revolution. But, nobody ever listened to him anymore.

He became a heroic statue glorified as a patriotic solider who lived and died for his own nation of sorts. And, once a hero, nobody cared about what he had to say anymore. He stood there with his lifeless body to represent death and cruelty in the name of some glorious revolution. They executed thousands in that square in front of his eyes and when he cried his tears rolled over his statue-body. Nobody ever noticed his tears, his screams, his regrets, his self-beatings and self-hatred. They only praised him and eventually when the time came they threw pebbles at his statue. He enjoyed the intolerable pain of the pebbles thrown against his statue-body beyond words. He remembered her say, “you are disturbed!” and he remembered that failed love extravaganza that had yet to happen.

He is not there anymore; wherever that was. He does not know where he is. In fact, the reason he does not escape the miserable life of his owner might be that he has no clue where in this world he is and he is afraid of getting lost; or at least this has been his excuse for staying around in the past years. “Such a handsome dog!” the owner’s neighbor disgustingly compliments him as she walks by.

Perhaps this is the Right Place to Start the Story..

2011-11-10T15:05:00.012-05:00

Perhaps this is the right place to start the story. Right is such a funny word. But, you know what I mean, don’t you? Columbus Circle, New York City, Year 2011. I mean what other setting could be more typically authentic for the story of an Americanized immigrant than midtown Manhattan and its organized chaos? But, my story, this story, has very little to do with New York City. In fact, if anything this story is one of the loss of time and space altogether.

You know, I have lately started to like New York, because it makes me feel the very skin of the person who I feel I have grown to become: a lost exiled immigrant who looks more Americanized than anything else really perhaps. It is not like Washington DC where it gives me the illusion of one day climbing up the ladder of power with the help of my story and growing to become a serious American politician of sorts; a feeling that admittedly used to intoxicate me with one million dreams. It is also not like Cambridge, Massachusetts where I went to Harvard University and where one lives the illusion of being among the few intelligent minds of the world; a feeling that I admittedly embraced for some years. New York makes me feel like a commoner; even worse like an immigrant commoner who is going to have to start from point zero over and over again and never really reach the top or perhaps never really aspiring to reach the top. Now, I know I sound like an elitist woman who tries to resemble the sound of the masses. Don’t ask me why I have this feeling. I just somehow do. It could be the greatness of New York or somehow the invisibility that it grants the people or its particular rhythm. Whatever it is, it is only recently that I have begun to feel the the pulse of this town beating against mine or against millions rather. It is a rough feeling and an irritatingly honest one. It is like a man that does not know romance, but knows love, a man that does not know how to pamper you or rather does not think that pampering you is necessary, but knows how to love you better than all other men in the world or at least that is what you think.

Somehow sitting here today in my formal suit, waiting for work meetings and biting on a large slice of pizza while holding a second slice in my other hand, I feel the way I think I should have felt all these years: numb. I feel numb and therefore liberated. I feel I don’t belong to this place nor to any other place really. One tear drops from my left eye right on my ravaged slice of pizza. I blame it on the wind; the deceiving warm breeze of November that has been procrastinating in turning freezing cold.

I feel full. It is such a warm November day here in the city. I feel sleepy and lazy. I look at a homeless guy who is sleeping across the street and envy him for his deep sleep. It has been now almost a month that I have not been able to really sleep. My sleep has become as light as a feather; that’s only when I actually do fall asleep. Some Chinese woman at the other side of the circle shouts out somebody’s name and for some silly reason I hear her say my name in a Chinese accent. I get up and look around to see which of my long list of shadow-like friends have bumped into me and soon I realize it is the reunion of two Chinese ladies on the other side of the square and their excitement has nothing to do with me.I miss the days when I was certain that I were the center of the universe. I don't remember how and when my bubble burst. It must been hard to wake up from that dream. I do not really recall. Mild Alzheimer, I repeat the mild kind, could be a blessing at times.

Well, in any case, I said to you that I want to tell you some story. But, honestly, I wonder if you are even interested. It could be quite an arbitrary story. It certainly feels so damn irrelevant to where I am sitting as we speak. You must have heard these stories a million times. I mean looking around me here in this town, there must be at least some few million stories like the one that I wish I had the time to tell you. Maybe some other time! But, right now, I am enjoying the invisibility that this city has granted me. I have to run to my meeting. New York is a wonderland, but oh my, I miss Tehran so much. I heard it snowed there today. I wish I could just touch that silky snow of Tehran; this is just me romanticizing the snow that perhaps has already turned grey in the pollution of Tehran. I wonder if my dad was able to feel the snow this time around. It must have sat on his gravestone. I hope he enjoyed the fresh feeling of it. I am late for my meeting.

I am a doorknob.

2011-10-15T22:50:00.005-05:00

I am a doorknob. You don’t take us seriously because we don’t have eyes or ears or the ability to write in your language. And you have learned in your small world of human beings not to notice insignificant objects or even insignificant human beings. It’s funny actually, because were you aware of my presence my life would have been so incredibly boring with your overhyped consciousness.

You see, I am stuck in this door for as long as somehow someone decides to destroy this door and even if this door is destroyed my freedom is not entirely guaranteed as the door could well get thrown away along with its doorknob. But, unlike most of you, freedom has little meaning to me anyways. I am after all here in this world to serve the door. Without it I would have no identity. I even know a few doorknobs who awaited freedom from their tyrannical doors and now they are feeling lonely sitting in a secondhand hardware store waiting for a door or its owner to take them home. I heard from another doorknob friend in this hallway who was at that same secondhand store not too long ago that the life of used doorknobs that have to wait for a new door is, indeed, quite miserable. They apparently miss their old door and could never get over the trauma of this loss. At the same time, they feel quite liberated and feel that they could finally be themselves away from the rules, regulations and expectations of the door. But then the life on the shelves of a secondhand store is also not all that exciting. Yes, there is, of course, more freedom of expression and a sense of community that all the doorknobs on the shelves could enjoy. But, then again, there is always this fear that at any moment any one of them could get picked up and disappear forever.

The first time we all got sold after sitting on the shelves of a hardware store of sorts, we really never said goodbye, because we really did not understand what it was to be taken away for good for the sake of a door. We would see our doorknob friends leave and we also were impatiently and nervously waiting to leave the routine of the shelves. We sort of thought that the world out there must be more exciting than sitting idly on those shelves.

To be fair, co-existence with doors could be quite adventurous and interesting. For instance, I have had the chance to see and hear so much by just simply serving a door of a ... Well, actually, what does it matter which door I serve? Let it remain unknown as I enjoy mysteries. In fact, as a doorknob devoted to my job of separating various artificially built spaces and serving as the connecting object between the two worlds if necessary, I could tell you that there is no need for all mysteries to be revealed. You human beings are somehow obsessed with the idea of creating “mysteries” in your creative minds—that can’t stop imagining scenarios and things— and then you spend days, months, years or perhaps a lifetime trying to reveal the unknowns of this mystery.

While I agree with you that sometimes such curiosity is critical, I think you do too much uncovering of the unknowns and you somehow never seem to stop. After one mystery that eats your soul for some time, you find some other mystery to tackle. And, at the same time[imagine the humble doorknob that I am amusingly chuckling at your humanness right now] you create and hide behind so many mysteries yourself, hoping for nobody in the world or nobody that particularly matters to the story to find out about your mystery. Let me tell you, you are all somehow taking it all too seriously. Let’s be honest, you like this game of chasing after mysterious things and you also enjoy creating secrets that you are either ashamed or scared to reveal or you simply enjoy the mysterious look. Either way, my dear humans, you ought to relax with your divisions of facts and fictions. You are often working against your nature, I have realized. Your nature is to create and live in the grey area and yet you are mostly busy diagnosing your life or others in black and white terms. Let go of these ancestral complexes that you have allowed too deeply into your lives, if I may give you my humble opinion. How unappreciative of me to give advice to my creators and Gods, you might think.

In my years of being a doorknob to this particular door, I have had moments when I have cried or laughed with you. I have been there listening to your worries, private weak, emotional, strong and logical moments when you have thought nobody else is listening to you. Some of you keep thinking that there is a “mystery” out there in the sky named “God” that is watching over you; which well might or might not be true and anyways if you want it to be true it should well be true and if you don’t want it to be true it should well be untrue. But, sometimes I wonder. How could you be so aware of the presence of an at least seemingly physically absent existence (God) when you easily forget about the presence of so many things in your immediate surroundings? You know, you have created us. So, if you think about it, in essence, you are our God. And yet, I see your weakness. Your weakness is your discomfort with who you are and your lack of interest in your routine.

You create things and once they are there you forget about them. You only remember them again when they are absent. Have you ever thought of the doorknob when it has been properly working? Have you ever thought of it other than in moments that you were closing the door shut or opening it wide? Have you ever thought of a doorknob other than the moments when you were, rightfully or otherwise, secretly doing something or trying to sneak into the secret world of another human being? Have you ever thought of the doorknob when it has served no particular purpose for you other than simply being there? Ok, maybe I am asking for too much from you.

There is only one thing that I know, my dears: You are simpler than you think and even the illiterate insignificant doorknob that I am, I could understand your desire for sophisticated facts and certainties. I could tell your own stories to you better than you can imagine, because you are all incredibly interesting characters. Even the most seemingly boring of you has a story that could excite a doorknob that sits at the edge a door and watches all day. Or, perhaps I find it all amusing and story-like as all the restricting facts in your lives appear as unique fictions to me. You are all stories to me. I used to take you more seriously. But, then as your stories impacted me too much emotionally, the door advised me to watch you like I would watch a movie: as fictive characters who come and go and do normal or strange things as their story requires them to. Keep playing the movie, keep playing your roles, keep writing your story. Keep entertaining me!

And now that you read all my ramblings, I give you the unknown fact about me that bothered you all along. I am the doorknob of room 196 at a mental hospital not too far from you. I love my location as where I am (at least on the more private side of the door where one of my two sides is facing) there lives a man who lives his life like a story. Yet, on the other side of this door, the educated doctors, nurses or the worried loved ones of the man that keep appearing and disappearing seem to be too occupied with the world of facts. They keep speculating over the diseases of the man at the better side of this door and try to seek all the one million reasons for his endless misery. But, only I know that he is happy. He is just not in love with facts. Call me a crazy doorknob, but I relate much more with the man at the better side of this door. Whenever you stop seeking facts about him and his diagnosis for the day and shut the door of 196 closed for the evening, he looks at me, chuckles and says, “They all have to relax a bit! Poor things!” And, he apathetically goes on with his story away from the huff and puff of your factually obsessed world.

No offense, I am not insulting you or anything with all of this. In fact, go on with what you are doing. Without you, even the story of room 196 will become too plain and undisputed. Go on with your obsession with facts. After all, it’s who you are. Why change?

A Lonely Ballerina & An Invisible Audience

2011-10-06T11:15:00.010-05:00

I don’t really know much about ballet or anything. But, when I read in the New Yorker yesterday that the New York City Ballet is running the deficit of about five million dollars and that it is not doing too well, somehow I felt sad. As I read along, I realized one of the main problems is that that people now prefer to watch even ballet performances online. Talking to my mom, I told her about the situation of the New York City Ballet and quizzed her on why she thinks this prominent dance company is struggling. She looked at me teasingly and said, “Cause of the Internet, silly!” And, that was when I was struck by the reality that we sometimes falsely think only belongs to our generation. Even my mom, who is at least four generation older than me, has come to comprehend the power of the Internet and is well aware of its implications for the imminent future.

She said, “One day the world will truly experience how much the Internet and its accessories have changed the world. But, then it will be too late. By then, the life we lived in the absence of this phenomenon will feel like the times of the dinosaurs!” Her words made me think about the ways older generations have been literally attacked by the force of the Internet. She said, “Sometimes I feel I am fighting in a war against what you people call the digital world.” I miss the old world, you know. You and especially the younger generations might never understand the beauty of not having immediate access to information or how it was to wait anxiously for two months to receive a letter from your brother who had immigrated to London.” She continued, “Yes, life might have been harder in your perspective. But, in my perspective, it had more meaning. Life would take its own course without any rush. We could not afford to be impatient for results. We had to wait. We had learned how to go on with our life while waiting. We were involved in the process. Your generation is not.”

While listening to her, I thought of a ballerina who, one day not too far into the future, might have to dance in solitude in front of an auditorium that is absolutely empty of audience and a small camera that broadcasts her performance live to millions of people throughout the world. A sad image perhaps or rather just a different one? Or, it could well be just a world with a conspicuously different façade and yet an enormously similar one to what our parents experienced.

As I was thinking about all of this, my mom said, “When you were gone last year, I learned how to send text messages and despite what you made it sound it is quite easy to send SMS. But, now I want you to teach me how to update my website. I am sure it’s easier than what I think! I don’t like to rely on you guys anymore who are too busy to help me, anyway.” She paused because she had received a message on Google Talk from a colleague in Iran and began to chat with him. Amused by the scene, I sent her a text message as she was sitting in front of me and chatting. My text message read,“You are a champion :-)” She replied to me with a text message while also chatting, “How do you insert that happy face?”

And, so has our world transformed, I guess: A lonely ballerina in an empty auditorium full of invisible eyes and a lady with grey hair who is eagerly and stubbornly learning the art of the invisibility of presence so that she could also blend in this strangely absent audience...

“And so it is. Life goes easy on me most of the time…”

2011-10-02T09:21:00.017-05:00

It has been a while that I have not written here. I don’t know why and how, but after Dad’s death I went more into my own shell and I began to prefer my personal journal more than this public space in the past couple of months. I mean the first few weeks I spoke out just because I felt I had to spread his words to all those who cared about him all throughout the world. But, then, somehow I was hit by the strong desire to go into a seemingly heavy silence. But, really, I was not and am not all that silent. So much is happening on my mind. It feels like a movie played on rewind. I had never thought of any story from the end really. Usually I had thought of the end for the sake of an end. I thought “the end” is simply there in every story and every movie to announce the end of it all. I never thought of it as just the beginning and just as fundamental as the marked beginning of the tale. Nowadays, I have started to realize that beginnings would really perhaps be meaningless without this horrific end that we all escape so hurriedly and fearfully. In my story, the end, despite its ugly looks, is not all that horrific somehow anymore. In my Dad’s death I faced “the end”, in its absolute sense, for the very first time in my life and to my surprise this so-called end injected an incredible doze of energy for life into my bloodstreams. I even feel high sometimes. High on life…So incredibly restless to live life and to observe and listen to the not so obvious noises and sounds of this world more than before. I am writing from the end to the beginning in my solitude and living every second of this story of ours in rewind. And, like you always wished for me, Dad, life goes easy on me, most of the time. And, our fairy tale is more eager than ever to be told.

The Imminent Nightmare of Dictatorships

2011-06-25T15:03:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time when superior voices were the sole voices in the world it was essential to focus merely on objectivity. Facts were viewed as the foundation of speech as reality was constructed with the objective observations of the voices that had access to tribunes of sorts. While the reign of the superior voices in the world remains, the subaltern voices that were denied narration and expression of thoughts for as long as history recalls are to slowly discover small cracks in the tall walls built by the façade of those who exert power through their loud voices and emphasis on artificially designed facts that set the foundation for objectivity.

What is happening in this tragically fantastic era of information is beyond the imagination of all those who forcefully not only reigned territories but also ruthlessly constructed objectivity for their people; an objectivity deviation from which is considered an unforgettable sin. Thus, while on the surface the age of information might seem to help those hungry to oppress others and define the mindset and thinking of millions below them, it will prove to grow as oppression’s most vicious enemy of all times.

In the era of information, it will become increasingly difficult for any one human being to impose their definitions of objectivity and factual construction of History on others. Through the small horizons that this fantasy-like era of information and vigorous age of cyber communications have created, all those opinions, thoughts, stories and narrations of history that have been shut down for the sake of a divine objectiveness and the protection of the reign of superior voices will finally have a chance to flow beyond the minds of the forgotten humans. It is through the chaos of voices challenging one another’s versions of history and objective facts that the constructed reality will become more blurry than ever. It is in this grey and blurry sphere of reality that previously unheard and oppressed voices could begin to share their stories and facts.

Given my passion and involvement in the realm of politics, human rights and the struggle for freedom of speech , I see the indefinite possibility that the fast growing era of information overload could present to the citizens of the world who strive to speak their mind. I see this silent information revolution as a force that, if spreads sufficiently wide and used effectively, will alter not only the way information is conveyed, but also the nature of information. The information flow that has been historically top-down will be challenged by the streams of information that will enter the debate and even the strongest censorship engines could not ultimately block the escalation of voices that simultaneously narrate bits and pieces of their personal stories and opinions. It is these interconnected bits and pieces of fragmented voices that, in this era of information, will create an altered scenario of history and of current events. And, this phenomenon, is—and if not is, it should be—the most terrifying nightmare of dictatorial and oppressive authorities throughout the world.

While it is difficult to disregard the ways in which the current oppressive governments utilize the information technological advancements to strengthen their censorship and repressive engines, ultimately no one individual, authority or government could battle the unstoppable force of information in today’s world. Looking at the political upheavals and movements that took place in Iran in 2009(the Green Movement), the Revolution 2.0 of Egypt and the recent happenings in the rest of the Middle East the relentless wonders of internet technology and information sharing become cinematically clear. The era of information that facilitates ways of communication and mobilization that was beyond imagination even until a few years ago is now shaking the foundation of those political establishments that aim to forcefully rule over millions.

Furthermore, these information technological facilities are slowly reworking the ideals and nature of leadership and followership in political arenas. With the current dynamic information sharing and technologically advanced cyber spaces for communication, leadership will—and has to an extent—transcends its original definition of central authority and spreads to the bottom of the society where the voiceless are silenced. The trend of information technological advancements will ultimately reach those who deserve political and social change more than anybody else—those who have been innocently subjected to systematic violence and oppression—and they will collectively lead movements in search of justice. As such, slowly the idea of a single token leadership will dissolve and instead collective leadership trends will evolve.

In other words, the superior voice has historically constructed reality based on its very fears of falling and its desires to oppress the subaltern voices. Thus, I use the analogy of photography for the construction of nations’ collective history crafted by statesmen and stateswomen who have often successfully neglected the narratives of those who were denied the right to speech. As the semiologist, Ronald Barthes, famously introduced an innovative discourse on the meaning of photography by calling photography as medium that depicts reality, political history of peoples have been written as a way to portray a version of reality crafted, spread and praised by those on power.

Thinking carefully about the theory of Barthes on photography as a medium which portrays reality that once has been and his argument about photos not as once real experiences but as constructions, I conclude the following: Just as photographers are able to construct a reality through their camera lens, statesmen and politicians—in particular in dictatorial governments— have been able to construct a reality for their people deviation from which would have grand consequences. However, imagine if the number of photographers of one incident and one event multiplies by the second, soon there will be thousands of photographers capturing one scene. And, all these photographers will construct their version of reality and will instantly share it with millions throughout the world. It is then the multitude of realities taken from one scene that will evolve to become a story and ultimately history. This is simply how the era of information technology will victoriously defeat even the most sophisticated censorship empires such as China. No matter how much the fearful statesmen and stateswomen of oppressive governments try to construct reality and history on their own accounts, the number of cameras, citizen journalists and ordinary observes who have instantaneous access to millions throughout the world will increase even further thereby obstructing the imposition of one artificial reality upon millions.

This, I believe, will be the nightmare of dictatorial governments and my dream for the future of a world that is fast embracing the new possibilities of information technological advancements.

Note 1: This short essay indirectly relies on the ideas of postmodernism, post-colonialism, the literature of social movements and the theory of Roland Barthes on photography.

Note 2: I initially wrote this paper as part of an assignment for Nyenrode Business University IMBA program.

What I will Hang to the Wall of My Room till the Day I Live

2011-05-02T09:43:00.005-05:00

A cartoon dedicated to my father, Siamak Pourzand, by the most prominent young cartoonist of Iran(my dear Mana Neyestani)published in Radio Zamaneh website. He has named it "Salvation".

Suicide

2011-05-01T09:09:00.004-05:00

The last photo that I have of you...

Really? You threw yourself off the same window by which you stood everyday to imagine us come home to you? When I came to visit you for that short trip that was monitored by the intelligence service five years ago, you held my hand, took me to this same window, showed me an elementary school that was across the street and told me,” It’s a girl’s elementary school. Do you hear them play in the yard with their white scarves? My little Azadeh is still among them. You are still there, playing in the yard. I wake up every day and listen to their morning ceremony while imagining my little butterfly, Azi, among them.” Then, we both were silent and watching them play and scream in the yard. Then, you made me promise you to one day bring a baby to this world just will look just like me. You promised me to stay alive for as long as I get into Harvard, write our story and to start a beautiful family and bring a little cute grandchild to come and play with you so that you are not bored of solitude and house arrest anymore. Then, we started to laugh and I said, “Daddy, I will call my son Siamak.” And we both smiled. Then you said, “But now it’s too early to think about these things. I just want you to know that I cannot wait to see Ms. Azadeh’s little child one day and till that day, god willing, I will keep myself healthy until we reunite.

What happened, Siamak Pourzand? You promised me to wait at that same balcony. And then you could not wait anymore. I don’t blame you not even for one second. You had all the rights to seek freedom this way. Just know that the thought of your shattered head on that ground, your beautiful smile and all the things you have ever told me are both making me stay strong and die a hard death every second right now.

I heard you grabbed onto the edge of the balcony for a second before finally letting go. Is it because you were regretting having jumped down the balcony? Or is it because for a second, you thought you heard me knocking on the door? The thought of you holding on to the edge of that balcony for a second before you let death take over is killing me, like a sharp thorn it is penetrating my eyes.

I miss you so much, Dad. I have been missing you for years. But, at least I could pick up the phone and hear your voice every day. But now what? Who is going to call me and leave those silly and funny messages for me every day? Who? Are you really gone? I cannot believe it. Did this really happen? Did you really throw yourself off that window? What went through your mind when you threw yourself off the 6th floor and floated in the air until that damn moment when you let the earth kiss your head? Did you think of us? Did you send me a goodbye kiss? I think I felt something on my cheek some time that night. Was it you? Was it? Tell me it was.

Death in the Streets of Utrecht

2011-04-29T20:24:00.015-05:00

A letter to my beloved father, Siamak Pourzand, whose precious heart stopped beating in Tehran tonight in a torturous solitude imposed on him by the current rulers of Iran.

Your nightmare comes true when you are sitting at a café with your friend, enjoying your drink on a sunny day in Utrecht when your phone rings, you pick up, you hear your sister sobbing and screaming, “Dad is now finally free. He is not in their hands anymore. He died, my love.” You scream, cry, the world spins around your head. Your friend watches you in disbelief. All of a sudden a beautiful country like the Netherlands becomes hell. You die. You close your eyes, hold your head in your hands and wish to die. But you stay alive, because you turn into his "legacy". All of a sudden you gain strength, you open your eyes, look at the world with courage and decide to never let him die. You begin to shake and sob. Your mind begins to race. Years turn into seconds and your life with him begins to march in front of your eyes like a chaotic movie. And this is how it all ends: on a lazy sunny afternoon in Utrecht.

I am filled with hatred, with anger, with the exhausting desire to avenge. But, I know I will not avenge. It is not in our blood to do to them and their families what they do to us. Or, maybe I say that the desire to avenge is not in my blood to comfort my being helpless. I could only watch him suffer. In fact, I was not even granted the right to watch him suffer. I had to imagine him suffer. This was all I was permitted to do in the name of Allah. Oh, Allah, if only you are as cruel as they make you be…

I do not even know where his dead body is lying tonight. Sitting in a forest in the Netherlands, wanting to go to Iran to at least hold his fragile dead body and hearing my family and friends forbid me to go to Iran. They say that I will not get the chance to even hold his dead body. Apparently, holding your father's dead body is also against the Islamic revolutionary values.

And this is how Planet Earth proceeds.This will be the first night without me thinking of him before going to bed. I wish my insomnia could bring life back to his eyes. But he is gone. Forever and ever. I recorded his voice for 20 hours on the phone three years ago. He told me the story of his childhood and youth. I will push the play button, let his words and his voice comfort my disturbed soul and let him put me to bed like he did with his lullabies every single night for years.

I love you dad. You will never die. You are a part of me. They were able to finally kill you. But I will keep your legacy alive in this world. It is the most important promise I have ever made in my life. You will live. I promise. You will live more than ever.

I cannot stop my tears. But I know you will finally fly to me tonight and wipe off my tears with your invisible hands; just like 5 years ago when the Islamic Republic let me come and see you for 10 days. Remember how that first night I put my head on your lap and you patted me all night when I cried away all the years of having had you in their hands and secret prisons? You knew and I knew that this was the last time we were seeing each other. But, we pretended that things will change. They never did. But now things will change. Now you will finally fly to me.

I will never forget what they did to you. I will never forget how they tortured you with their disgusting hands. This is a promise! I will not let the world forget.

Discrete Acts of the Same Play

2011-04-19T07:06:00.008-05:00

Thinking about the US and China, I imagine a strange digital future when the young generation has grown old in the midst of a lifetime of an invisible war. I envision our children hurriedly learning Mandarin and watching China and its emerging market allies becoming greater by the day. I see the term “human rights” losing its face; as, to an extent, it has today. I see “development” and “economic stability” replacing the vacant space of human rights debates. I see huge commercial buildings built on the wounds and dead bodies of thousands and millions of those whose lives were neglected by governments, militaries, tribes and others. I see many remaining silent while watching life growing out of the skeletons of the forgotten voices of the past who died in some war, revolution, battle, natural disaster or simply for the sake of having spoken out against the injustice of some hegemon.

As I see it, while the world of the future might appear radically different, the basic reality of that world will not even remotely differ from the reality we face today. The only distinctive factor of this new play will be a new orchestrator whose very preferences, culture and ambitions will consequently shift of the rules of the game.

I used to sit through policy classes at the Kennedy School and listen carefully to professors, ambassadors and diplomats tell us about the difficult, yet possible, tango of US and China. However, after having watched the economy of the US literally decay in a matter of a few years, seeing the worried faces of many Americans, hearing the amenable words of American diplomats with respect to the rise of China and other emerging markets, reading about the failed circumstances in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, I have finally decided that there will be no tough tango to dance for the US for much longer. I have come to terms with the fact my dear second home, US, is indeed retiring from its supremacy.

American officials are simply scared of these new world developments and their way of coping with it is to, at least diplomatically, embrace the China that is rising and the rest of the emerging world that is gaining strength. The US is simply relying on the premise of interdependence of states and hopes to somehow save its supremacy in the lags forming in today’s global political and economic limbos. American officials are not the only ones who fear their gradual loss of supremacy. While many throughout the world are celebrating the decay of the glamour of the US, there remain a notable population of the world who do not see the world becoming a better place in the absence of the supremacy of the US.

At this point, only a few would defend the wrongdoings of the US in various parts of the world. The world is dancing with the fever of anti-American sentiments and awaiting the fall of the great empire. What the growing anti-American world seems to tragically forget is that, with a few exceptions, the US has proceeded in interventions and wars or has decidedly neglected the occurrence of mass violence and genocides with the support of other nations, governments, entities and prominent individuals throughout the world. What the dancing anti-Americans seem to forget is that for as long as this planet has been spinning around itself, there has been an unjust hegemon of sorts imposing its supremacy on the essentially ungovernable anarchy of the globe.

Thus, whether it is the Roman, Ottoman, Persian Empire, the US or China, the world will remain an unjust place in the hands of a few. Nevertheless, as existentialist of a claim as this may sound, we ought to work hard and speak out against injustice with anticipation for the day that world order could bring justice and peace to all. There cannot be any harm in dreaming and working for the sake of a collective dream—even if fictive— coming about in our world.

There is, however, harm in forgetting the perils of a rising power, such as today’s China, and simply glorifying its promising future against the current ostracized super power (US). Not too long ago when the US was on the rise, many neglected the possible threats of its supremacy for the world and excitedly lived through the booming days of the American fever. Now that, like any empire, the world has lost its fervor for the US, we are all busy trying to find another nation to carelessly glorify and praise. It would have been a dream come true if we could reflect on the beauties and perils of the old and rising empires rather than naively seeking a god in them to praise in the midst of their aspirations to reign.

If China rises to the top, its destiny will be strangely similar to that of the US. Then again, this seems to be the fate of all empires. We only like to deceive ourselves in thinking the world will be a dramatically better one in the absence of an old empire and with the rise of a new one. We simply enjoy discrete acts of the same play!

The Shifting Reality of a Generation

2011-04-13T08:08:00.012-05:00

Remember those tragic days when in the aftermath of the allegedly fraudulent presidential elections (June 2009) the streets of Tehran were filled with protestors, oppression and blood? Remember how proud—and yet sad—we all were as the world was watching Iranian youth making history? I remember how I was weeping for Neda, Sohrab and all those beautiful Iranians who lost their lives and freedom as the consequence of demanding rule of law and justice. Simultaneously, I was feeling extremely proud as the entire world was praising Iranians, their peaceful efforts for change and their vision for a better Iran.

Some time has passed, the oppression remained, the brave souls that are either sleeping underneath their gravestones or suffocating in the worsening claustrophobia of prisons in Iran all remain, the quest for change remains and so does the courage of a nation. What has not remained, however, is the world’s attention on Iranian youth and their peaceful street protests.

The world is now busy with the Arab world as a new era—with all its excitement and fragility—has, arguably, unfolded. History has happened in the Arab world; a region where a few ever thought could explode with the screaming voices of freedom. Those Arab dictators who seemed as permanent as the pyramids of ancient Egypt evaporated in a matter of days. And the world’s attention, rightfully, shifted to Tahrir Square instead of the 7-Tir Square or all those other squares in Iran where people had gathered in summer 2009 and beyond. All of a sudden the entire world was astonished by the magic of the Tunisian vendor whose act of suicide became the beginning of an era for not only his country but the entire region, the powerful battle and priceless tears of Wael Ghonim and his Revolution 2.0, the Yemeni, Syrian, Saudi protestors, the Libyan rebels and Gaddafi’s pathetic comments.

We, Iranians, too, watched the Arab world standup for a better future with admiration and hope for their victory. We felt united with them in their battle. They, sometimes, told the media that they look up to Iranian youth who, in some ways, started such a peaceful movement in the region. We took their compliments with pride and celebrated their victory like it was ours.

As such, the story of Arab revolutions hurriedly went from one chapter to another. Now, we are at a chapter where the world is perhaps over the initial shock and awe. Now, western countries and others are contemplating over the future of the Arab world and discuss the prospects of religious—but not theocratic—democratic Arab governments. Some mention Turkey and Indonesia as examples for future Arab democracies where religion is arguably respected but not the main ruler of the country. Many critics say that, thankfully, the Iranian model of the Islamic Republic is not popular among those Arabs whose protests and activism brought this new era into existence. Others worry that, in practice, hardliner Islamic governments might be the eventual result of the new Arab governments. In the meantime, the Iranian government has taken the opportunity to congratulate the Arab world for having overthrown secular tyrannies and has welcomed them to the new stage where Islamic principles are going to rule over the affairs of the region.

And we, those Iranians who wish to see a better future for our beloved country, have been watching the world turn to the Arab world with bittersweet feelings. We understand that given the historic events that have happened in that part of the world, it is only natural for the world to shift its attention to the Arab world. Nevertheless, we cannot help but to worry about our own country and its future. Even though the Arab world might be singing happy songs in celebrating its victory, not much has changed in Iran neither does it seem to change any time soon. We worry that, yet again, Iran has become the means to an end in the midst of geopolitical affairs. We worry that our Neda, Sohrab and all those who suffered/are suffering in the prisons of Iran because of their public quest for change are going to be erased from the pages of western newspapers and magazines. We worry that the world is going to forget about our quest for freedom. We worry that we are left behind in this wave of Revolution 2.0; the very Revolution 2.0 that we ignited in summer 2009.

As an Iranian youth living abroad, I find myself preoccupied with many questions everyday: What should we do to at least keep the discussions and concerns about Iran’s future alive in the international community? What should we, as Iranians abroad, do to demonstrate our support for those in Iran while respecting their strategies and decisions as to how the movement is going to evolve? What should we learn from the Arab world and their strategies? Should we compare ourselves with them or should we continue with our historic “Persians are different” slogans? Should we frown upon the world for gradually disregarding Iran’s democratic movement or should we remain patient and help the world understand our quests?

Last week, I had the chance to have coffee in downtown Amsterdam with an amazing older lady who used to be in a high position at the UN for over two decades. I asked her, “What do you think we should do as Iranians? You know, it has been so bittersweet to watch the Arabs succeed in the past few months. What would you do if you were, say, me?” She smiled calmly and said, “My daughter, you have to remain patient and not lose hope. More importantly, realize that this is not your battle. This is the battle of all your friends who are still in Iran. You are only here to support them. And as for the Arab world, follow the events in those countries as if they are happening in your country. Read, listen, analyze and learn. They learned from Iranians. Now, it’s Iranians' turn to let the Arab world inspire them.”

I think, I agree with her. Let us not be angry with the world. Let us also leave aside our historic bitter feelings about the Arab world and let us feel united with all those Arab youth who were staring at their TV screens and watching our beautiful Neda die so tragically for the sake of a better Iran. They cried with us when her face was covered with blood and death took over her youthful body. They were inspired by Neda’s courage, beauty, innocence, persistence and vision for the future of Iran. Let us be inspired by them.

Another Time Another Life

2011-04-11T08:48:00.005-05:00

It has been quite some time that I have not written here. Unlike other times, this time my absence here was quite intentional. Even though I have been busy with studies and my research projects that help me to financially survive, I still did have the time to write. I just did not want to write publicly for some time. I needed time to talk and write to myself. I know maybe that is what lunatics do. But, lunatics also know the taste of life more than all of us so-called “sane” people!

The end of last summer I decided to take on a unique opportunity that accidently came my way through an inspiring and kind professor and to move to the Netherlands for one year to pursue a degree in MBA at a rather remote business university; Nyenrode Business University. The first time I was ever introduced to this university was when I was working on a project for the World Bank through which I, along with a team, organized a roundtable here at this university. I remember that every first time when I went through the gate of this university that looks more like a park than a university, and saw an old cute castle on my way to the main building. I felt I was in a place far away from everything that was bringing me down in the US. And somehow I felt I will come back to this place. And I did!

Like all dreams that when come true lose some of their original power, this school, too, became real and less dream-like when I began this MBA program here last September. I did not like the classes, did not understand anything of courses like Accounting and Finance. I began to miss my life at Harvard and my dear life in the US. Also, being in Europe somehow made me even more nostalgic for Iran. Since growing up in Iran in a modern secular family, you are exposed to the European life style and cultures more than anything. I began to really feel closer to home here in the Netherlands. Things here seemed closer to the life of my parents in Iran and the life that they always wanted us to have. I know this sounds strange for a lot of you, because you might be thinking it is rather irrelevant for somebody to make a connection between their life in Iran and the Netherlands. But, well, all I could tell you is that in some peculiar way there are some cultural connections between the social and cultural class that I come from in Iran and this place!

After a few months, I began to rediscover myself here in the Netherlands and at Nyenrode. I made a few exceptionally amazing friends and I remembered my purpose of being here: It was not to really become a businesswoman all of a sudden. It was more to escape from my North American life for a while, to reflect on the past ten years of immigration that were rather hectic, unexpected and emotionally filled with ups and downs. And, of course, I was excited to be exposed to something absolutely new which was the world of business.

Once I was able to really think through my original purpose of flying to Nyenrode like a bird escaping from the cold of the East Coast of the US, I felt more at peace with myself and my life here. I began to really take joy in every moment of it as I realize this might have been the first time in my life I decided to have one year only to myself! I do not know how I gathered the courage to take off like this. But, I did! And, despite the emotional merry-go-round on which I sometimes find myself here, it is a truly joyous feeling to look around you and realize that things have happened this way because you wanted them to happen this way. This experience has, in many ways, empowered me and made me realize the beauty of making my own decisions rather than always cautiously and conservatively doing what everybody thinks I should I be doing or always trying to find the logic in my next steps. Sometimes, it is nice to let logic adapt itself and rigid rules to your needs and wishes!

Anyways, to make the long story short, here I am still at Nyenrode living next to a castle filled with pretty plants and animals in the middle of nowhere in the Netherlands. To my disbelief, it has already been six months that I have been here and I will be here for another six months before moving on to the full-time working life. Even though this place has lost its dream effects, it has turned into one of the most real experiences of my life. It is the time that, for once, Azadeh is being herself every hour of everyday.

I still have so many fears of letting go of the past, of my beautiful memories of Iran, my wounds of the very bitter destiny of my father and mother imposed on them by the Islamic Republic of Iran, my adventurous memories of the US. But, I believe I will somehow manage to make something out of those rich past experiences in the near future. Being away for some time has helped me see things from a different perspective. And this altered perspective—whatever it may be—has made me feel more alive and powerful. It has awakened the Azadeh in me that I had put to sleep during the tough years of exile in the US in order to feel numb and to survive. But, now, I feel ready to live beyond just the principle of survival. Now, I am ready to feel life and not just to go through it like a train that is rushing to be on time at the next stop. Now, I feel I am a scatterbrained and careless person who is not in a rush to get anywhere very fast and who could easily get distracted by the people and the little ladybugs on her way to wherever it may be; the Azadeh that I used to be…the old Azadeh that used to be passionate about the journeys brought to her by life and not so focused on the destination.

Now, I feel I want to sometimes write here again and to share arbitrary pieces of my life as it unfolds!

At the Heart of Ground Zero

2010-08-24T14:17:00.003-05:00

by AZADEH POURZAND
Tehran Bureau,PBS FRONTLINE

20 AUG 2010 19:1426 Comments

[ comment ] America is currently embroiled in an intense debate over the building of an Islamic cultural center, including a mosque, close to Manhattan's Ground Zero, where 2,752 people were murdered in the destruction of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. As an Iranian American of Muslim faith, I cannot help but be concerned about the nature of some of the arguments that confuse and conflate me and everyone else who professes my faith with Islamist fundamentalists and terrorists.
Many criticize President Barack Obama and his affirmation of the constitutional rights of those who plan to build the center. He has been called an "Islamic ballerina" and accused of aiding and abetting the spread of Islamic fundamentalist ideology. Some argue that so long as certain Muslim countries do not allow non-Muslims to practice their religions freely or, in the case of Saudi Arabia, even enter the holy city of Mecca, the United States should do nothing to accommodate Muslims. Others argue that the building of an Islamic center close to Ground Zero is inherently disrespectful to the innocent victims of 9/11 and their families.

There is no question that what happened in September 2001 epitomizes the brutality of those Islamist fundamentalists who have the simple mission of murdering those who oppose them, a mission they pursue -- so they claim -- in the name of Allah. But what many seem to forget is that the innocent people they butchered and the grand towers they destroyed were not their primary targets.

The central objective of their campaign is the devastation of fundamental American principles, such as freedom of expression -- in particular, the right to freely practice one's religious faith according to the dictates of individual conscience. In our fight against Islamist fundamentalism, we ought to hold on to these core American values more passionately than ever. A cultural center that would educate Muslims and others about the moderate and deeply tolerant history of true Islamic principles could serve as a powerful symbol of America's historic and essential commitment to religious freedom.

As the daughter of two human rights advocates who have both paid a high price for their activism on behalf of freedom of expression in Iran, I know well how it is to watch your loved ones imprisoned, tortured, and humiliated in the name of some supposedly superior political ideology or religion. I recall vividly how much I wanted to disassociate myself from anything Islamic when I first arrived in the United States as a teenager. It was the uniquely American devotion to freedom that I gradually came to understand which allowed me, once again, to embrace the peaceful, beautiful aspects of my faith.

I will never forget the day that I landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport on September 28, 2001, and became a resident -- now a citizen -- of the United States. That day I was reborn in a land where I felt free and liberated. I remember the smile on my face when, at my new high school, I was posed a certain question for the first time: "Do you abide by any religion or faith?" I will never forget the glorious realization that struck me: I was free to choose my own answer. I was not forced to say that I was a true believer in some strict, harsh interpretation of Islam. Muslim or non-Muslim, I was going to be respected.

Sometimes I think back to my life in the Islamic Republic of Iran. I remember having to run away from the morality police in Tehran because my friends and I were wearing tight garments, loose scarves, or makeup. I remember a female officer of the morality police once telling me my "non-Islamic" appearance made me a source of shame not only for my family but for the entire Muslim nation of Iran. I recall giggling in the prayer room as our middle school principal supervised our prayer hours. I recall humming Backstreet Boys songs instead of uttering those mandatory prayers.

These experiences, and many others like them, are the foundation of why I believe the forceful deprivation or imposition of any religious practice only invites more extremism and ignorance into a society. Instead of waiting for autocratic Islamic governments such as those of Saudi Arabia and Iran to ease their discriminatory religious laws, the United States should continue to stand strong and stand out for its uncompromising commitment to religious freedom.

Let us not respond to Islamist fundamentalism with paranoia and a mirrored fundamentalist attitude. Never forgetting who we are at our best, let us set a model for the rest of the world. Let us remind ourselves and the world of our commitment to tolerance and the right to religious freedom for all those who seek to practice their faith without harming others. Let us believe that at the heart of Ground Zero there abides the true American spirit, founded on the inspiring ideals of a land in which freedom of expression is never to be compromised or undermined.

Azadeh Pourzand is a recent graduate of Harvard's Kennedy School of Government, where she was the Editor in Chief of the Women's Policy Journal.

Copyright © 2010 Tehran Bureau

Iran Stonings are a Legal Nightmare

2010-07-09T11:07:00.003-05:00

by: Mehrangiz Kar & Azadeh Pourzand/ Special to CNN

Editor's note: Mehrangiz Kar is a writer, attorney, and activist specializing in women's rights and family law. She is the recipient of several human rights awards, including the National Endowment for Democracy's Democracy Award (2002) and is a member of Human Rights Watch's Advisory Committee on the Middle East. Kar received her B.A. in Law and Political Science from Tehran University and has been a visiting scholar and fellow at several universities including Harvard University. Her daughter Azadeh Pourzand is a recent graduate of Harvard's Kennedy School of Government.

(CNN) -- Imagine a woman dying under a rain of stones while buried in the ground to the top of her breasts. Imagine faceless figures throwing pebbles at her. Imagine her last thoughts, wishes and dreams. Imagine her hoping to magically survive this brutal punishment.

Imagine her children watching her bleed and moan as people throw stones with ignorance and cruelty. Imagine this nightmare taking place under the present-day laws of a country.

Imagine a country where lawyers, journalists, human rights and women's rights advocates who courageously speak out against unjust laws often face grave consequences such as detention or exile.

Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani , a 43-year-old woman, had been sentenced to be stoned -- although after an international outcry, Iran has issued a statement saying she will not be punished in that way.

Over the past 31 years, many have suffered such inhumane punishment in Iran. With the establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979, Islamic fundamentalism took over the laws of the country. Consequently, women and the right to their bodies became the focus of the Islamic laws in Iran. In other words, fundamentalist rulers of Iran have claimed as their own, the inherent right of a woman to her body.

The Islamic Penal Code of Iran specifies stoning as the punishment for a married woman or man found guilty of adultery. And legislators set ruthless conditions for carrying out the stoning, including that the pebbles used should be big enough to kill the victim, but not so large that they kill him/her too quickly.

As a lawyer and women's rights advocate who practiced law in the Islamic Republic for 22 years, I have worked on numerous stoning cases. Once during my career I took a risk and personally approached a young cleric who was the judge of one of my stoning cases and asked, "Don't you think this cruel and inhumane law of stoning should be changed?"

The young judge looked at me with compassion and pity and said, "Sister, don't you utter this statement somewhere else! Stoning is a verdict set by God. The earthly human cannot change a verdict set by God."

I never understood how the merciful God who is said to have created the humankind would treat its creatures with such a degree of malice.

In a situation where people are enslaved by ruthless laws, human rights and women's rights advocates began to ask for help from the international community.

Each time someone is sentenced to stoning, human rights and women's rights advocates coordinate efforts to remind the world of the unjust laws in Iran. They remind the world that a form of corporal punishment as severe as stoning is the denial of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, or ICCPR, to which Iran is a signatory.

In fact, Article 6(2) of ICCPR explicitly states that the death sentence is to be imposed only for the most serious crimes. Not only does Iran not abide by this article, it continues to issue stoning orders as a sign of obstinacy against the people of Iran -- who never witnessed a single case of stoning in modern times before the Islamic Revolution of 1979 -- and the international community.

In spite of the efforts of human rights and women's rights advocates to raise awareness about the systematic and comprehensive violations of human rights in Iran, stoning remains a legitimate punishment for adultery in the Islamic Penal Code.

One of the critical challenges that further facilitates the violations of human rights in Iran is that the international community is mainly focused on the nation's nuclear program rather than the human rights situation.

The world owes to the Sakinehs of Iran a reconsideration of its priorities in regard to the Islamic Republic. The time has come for the international community to seriously hold it accountable for the unacceptable violations of human rights against its citizens.

People and organizations in the United States and other nations should make it their explicit goal to work towards spreading the word about what goes on in Iran, condemning it in international forums and supporting those Iranians who, inside or abroad, try to speak out against these violations. What we hope to see is that the human rights situation becomes a top priority of U.S. diplomatic work towards eventual negotiations with Iran.

For as long as the world neglects the human rights situation in Iran, more women and men will have to face their horrifying destiny, as determined by unjust laws, all alone.

The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of the co-authors.

Tell us What You're for

2010-04-06T05:02:00.005-05:00

This piece was published in New York Times/International Herald Tribune on April 5, 2010. click here for the link.

In March, President Obama sat in front of the camera and sent a message to the people of Iran — all those who celebrate Nowruz, the start of the Iranian New Year — and to the Islamic Republic. In his message, Mr. Obama praised the courage and persistence of those who bravely stood for their rights in the aftermath of presidential elections last June. He acknowledged Neda Agha-Soltan, whose death was captured on video and traumatized the world. He emphasized the importance of justice and of a better future for Iranians.

President Obama asked the Islamic Republic a question that we, the generation of the Islamic Revolution, have been asking for years: “We know what you’re against; now tell us what you’re for.”

The Islamic republic is against love and perceives love, as it stands today, as a symbol of Westernization. The Islamic Republic is against beauty and has imposed a particular form of Islamic veil on us, the women of Iran, in order to protect the chastity of the nation against the West. The Islamic Republic is against peaceful demonstrations and is determined to repress the smallest signs of resistance.

Many of us — the young people of Iran — have undergone countless days and nights of fear. We know well that the Islamic Republic is against our desire to freely express ourselves.

We, too, are eager to know what the Islamic Republic is for.

The Day that I Hit the Universal Declaration of Human Rights

2010-02-02T18:28:00.010-05:00

The other day I went to the laundry room of my graduate school building early in the morning where I encountered an Iranian student who, like me, lives in this building. His face was covered with tears. As I did not know him well enough I pretended that I had not seen him; I did not want him to feel uncomfortable around a stranger while crying. I wondered about the reasons for these tears on his face. As I was lost in my thoughts, he walked up to me and said in Persian, “They killed them. They hung them both this morning. It’s my birthday, too. I hate myself right now.” Clueless and shocked, I looked at him and said, “Happy birthday! Who killed whom?” He said, “They hung the two Iranian prisoners who had participated in the pre-elections demonstrations in the summer. They hung them this dawn in Iran.”

As soon as I heard this piece of news, I felt that my entire body began to freeze from head to toe. I did not cry like he was. Instead, I felt filled with anger and grudge. Instead of sadness, I felt the desire to avenge. I felt that there is simply no reason for being “peaceful” when they hang us for having peacefully expressed our objections. I grew up in a family whose religion is fighting a peaceful fight against injustice. But, in that laundry room and while standing in front of a crying young Iranian man, I felt that being peaceful is sometimes overrated. I was angry. I was not sad. I was enraged.

That whole day, I tried to calm down and to think less emotionally about this devastating piece of news. That night, when I slept, I had a rather insane dream.

In my dream, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had turned into a person. It had turned into a shy, nerdy and clumsy man. For some reason, I knew this man and when I saw him walking out of the Kennedy School, I began to scream at him in public. I told him, “shame on you and your useless existence in the world.” I told him that he might as well die as his presence and rhetoric, more often than not, have no impact on our lives. I told him that whoever and whichever government that wants to violate his so-called thirty articles, goes ahead and freely violates them all and kills those who oppose the ruling power. I grabbed the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and began to hit him in tears. He was standing still and watching me hit him hard. I said to him, “you tell the world that everyone has the right to liberty, life and security of a person and that no one shall be subjected to torture, or to cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment or punishment. Well, tell me, who exactly is listening to you? Can’t you see how awfully useless of a document you are. I am sick of you. All of the scholars and activists in the world refer to you and recognize you as the standard for human rights and yet you just have no power over those who are killing the innocent. Stop being so unbelievably vague and useless! Wake up Mr. Universal Declaration of Human Rights, walk around the world and see how most of the powerful governments and individuals in this world are violating every single one of your principles and are laughing at you.”

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was looking at me all terrified and was not speaking. He told me that he had to run and that we could talk at a more appropriate time. He embraced me and asked me to calm down. But I was not calm. These men and women(including myself) walk around in nice clothes, refer to this and that international document, human rights organizations release urgent actions and press releases and yet they still wake up one morning and hang the innocent and proudly release the news of these executions to the world’s media.

I woke up that morning thinking that I had a funny and yet miserable dream. It was funny that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had turned into a man that I yelled at for a while right outside the Kennedy School. It was funny that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had to run and wanted to have coffee with me and discuss the world affairs over coffee. But, it was utterly sad that I felt he was the least powerful man I had ever met in my life. He was just as clueless as I am about all of these violations of human rights. His voice was just as low as mine when it came to talking about these leaders who wake up and eliminate whatever and whoever that stands up against them and makes them feel threatened.

They punish our brothers and sisters for speaking the truth, but who in this unbelievably insane world is responsible for their punishment. I sometimes hate this phrase of “Forgive, but don’t forget!” I have become convinced that sometimes you ought not to forgive. Forgiving and healing are maybe for the end of a fight, but not for when they have taken up ropes and guns to ruthlessly kill your kind for their opinions and simple demands that are contradictory to theirs. If we think that we have come a long way in establishing human rights norms in the world, we are utterly mistaken. This road is a long one and we are only in the beginning of this road…

When Towers Speak…

2010-01-24T21:40:00.018-05:00

Last night I returned home from a trip to Dubai.It was an unexpectedly lovely trip. I never thought I would actually like Dubai. I always thought of Dubai as a superficial place in which migrant workers live a seriously miserable life. Looking at photos from this so called Las Vegas of the Middle East, I never found all of those towers and lights impressive or fascinating. However, to my surprise during my trip to Dubai, I started to both like Dubai and to become curious about this emirate. During the ten days that I was there I made great new friends and spoke with many individuals and professionals. I still do not know what it is that makes me rather attracted to Dubai. All I know is that I enjoyed hearing people’s stories about Dubai and the reasons for which they have resided in this town. Looking at the towers in Dubai, I feel that they all have a story to tell. From the hardworking migrant workers who carefully planted their first bricks to the CEOs, lawyers, businessmen and businesswomen and employees who work in these towers, people have stories to tell about their life before Dubai, their time in Dubai and their plans after Dubai. Dubai seems to be a transitory place for most of its residents. What I loved the most about Dubai was these stories. Everybody that I would meet wanted to share with me their story and I would eagerly listen.

The only story that I did not get to hear was the story of migrant workers. I would go for a walk in the evening just so that I could see the buses that were full of South Asian migrant workers pass by. Many of them would run towards the bus as they seemed to be fearful of missing these buses that would take them to their collective homes in the suburbs of Dubai. As the busses would pass by me, I would look up at tip of the towers and hear the voices of many migrant workers getting echoed in my head. They all wanted to share their stories. They were talking all at once.I never got a chance to speak with them. But, I saw exhaustion and hope in their eyes. I think, in a way, these towers belong to them. If not the towers, at least the heart of these towers do. After all, migrant workers have spent hours, days, months and years to build these towers under difficult circumstances and with the hope of bringing money to their families back home. I am certain that one day the towers of Dubai will begin to speak and share those quietly forgotten stories that have remained unheard for some time with the world...

A Beautiful Angel in a Dark Prison

2010-01-15T21:56:00.010-05:00

I go to sleep determined to dream about Mansoureh Shojaei. I resist all the nightmares of her in Evin Prison. Instead, I try to remember her beautiful smile…

Growing up, I did not really know her. But as I was reaching those tough teenage years, she somehow magically appeared in my life just in time to remind me of the excitement of adventures and of being courageous. I vividly remember the first time I met her. She was sitting in our apartment’s lounge when I walked in, looked at my mother and shyly said hello to our guest. “Hello, welcome!” I said. I was a moody teenager and was really not interested in meeting my parents’ guests. This time, I simply wanted some pocket money from my mother to go out which is why I walked into the lounge to say hello and ask for money. Mansoureh looked at me kindly. She looked like a nice lady, but I really just wanted to get the money, get a cab and go to Tootfarangi(Strawberry); a café in Tehran that was trendy for its time. Mansoureh looked at me and said, “Do you want a new friend or are you too busy with your own friends?” I gave her an annoyed—but polite—look and said, “sure!” Without any pause, she said, “Well, then, let’s hang out next weekend. Thoughts?” She was speaking with me like an adult and I liked her tone. She was probably the first family friend who did not pull my cheeks hard and who did not obnoxiously ask me, “What is your favorite subject in school?”. I responded to her invitation positively and she promised to pick me up on Friday to take me hiking.

Mansoureh became more than my friend. She became the aunt and an older friend that I never had. Her small family became almost like my own family. Mansoureh once criticized me for being a bit too spoiled or cautious and told me, “Go for whatever there is that you want, girl! Even if there is a huge wall on your way, get on the road and think about the wall when you hit it. The wall will have to surrender. It might get your head broken at first. But who cares? You will somehow go beyond that wall.” She used to make fun of Bamdad, her son, and I for being lazy and slow in hiking. She would say, “when I was your age…” As soon as she would say this, Bamdad and I would pretend that we were not tired and start walking faster.

About a year after the first time I met Mansoureh, my mother was imprisoned. During this time, Mansoureh’s embrace became one of my only refuges. Her embrace was one of the only places where I would feel safe to cry or to freely be a scared fifteen-year old who wanted her mother back. The rest of the time I had to show strength. But, in her arms I would melt into tears and worries of a teenager who was simply scared.

One day, a few months after my mother was released on bail from jail, I left Iran on very short notice. I called Mansoureh, asked to talk with Bamdad and said goodbye to Bamdad. We all knew what it meant. It meant that I was leaving Iran for good. It meant that I had to go. It meant that I was losing my home maybe for the better or the worse. Bamdad and I were and still are the masters of distracting ourselves from talking about things that bother us. So, that night, we only joked around about this and that and exchanged one funny and a rather stiff farewell. He was the last person that I called. Mansoureh said, “Joojoo, be strong. We love you. Don’t forget our days together. And don’t come back with an American accent.” Joojoo was the nickname Mansoureh and her husband had given me (it means something like a little chicken). Her voice was the last voice that I ever heard from the home to which I never returned.

Five years later, I returned to Iran to see my father who was under house arrest. He was kidnapped and disappeared only a few months after I left Iran for good. Now, the bitter and experienced twenty-year-old that I was, I had come to Iran to see my father who had suffered for long. I felt rather nervous to be back in Iran. After all, this was the same country that had tortured my father and had put my mother in exile. I loved being back, but felt betrayed at the same time. My fear would especially escalate when I had to go to question and answer sessions with some of the members of the intelligence service. We kept those a secret from my father. Going to those sessions, my only hope was to leave and go to Mansoureh’s apartment where I could release all of this stress.

Mansoureh and her family really made me fall in love with Iran once again. They helped me remember how much I loved Iran and my memories of this land.They made me realize that I still belonged to Iran even though, despite Mansoureh’s advice, I had returned to my lost home with an American accent. Somewhere in the depth of their smiles and their love, I could vividly see myself. I could see the self that I had lost in the difficult and detached years of immigration. Somewhere in the corner of their small apartment I could feel the warmth of home for which I had longed for many years. Before departing Iran, I curled up in Mansoureh’s embrace and like a little child I fell asleep for a few minutes. In her arms, I dreamed of the day that we will all be back in Tehran and live a beautiful and free life. She only patted me and kept saying, “Our Joojoo is leaving us again.”

Mansoureh who is a passionate educator and a women’s rights advocate is now sitting in a dark and small cell in Evin Prison. Mansoureh was arrested on December 28th, 2009. Her family did not know where she was for a few days until she finally made a very short phone call and told them she is in Evin Prison. Her family was not able to visit her until a few days ago when they were finally granted a twenty-minute visit from behind the glass at Evin Prison.

Mansoureh is ill. She is currently suffering from Urinary Tract Infection and is not given sufficient antibiotics while imprisoned. She also has severe migraine and has had at least one major migraine attack in prison.

I close my eyes and try to imagine her smile. I hear that even in prison, she tries to smile and to remain strong. However, I am worried for my amazing friend and aunt. I am worried for this loving and beautiful angel.She is too physically fragile to undergo all of this pressure. Mansoureh does not deserve any of this. She has done nothing wrong. She has only tried to educate women about their rights throughout Iran. She has only tried to tell them what she told me when we went hiking ten years ago. She has only tried to remind women to be strong, fearless and aware of their rights. I know Mansoureh is not the only innocent prisoner in Iran. Mansoureh and many other Mansourehs who are currently suffering in the dark prisons of Iran are being treated unjustly. They are the treasures of Iran. They are the fearless men and women of our land.

Free Mansoureh! Free all of those Mansourehs that you have so unjustly imprisoned.

I keep my tears to myself and wish Bamdad, her son, strength. Bamdad must see her mother happy and healthy. Until that day, we must not remain silent!

Hallucinations of a Decade

2009-12-31T05:04:00.009-05:00

Sitting at the window of my sister’s apartment on the twenty sixth floor of a building in Toronto, I look at the city of Toronto and its many apartment buildings that resemble matchboxes .It is going to be 2010 tomorrow. The insomniac ghost that I am, I sit here at four in the morning and let my mind loose. Looking at the sea of these little windows and apartments in the city calms me down. Having watched the YouTube clips that come from Iran, I am emotionally disturbed. I do not know what to say anymore. I feel numb. Many dear friends of mine are in prison in Tehran…Who knows where…I imagine them sitting down in a solitary confinement. I imagine them terrified, strong or maybe senseless. I imagine them and try to remember their faces. I imagine them being humiliated. I imagine them wanting to survive. This is how we are starting a new year; a new decade.This is how we are welcoming another three hundred sixty five days and nights.

My friend calls me in the middle of the night and asks me, “How are you?” I wonder how I am or rather I wonder how I should be. I wonder if I matter. I say, “I’m ok. Everybody is ok here” and I chuckle. He asks me again (this time authoritatively), “Azadeh, I mean YOU. How are YOU, my dear?” It is funny how you sometimes don’t want to know how you are. You just don’t want to know. You want to disappear in your dear ones’ sorrow. You want to disappear and not know how you are doing, because you can’t do anything about the things that bother you to death. You just could sit, relax and watch Youtube clips of the people of your country dying and getting hit with huge bricks, getting run over, bleeding, screaming, and burning a police station. You just watch and watch. You watch until you go from being shocked to crying to being angry to be disgusted and to being numb. You get so numb that you could watch those awful clips over and over again without any emotional turmoil. You watch until you die from within. You watch and comb your hair while watching obsessively.

In this emotional afterlife, you begin life once again. This time you live in a labyrinth with shattered glasses and mirrors. You see yourself in a thousand different ways. You see yourself sandwiched between a calm North American city and many people your age chanting out slogans while bleeding. You see yourself in a million different pieces. One piece is a little happy child with curly hair running around a garden in Shomal(northern Iran),playing in the Caspian sea, getting hit by little waves and laughing and laughing and laughing. Another piece is a teenage veiled and extremely fashionable girl who is running and escaping from the moral police who are chasing after her in the streets of Tehran to punish her for her not being sufficiently veiled. Another piece is a mute high school student in the United States who does not know English enough to even make friends. Another piece is…Another piece is you voting for the first time to President Khatami and dying of joy of having become an adult. Another piece is years later watching your friends in graduate school cheering for President Obama. Another is the image of an awfully unfamiliar man named Ahmadinejad whose grin scares you. Another piece is you sitting at the library in the middle of the night, taking a break from writing a paper that is due in a few hours and watching YouTube links all the way from Khomeini’s first speech in Tehran till now when your friends chant out slogans and get hit on the street. Time stops. Time runs. Places become compressed into one and that one place loses its space. You become compressed in this spaceless labyrinth. You sort of exist in short intervals and the longer intervals are when you become nonexistent. You begin to exist only to realize that you don’t have enough space to breathe and the cycle repeats itself.

2010? Tomorrow is a new year and a new decade. What is my new year’s resolution? What is my biggest wish? MY wish or a whole nation’s wish? My wish, I guess, is a small one. I just want to be able to wipe off blood from my friends’ faces, embrace them and tell them that they are making history. Even though history is a hilarious word when you are in pain, maybe only the thought of history could kill your pain momentarily. My wish is for my friends in prison to know that they are not forgotten. My wish is that they don’t lose their pride. My wish is to remain nonviolent,strong and proud. My wish is love. My wish is for this labyrinth to regain its space for all of us Iranians and all others who live in fear. My wish is for us to breathe and to at least dream about freedom for our country freely. One of the dearest friends of mine told me recently, “You have to either choose me or politics. Either peace or politics.” I remained silent in response. I only wish I could explain how terribly intertwined our lives have become with this so-called “politics”. I wish I knew which is which. I wish I knew the difference between ME and politics.Who knows?Maybe this new decade is a good time to discover this difference; if there is any.

These are perhaps my final hallucinations of 2009. Even if nothing changes tomorrow as time grows one year older, I will remain hopeful and wish strength for those who are bravely standing up against injustice in the absence of thousands of Iranians like me who are not there to hold their hands.

I am starting 2010 with a world of fears and with particles of hope. Happy New Year!

Please accept the following song as my new year's gift to you.This piece was performed by one of Iran's great contemporary artists, Lily Afshar, who is sadly currently imprisoned. Click Here.

The Snowman and You

2009-12-21T01:39:00.005-05:00

My Dear Dad;

I know you can’t talk anymore. I tried to speak with you today on the phone. Your nurse gave the phone to you. You made some sounds. But, nothing that you said made sense. I miss talking with you, Dad. I miss hearing your voice and listening to all the nice things that you used to say about me. I miss hearing you say “I love you!” over and over again.

I guess this is simply how life works. One day you die even if you are still alive. You might feel that you are dead, but you are not. You are still breathing. I could hear your breath on the phone. I know you will become healthy once again. I know that somehow magically the authorities of the Islamic Republic will let you leave Iran and reunite with us. I could already imagine how it would feel to embrace you for hours. At first it might be a bit strange when we see each other. But I promise you that in a short while we will begin to talk about all these years for hours.

Remember how when I traveled to Iran in 2005 for ten days to see you, we felt very strangely about each other’s presence at first. We had not seen each other since 2001 and too much had happened during those years. One summer day in 2001, you drove me to the airport, hugged me in tears and kissed me goodbye while keeping my hands in your strong hands. You said to me, “You will only make me proud. I know it!”

We never thought that you will be taken away from us in this surreal way; kidnapped and disappeared in clandestine prisons of Iran. That day when I left Iran for the first time in 2001, the last thing that you quietly said in my ear was: “You will be back in Tehran just in time for us to make our snowman of the year.” It was a promise that neither one of us could keep. Our life was going to get shattered into pieces and we just didn't know it. Eight years later, I am still waiting to make another snowman with you.

When I came to Iran in 2005, I felt alienated from you. Strangely, I blamed you for having grown old. I did not like all the wrinkles on your face. I remember that first night in your apartment when I felt uncomfortable in your arms. But as soon as you began to pat my hair like the old days, I found my lost home in your arms. Remember? I fell asleep on your lap that night. I know how much you wanted to tell me about all those unimaginable ways in which you might have been tortured in prison. Thankfully, you never told me anything. I didn’t want to know. I still don’t want to know. We only talked about your painful memories of prison in silence. Sitting in the lounge of your apartment, we would drink our hot tea in absolute silence. All we could hear was the sound of our spoon with which we were stirring small sugar cubes in our tea. This fragile silence was crowded with terrifying stories of torture, terror, separation and loneliness. Despite the life and dignity that we had lost, we were still hopeful. I could feel hope in your words and gestures.

Now you can’t walk, talk or maybe even remember us anymore. Who knows what goes on in your thoughts? I hope to God that you remember how much I love you. It has been lonely without you calling me every night and asking me about all the details of my daily life. I keep dialing your home number and cell phone and no one responds. I sometimes even pretend that I am talking with you. Too many days are passing by in despair without you in my life.

Last night it snowed here. I went to my friend’s house to celebrate the longest night of the year (Yalda). By the end of the night snow had covered everywhere. We all stayed at my friend’s house for the night as it was impossible to drive. In the morning we stepped outside to play in the snow and make a snowman. We built a nice snowman; not as good as the ones that you and I used to make together in Tehran. We used to spend the entire day outside making our snowman. We always wanted to make the best snowman in the neighborhood. Remember? I remember how we disagreed about the nose of our snowman. I preferred putting a carrot for the snowman's nose and you preferred to put a cucumber instead.

As soon as my friends and I left two small pieces of wood for the eyes of the snowman, the snowman began to look at me kindly. I felt as though he was trying to communicate some things to me. I think he was trying to tell me that you dream about me when you fall asleep in the hospital. I think the snowman was trying to tell me that you still love me. I think the snowman wanted me to know that you are still hopeful that we will one day see each other again. I put a curved slice of watermelon for his mouth. He began to smile. It was such a natural smile. His smile resembled the smile that you and I would try and create for our snowman.

It was a bittersweet time out in the snow with my friends. Looking at the infinite whitenss of snow made me miss you even more. As soon as I felt the painfully familiar nostalgia and anxiety, I bent and reached for a handful of snow. I squeezed it in my hand and put some in my mouth. It felt cool. It melted in my mouth.

I vividly remember the first time you took me out in the snow. You reached out for some snow and asked me to taste it. I was scared. I had never seen anyone eat snow before. I was hesitantly curious to taste it. You grabbed my hand, put some snow in my hand and said, “Azadeh, you should sometimes try the things that people tell you not to try. Come on, taste it! Go for it! Look how pretty it is!” I put some in my mouth, smiled and said, “It doesn’t taste like anything, Dad.” You laughed and said, “Well, you could give it your own taste. How about the taste of chocolate?” Then, you put some more snow in your mouth and said, “Man, this totally tastes like chocolate. Try some more!” That day, you knowingly broadened the tiny world of a five-year-old girl.

Twenty years later in a viciously different time and space, I put some snow in my mouth, tasted it and let it melt for a few seconds. I turned around to look at the snowman. My friends were throwing snowballs at each other. The snowman smiled at me with a striking glow in his eyes. The snowman told me, “Talk to your dad even if he can’t talk with you anymore. Keep talking to him. He will hear you.” The snowman said, “You are his most beautiful dream. Never let him down!” The snowman kept smiling at me until one of my friends threw a huge snowball at his head and the snowman lost his head in front of my eyes.

Oddly, I am used to losing friends in this comically tragic way. I watched the snowman die while he was still smiling. I took the smashed slice of watermelon that was the snowman’s smiley mouth from the ground and patted it a bit. His smile felt soft and alive. I think I am going to continue to smile for as long as you remain deeply depressed and silent. I will continue to smile until you join me in smiling. I will smile and tiptoe into all of the dreams that you will have of me in that small and quiet hospital room in Tehran. Your nurse says that sometimes you grin just a tiny bit when she mentions my name.

Love;
Azadeh

P.S. The snowman says hello.

The Woman in the Mirror

2009-12-15T16:33:00.013-05:00

Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw a strangely unfamiliar face. It was her. This was her face and body. How could she not recognize herself? She touched her cheeks and made a funny and a sad face.

She wiped off her tears, closed her eyes for one second and tried to think about nothing. It was probably the longest one second of her life. It felt as though she was stuck in a dark tunnel with many trucks, cars, buses and motorcycles that were fast approaching her. She even got hit by a few. Every time she got hit, she felt dead, but she was still alive. In this darkness, many familiar voices were talking at her. They were all talking and screaming together. She covered her ears and with her eyes watched another truck hit her. The driver of the truck looked outside the window and laughed at her while driving away.

She opened her eyes. Everything was still the same. There was a room confined in the frame of a mirror. And there was her. She still did not recognize herself. The mirror only triggered her memories of others, but not of herself. She closely examined her smile in the mirror. She vaguely remembered the smile; but not as her own smile. It felt as though it was someone else’s smile. Her skin was burning under her sour tears.

There she was again: this woman...this stranger...this butterfly...this woman that was stuck somewhere between a dense past and an indefinite future. She shivered. The stranger woman shivered with her.

She did not know or recognize her. She touched her cheeks again and blew herself a kiss. She, then, smiled. Perhaps it did not matter that she did not remember, recognize or know herself. Perhaps what mattered was that she could refer to this strangely unfamiliar woman that was staring at her from within as "herself ".

She looked in the mirror again. There she was. Herself. She was not alone.

The woman in the mirror winked at her. Then, a voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back!”

And the world resumed to silence. The world turned into an infinite vacuum of people and places.

The woman in the mirror blew her a kiss and walked away to stand in the middle of that dark tunnel, ready for all those belligerent cars and voices of the past to hit her hard and watch her not die.

My Language is the Language of Love and Passion...Not of Terrorism

2009-12-13T14:43:00.021-05:00

The other night I went to watch “Brothers” by Jim Sheridan with a friend. It was a terrific movie in many ways. However, it freshened a few of my wounds.

The movie theatre was full of high school students and young college students. I had decided to watch a movie with my friend in order to take a break from the paper that I was writing about the security situation in Afghanistan. Coincidently, this movie was aslo,in a way, about Afghanistan and the war. It was a sad story of two American marines who get kidnapped by the militants in Afghanistan. While the movie was a love story mostly focused on the marine officer who made it back home, his wife,his brother and children, it had a few intense scenes from the Taliban militants, who kidnapped the two American marines and after torturing them for months had one of them stab the other one to death.

The scenes that captured the militants' violence were the only scenes that were in Persian(Dari, the Afghan dialect). The only part of the movie that was in Persian was, indeed, portraying extremism and violence in truly graphic ways. While watching this violence, we would also hear the words of the main militant guy in Persian about how the United States needs to leave Afghanistan and how the militants will fight until the defeat of Americans. They talked about their anti-American sentiments in Dari Persian. In sum, the parts in Dari Persian were about terror,hatred of the United States, murder and extremist jihadists.

While watching those scenes, tears had covered my face. I was humiliated. I kept looking at the rest of the audience in the dark: all these young Americans with their popcorns and soda drinks. What were they thinking? That only terrorists speak the language that they could now hear in this movie theatre? This is the language through which I learned how to love and to care. This is the language of my dream-like childhood. This is the language of my future dreams for this world. Persian is the language through which I define myself. This language does not belong to terrorists. It belongs to us, too! While watching these scenes, I kept wondering: Does the young generation of Americans find entertainment in such snapshots of the odious culture in Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, Pakistan or Iran? Will they ever learn that even if we are disconent about the Americans in that part of the world, we are still not terrorists?

I cannot even describe the depth of this cultural tragedy that I felt in my surroundings in this movie theatre. I wanted to run towards the movie screen and block them from watching these scenes or maybe finding a way of putting this movie on mute so that my beautiful language does not get portrayed only in this inhumane and biased way.

Persian has long been recognized as the language of love, passion and poetry. And now...

That night in the movie theatre I cried for my language. Our Rumi, Sa’di and Hafiz wrote of nothing but of passionate love and peace. I cry for the fate of my language. I cry for the people who are confined in this language and have the world judge all of them for this phenomenon of extremism that has also brought them misery for years.

I wanted to get up in the movie theatre and scream, “Listen up young Americans: Not all of the Persian speakers would put you in a cave, torture you and then have you stab your best friend to death! Please, I beg you to not leave this movie theatre with these images and sounds as your only images of this culture. We are better than this! We really are!”

Will this young generation ever know or learn this about us? Or will it grow up thinking that we are all cavemen and cavewomen who are holding on to “barbarism” and “terrorism”? Will they ever learn that Muslims, Arabs, Persians, Pashtuns and all these ethnicities and cultures of our region understood the beauty of love and peace centuries before any of these young Americans were born? Will they ever learn that we have more than just rifles, extremism and grudge to offer? Or will they continue to be entertained by “terrorism” in their movie theatres while eating popcorn and giggling at the men with turbans in the movie?

I hope they,one day, get to know the real people of our lands. We are better than just terrorists. We, I believe, have the responsibility to expose the younger generation to many other beautiful aspects of our cultures. Terrorism is just an anomaly and not the norm in these cultures! We must tirelessly communicate this to the rest of the world. We owe this responsibility to ourselves, our beautiful languages,our heritage,our cultures,our lands and our future generations.

Our languages and cultures are burning in fire just as our people are!

Her Pride....My Pride

2009-12-07T17:34:00.009-05:00

photo by Kamran Jebreili/AP

Stressed about all her final papers, she woke up, checked the news, got dressed and headed to school in the morning. It was the University Student Day in Iran. In Massachusetts, however, it was a simple winter day. The most exciting part of her day was so far the fact that three fire trucks had passed by her student apartment with loud sirens.

During the hours that she had fallen asleep while trying to write a paper about why Mussharraf cut deals with the forces of Taliban, many university students, her age or younger, had protested in Iran. Some of them were injured and detained by governmental forces. In Massachusetts, however, not much was going on. The weather was sunny and cold.

Walking towards school, she kept checking her blackberry for photos from the student protests and the crackdown in Iran. Photo after photo… Tears had covered her eyes. She was proud of her fellow Iranian university students in Iran. But did it even matter how she felt about what the people were doing in Iran? Maybe yes, maybe not! In any case, some of the photos made her smile and some of the other ones that had captured the moments of beatings and blood made her frown. She would only look up when she had to cross the street.

Everything was orderly in Cambridge, Massachusetts. No one looked particularly angry, agitated, scared or ready to protest. The homeless people of Harvard Square looked unhappy, hungry and cold. Just like all other mornings. Everything looked absolutely normal. People were going to work, to class and most of them had a cup of coffee in their hands.

Walking into Starbucks, she kept looking at the New York Times, Washington Post and Boston Globe that were placed next to the cashier to see if Iranian university students had made it to the first page of any of these newspapers. “Grande non-fat Latte”….Yeap, that was her cup of coffee. She got her coffee and started walking towards school once again. She walked into the school building all proud of the university students in Iran who had courageously protested despite all the fear and repression. Her friends said hello to her and she said hello back to them. The rest of the day was full of small talk and studying. No one realized that she was proud of anything particular that day. She, too, did not really ask anyone if they were proud of the people of their country at that very moment. I mean, it is an awkward question to ask! “Excuse me, how proud of the people of your birthplace are you today?”…haha...Maybe no one would respond to such a silly question except for her. She would say, “I am extremely proud. They are amazing. These university students are making history as we speak!” She would talk, talk and talk about how proud, worried, terrified and yet hopeful she is for Iran and its fascinating young generation.

In Cambridge, Massachusetts, everything was absolutely calm and normal. Another fire truck passed by during the day. But that was about as unquiet as it could get in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Different Narratives

2009-12-06T22:32:00.004-05:00

My professor of “Modern Diplomacy” class ended the last session of the semester by reminding us of a few factors that, if ignored, could lead to the failure of any kind of negotiations or diplomatic attempt to resolve conflicts. Two of those factors have really made me think: different narratives that each side has of history and the nature of the conflict and whether the parties involved actually wish to have the conflict resolved.

The distinction of narratives is an intriguing phenomenon to tackle. How could one go about finding hidden spaces between the lines of these different narratives and to advocate for a common ground that could keep both parties content enough to compromise?

I find narratives to be the most precious and sensitive aspect of a people’s history. And yet, this same narrative is what could confine a nation in its past, its losses, and its desire to ask for its taken right and even to avenge. This same narrative that could protect the unheard voices of history is what often leads to strong assumptions about the other side, ideologies and grudge. It’s this same narrative that at times justifies the lack of any kind of effort to understand the “enemy”. It’s this narrative that helps us draw seriously defined borders between “us” and “them”. It’s the power of this narrative that produces a generation that is just as confined in the past as the previous generation. At the same time, this narrative is sometimes the only heritage that is left for us. It becomes our legacy and our souvenir from the past that was taken away from us by force. This narrative is the only thing that we could keep from the physical and moral invasion of the other side into our lives. They could take away our homes, photo albums, peace and land from us. They could humiliate and murder us. But, they could never take our narrative away from us. In fact, many of us manage to survive for the sake of passing on that narrative to others.

So, how could a nation or one side of a conflict let go of its narrative or compromise on its historical understanding of a conflict? I wish I knew the answer to this, because if I did I would try to practice it in my own personal life and would do my best to spread this art to the rest of the world… the art of preventing a tragic past from defining us as a people and as individuals, the art of looking ahead, reconciling with the past and letting go of the complexes that this past has planted in each and every one of us.

An Appeal from Siamak Pourzand’s Daughter: ‘My Father Has Given Up on Life, Release Him.’”

2009-12-06T12:51:00.004-05:00

By Fereshteh Ghazi, An Interview with Lily Pourzand, Rooz Online, Tuesday December 1, 2009.

Siamak Pourzand's Recent Photo at the Hospital

We have interviewed the daughter of Siamak Pourzand, the 78 year-old Iranian journalist who, in the words of his family, “since last week has given up eating meals and has cut off telephone communication with his friends and family”, about his condition. Pourzand has been confined to the Tus Hospital [in Tehran] for the past 15 days due to his deteriorating physical and mental condition, although he himself has said “I’m not physically ill; they have made me mentally ill.” For this reason, Lily Pourzand implores, “My father is no danger to the Islamic Republic; give him permission to leave the country.”

Siamak Pourzand was also hospitalized at Iran Mehr Hospital on October 22 but was released after several days. At that time Lily told Rooz that “her father was not discharged from the hospital due to an improvement in his health, but rather because there was nothing more that could be done.”

But with Pourzand’s condition becoming serious, Lily tells Rooz: “After the last report that you published about my father about a month ago, my father was released from Iran Mehr hospital and was put on a new treatment, but the medications did not have much effect, because of his absolute loneliness and his deeply damaged mental state, especially as he refuses to take the medicines that he must take on a strict regimen.

Ms. Pourzand, who is a lawyer residing in Canada, adds, “My father expressed deep stress and uncomfortable, scattered agitation on the telephone and we didn’t know what to do, until two weeks ago, with the deterioration of his condition, he was first taken to a clinic and from there transferred to the hospital.”

Having mentioned that Tus Hospital does not have a neurological and psychological department, she says, “My father prefers to stay in this hospital because we have doctors and friends working there and they help greatly; however, unfortunately this help has not had any effect and Father has not eaten at all since last week, and since five days ago, he has cut off his telephone communication with his family and however much we beg, he only says ‘I can’t talk’ and hangs up.”

According to Lily Pourzand, “My father is also refusing to accept or speak to friends and acquaintances and this illustrates how this journalist is giving up on life and has washed his hands of everything that has to do with life.”

Siamak Pourzand’s daughter says, “My father’s doctor is trying and trying to get him transferred to a specialized neurological clinic but unfortunately [my father] still doesn’t have the will to go, and neither we nor his doctor can predict what is going to happen.”

Ms. Pourzand, who is seeking the issuance of a visa for her father to exit the country, says, “With the condition that my father is in, it is extremely urgent that he get permission to fly out immediately, as it is possible that if he is given an exit visa and his passport [which had been confiscated] his mental state may greatly improve, and our wish is that he be allowed to leave the country and be with his children and family for some time.”

Having said that Mr. Pourzand is giving up on everything, Ms. Pourzand adds, “The only chance for renewing any sense of hope in life for him is to get him permission to leave the country and see his family; my father, in his condition, poses absolutely no danger to the Islamic Republic that would cause them to deny him permission.”

According to Lily Pourzand, Mr. Pourzand’s doctors have recommended that anyone who wishes to should go to visit him even if he refuses or doesn’t speak to them, because the presence of people and friends is crucial to the improvement of the journalist’s mental state.

Body or Mind?

On another note, a Rooz reader has written in an email message discussing Siamak Pourzand’s hospitalization in Tus Hospital and his visit with the journalist, “Mr. Pourzand said, ‘I’m not physically ill; they have made me mentally ill.”

In continuation, having mentioned that Siamak Pourzand is under sedation and is consuming nothing besides water, this reader explained the deterioration of Mr. Pourzand’s mental and physical condition by writing, “Mr. Pourzand really has no serious physical problem but due to the depth of his depression he is suffering. In his own words, after the elections his mental health has become far worse, since a great number of friends with whom he had passed great times have either been imprisoned or have left Iran and he has been deeply affected by not having them around. He is truly lonely and in need of attention; in addition he is deeply afraid of everything. I see a strange fear in his existence. Severely, just like in prison! He deeply misses his family and friends.”

Siamak Pourzand since seven years ago has been a prisoner of the security services; he has been sent home at times due to deteriorations of his physical condition and then detained again after a period.

Siamak Pourzand’s wife, Mehrangiz Kar, and two of the journalist’s daughters, Banafsheh and Azadeh, live in America and Lily Pourzand, the other daughter, lives in Canada. They have requested clemency from the officials of the Islamic Republic several times so that they may go to their father’s side but to this date no response has been given to them.

Lily Pourzand had previously spoken of this to Rooz, saying, “Both during the Khatami administration and over the past four years we have several times directly and indirectly written letters to various organs and individuals, even begging, that they provide us with letters of clemency so that we may go see our father and take care of him. My mother has even personally written a letter to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad making this request but to date they have given us no answer; for each of us, returning to Iran is tantamount to risking being detained and put in some secret facility, and we can’t take anything more like that. My mother went to prison and developed cancer, and my father too has been afflicted as you see.”

At the same time she had referred to the trip of Azadeh, the youngest daughter of Mr. Pourzand to Iran and had said, “Azadeh was only 16 years old when she left Iran and hadn’t gotten involved in political matters or human rights and was occupied only with her education. When Father was transferred from jail to the hospital and then home [in 2004], she went to Iran to be at his side, and of course at that time when Mr. Khatami was also the president, we were able via various intermediaries to gain promises of clemency for her to travel to Iran. They said to us that it was only on condition that she leave Iran within ten days and Azadeh still went, but unfortunately, she, who was no older than 19 years, was interrogated and harassed. What is interesting is that living outside of the country, we were not very familiar with the concept of the
[governmental organization] “Children’s and Youths’ Intellectual Development Organization, but Azadeh was interrogated under the auspices of this organization for hours, and she later said that she had lost hope of returning [to America].”

Ms. Pourzand had explained then, “It has been years since my father abandoned his typical social activities and has closed himself off from everything [political] with the goal of hearing his children’s voices again and being at his wife’s side and that of his children, but the judicial and security organs have not given him such permission. We only hope to be able to embrace our father once again and to take care of him.”

For Original in Persian click here.

Friday Night Wonders

2009-12-04T23:35:00.007-05:00

My god, I miss writing! It has been a long time that I have not written anything more than a bunch of dry policy memorandums for school. I am almost scared of letting myself write rather freely. Just a few nights ago, when I was feeling emotionally fragile and academically exhausted, I decided to stay in my room and just read a short novel. I started and finished Olivia by Dorothy Strachey. By the time I finished the last line of this well-written story, tears had already covered my face. That night, I realized how much I miss hiding away from this world and its noises once in a while and spending time with fictional characters. Real people and things are sometimes too much to handle. I remember how I was tired of being disconnected from the world and its current events during the years of studying literature in college. And now…I feel exactly the opposite. I just sometimes want to shut my eyes and my ears to this world. I feel we talk too much about ourselves, our allies and adversaries, our objectives, perspectives and goals. Sometimes I feel I have turned into this machine that knows well how to talk and strategize her life in a way that seems very much aligned with the norms of this society. I might just be tired or aching to rebel. All I know is that there must be more to life. I remember having felt that there is more to this life during some of the hardest times of my life in the past. But somehow lately I feel very machine-like with a vision that is perhaps shrinking everyday.

The only time that I realize bits and pieces of the passionate, brave and emotional human being that I used to be are sill left in me is when I remember the past. Remembering the past…such a funny phrase! I remember years ago when I was a happy child in Iran despite all the political insanity that had forced peace out of our life. I remember how happy I was every time I would see my parents smile, talk and discuss their daily plans. I remember how happy I was in high school in the U.S. when I kept thinking of myself as a future leader that I desparately wanted to be. I remember the years that I felt I belonged to a land named Iran and how I used to think I would eventually feel that I also belong to the United States of America. Little I knew how much of a displaced immigrant one becomes every day. It’s like the moment you leave your home—the land to which you belong—, you will always be leaving and departing from one place or another. You will always be walking around with your luggage looking for a home. Sometimes you think you have found a home. But you never will. In fact, you will become displaced everyday a little more than the day before.

Looking around my room, I see a piece of the past hanging from every piece of furniture and my walls are covered with photos and memories. Memories…I miss all the places that I once used to call home: in particular Tehran and Oberlin. I miss loving and feeling loved. I miss feeling safe in the arms of those who meant the world to me. I miss feeling innocently hopeful about people and things. I miss closing my eyes and imagining that someday I will change the lives of many through my hard work and writings.

Nowadays, I simply don’t dream. I go to bed hoping that I don’t wake up to some nightmare about the life that my father miserably lives in Iran. I go to bed hoping to wake up and be able do something so that my mom’s life becomes easier in this exile of hers that is full of cups of coffee and sighs. I go to bed feeling ashamed that young men and women are being humiliated and terrorized in a million ways in Iran while I live my fancy Harvard life. Each one of them deserves to get a Public Policy degree from Harvard more than I do. They are the ones who are courageously changing history; not me. I go to bed thinking about my little friends in Bangladesh who work hard and dream big dreams against all odds. I go to bed hoping that I don’t wake up to a nightmare about how much I miss my best friend and the love of my life. I wake up to the hopeful songs of Darya Dadvar, smile for a few short seconds, try to remember where I am and why I am where I am, wash my face, look in the mirror and decide to be numb throughout the day so that I can successfully take care of my to do list and be a reasonably responsible student and employee. And this has become the story of my life. I never wanted to lead such an elitist and customary life. I wanted to be out with the people who possess little and yet know the value of this life. I am tired of this never-ending journey of working towards a “strong resume” and “the ability to persuade”. It seems the more advanced we get in our career the more we are taught and expected to lie and to design our insincere words and plans with sophisticated ornaments.

Maybe the bottom-line of all of this is that I desire more power in this world in order to, one day, make a difference in the life of a few other human beings. And I somehow unintentionally feel stuck in the part that is about learning how to have more power and how to have a stronger voice. The process of learning about power sometimes feels so unpleasant and artificial to me that makes me miss the times that I had a voice that was insignificant.

Maybe it’s just that I miss writing…I should write more.

A Simple Dream or Maybe Just Wishful Thinking

2009-07-17T21:44:00.014-05:00

This past week I traveled across Bangladesh to seven remote villages in order to interview some of the incoming students of the Access Academy of the Asian University for Women in Chittagong. I got a chance to go and see some of these bright young women in their homes which was quite an experience and a very rare opportunity. During my trip I stopped by a few high schools just to get a feel of how they function in small villages.

In one of these high schools, many students gathered around us as soon as they realized a foreigner is visiting their school. At first I was very nervous and did not know what to really say or do. Then I saw a few teachers coming our way and I just stood still in the middle of the school yard and thought they are going to scold us or something. To my surprise, the teachers had come to simply greet me and to welcome me to their school. They showed me around, introduced some of the students to me and allowed me to explore some of the different classrooms.

The English teacher insisted to take me to the Islamic History class. The teachers took me to a classroom where an obviously highly religious teacher was at the blackboard, pointing to some things that he had scribbled on the board that were probably about Islam. As soon as the students saw us they all began to giggle and make noises. I really did not want to interrupt the class and kept asking the English teacher and others that I do not want to interrupt. But the Islamic History teacher came forward and welcomed me to his class. They told him that I am an Iranian-American researcher or something like that.All I could gather from the Bangla that they were speaking was “Irani”, “America” and “Musalman or something like that”…..He said, “Salam Wa Alaikom” to me and asked me to go to the podium and talk about my knowledge of the foundations of Islamic History and the importance of Islamic principles. I got very nervous and tense. I really just wanted to escape at that point. Looking at the teachers and the students, I felt there was no way out of this situation.

Eventually I nervously walked up to the podium and only said my name, thanked them for having let me to their school and having been very hospitable and wished them all best of luck. The students clapped and so did the teachers; although I believe that the Islamic History teacher and the English teacher were not all that content for I did not say anything about the foundations of Islam.I mean what did I really have to say?They already know more than I do!

Very soon after I stepped on the podium I observed something that it was very unique and commendable for me. Having grown up in Iran, I carry a big baggage of judgment and presumptions about things and people who look strictly Muslim or fond of Islamic principles. I have tried to change this about me. But, I believe, the fear, suspicion and the distrust that many of us lived with as children in Iran make it hard for us to free our minds of tensions of this nature. This means, I still feel vulnerable and nervous when I am put in settings that require me to “pretend” the level of my commitment to my own religion and my own god. Immediately, my defense mechanism begins to escalate and I begin to censor myself, my smiles, my thoughts and my words… I stop looking at those around me in the eye as I am afraid that the more religious Muslim men would get offended if I make eye contact with them or that the women would judge me for my liberal ways of socializing. These are all the souvenirs of the life that we lived in my country.

Despite my fear and presumptions, when I stepped on that podium of that humble school of a village in Bangladesh, I saw the snapshot of my dream for Iran in front of my eyes. I saw a snapshot of many girls and boys sitting on their benches and staring at me. Girls were sitting next to boys on one bench. Some girls had covered their hair and face, some others had covered only their hair and some did not have a veil.This, to me, is a dream for Iran. I am not saying that what I saw was perfect. No, poverty rules millions of people’s lives in Bangladesh and also I am sure there is still much work to be done in removing some of the very conservative taboos that exist in this country. However, despite all these imperfections, what I saw in front of my eyes was what I have always dreamed for Iran…the simple idea of having the permission to at least decide whether or not you want to cover your hair or not and to respectfully coexist with others even if they are different from you.Who has ordered us all to be the same, to wear the same things and to have identical beliefs?

The reason I did not have much to say on that podium was not because I was too nervous to talk or to express myself.I was too occupied observing the students as it seemed like a dream that had found a way to crawl into the reality. It was not what they were wearing that seemed like a dream to me. It was the idea that even if you dress differently you could still sit in a classroom with others to learn and to become friends with them.

Here is a photo that I took of what I faced as I was looking at the students on the podium.

What Makes My Life More Significant than Hers?

2009-07-05T09:26:00.011-05:00

I dedicate this quick reflection to Samiya who came to my room last night and very sincerely spoke with me about the urge that she feels to do something about the poverty that she witnesses in her country everyday....

It is now close to three weeks that I am here in Chittagong, Bangladesh. At first, every hour felt like three days. I felt someone was stretching my days and nights here. I was anxious to return to the U.S. (or even Iran) and just be in a place where life is more comfortable. Whenever I leave the United States and start to miss “home”, I realize that the U.S. has become home for me after all. My time here has been a very fascinating chapter of my life. I find it hard to verbalize my observations and encounters in Bangladesh. It is either because I am still experiencing it or that life is simply different here and hard to describe with words that are all loaded with presumptions and connotation of all kinds. I feel the best way for me to appreciate my surroundings in Bangladesh has been to shut down any comparative perception or supposition that I might have of this place. It is one of those environments where you are just better off to take things for what they are and be flexible with what you expect and what you think should be expected of you.

Being flexible….The students of the Asian University for Women have often talked with me about “flexibility” and about how at this university they have learned to be flexible and cooperative under tough circumstances. They tell me that now that they have an opportunity to get a good education, they should be appreciative and responsible rather than demanding. I think a country like Bangladesh really does teach you some very important lessons.

The truth is that I have been thinking a lot here about the person that I have become in the United States in the past few years. Looking back, I realize that I have achieved many wonderful things in life and can proudly say that I could live and survive on my own. But, I also have forgotten many things in the past few years. I have forgotten the importance of the environment in which I live and the kinds of freedoms and opportunities that it has given me. I have forgotten the level of unconditional care, love and attention that I have received all throughout my life and that I am still receiving. Even if you are a brilliant author, artist, actress or scientist and you know that you have the potential to grow, the chances of you achieving professional and personal goals are very low if the society and your loved ones do not cooperate with you.

Sadly, I seem to have forgotten many of these wonderful opportunities and individuals who have made the beautiful life that I have possible for me. It is not that I do not remember or appreciate them…I do…It is just that in my private moments, I only seem to admire myself for the person that I am becoming. And this is sad! The truth is that many have faced many challenges and hardships for me to be where I am and that my success and my happiness belong to them, those who could benefit from my knowledge and capabilities and of course, myself.

Many talented individuals in the world have the desire, intelligence and vision to succeed and yet they have no real support to help them flourish. And those of us who do have the opportunity to live prosperous lives sometimes tend to forget that many other human beings in the world could have well been in our place.

Let me speak for myself and not others….I, for instance, sometimes cherish the struggles I have overcome and assure myself that I deserve what I have in life. But, my trip to Bangladesh has reminded me that, in fact, I am one of the most fortunate women in the world to live the life that I live and to be able to make decisions for my life….I mean, seriously, I live the life that many of the people that I have met here could only dream of. Whether or not we think that we live happy lives, many individuals in the world run their imagination wild and dream of the lives that we live, the things that we do, the places to which we travel, the food that we eat, the way we fall in love and the independence that we are allowed to obtain. In their dreams they replace you and I with themselves and enjoy the surreal images that pass through their eyes in disbelief.

I look around me here and keep thinking and wondering, “Azadeh, what makes you and your life more significant than this child whose bones are deformed due to malnutrition and who is banging against the window of your car and begging for your money? What makes your future more important than hers? Who decided that her life was going to be a million times harder than yours? Who decided that she should wash herself in some of the dirtiest gutters of Bangladesh and that you should shower with clean water? What motivates her to smile at smaller things in life and what makes happiness so damn difficult for you? When exactly did the world decide that you could live the life that she can’t even dream of and that she should live the life that is way worse than your worst nightmare?”

I don’t really know….All I know is that the life that I live is bigger than even the fluffiest dreams of millions in this world. What could I do other than swallowing my tears and looking away so that my eyes do not meet the eyes of that child? She and I both know that somewhere, somehow and for some odd reason someone in the world decided that my life is more significant than hers...that my wellbeing, comfort and future are more "important" than hers and that I am "better" than her….But why? Really why?

Note: Please do not assume that I am implying that poverty only exists in Bangladesh or that everyone in Bangladesh live miserable lives. All I am trying to say is that in a country like Bangladesh where poverty is more widespread and visible, you begin to remember the reality of other people's life that you have conviniently forgotten...that's all!

Sunita Basnet: An Extraordinary Young Woman from Nepal

2009-06-29T04:04:00.005-05:00

In the past few days that I have stayed at the Asian University for Women-Access Academy in Chittagong, Bangladesh, I have had the privilege to get to know many amazing young women from various countries in the continent of Asia. One of these uniquely extraordinary young women is Sunita Basnet who demands respect with the way she carries herself, her confidence, intelligence and her determination to make a difference in the world. She is the example of a young woman in the process of becoming a world leader some time in the near future.

Sunita Basnet is standing as a candidate for One Young World, a platform where she can represent my generation and her country, Nepal, on some of the greatest challenges ahead. Help her become a delegate by voting for me now. Please take the time to read a bit about her story, her accomplishments and her dreams for Nepal and the world. I am sure,like, me you will come to really admire and respect this young woman. So, please vote for her by clicking the below link: (You have to have a Facebook account to be able to vote. Once you sign in Facebook, you can open the following link and vote for her).

http://apps.facebook.com/oywcandidates/entry/288/

Sunita Basnet needs your vote in order to represents Nepal at the One Young World and to make a difference in Nepal's future through this venue.

Here is a brief summary of Sunita's life and work. I am quoting her bio from the World Pulse: Global Issues Through the Eyes of Women website for which Sunita writes regularly.

I am Sunita Basnet from Nepal but currently in Bangladesh studying with full scholarship in Asian University for Women (AUW). I grew up in a remote village of about five hundred people in the Terai area in the eastern part of Nepal. Most people in my village especially the girls are poorly educated. I am the eldest daughter of five sisters and a brother. My father supports our family as a farmer. Additionally, I volunteered in human right journalism forum in Biratnager, Morang in Nepal. Furthermore,as an intermediate for the campaign “Constitutional Assembly and People’s Dialogue’ in an NGO named Informal Sector Service Center (INSEC) eastern regional branch in Nepal. In that NGO I had to aware 80 people who are underpriviledged women, Political Leaders, Business Men, Farmers, Teachers and Service holder in two different village development council in Morang, Nepal. On the other hand, in Bangladesh, I am also volunteering as a supervisor in IT lab, financial department, Library in AUW. In future I wanted to work against poverty especially with women for their right, education and improvement. For this I had already started my journey from my country by opening women’s saving club which will help women to save their money and take loan in a low interest in their necessary. I wanted to convert saving club into credit union bank which will be run by only women in the future for women’s improvement.

And here are some more links about Sunita:
1) Youth Action Partners for Development

2)Asian University for Women

Bangladesh (2)

2009-06-25T03:43:00.009-05:00

Asian University for Women
Access Academy

Close your eyes. Forget whatever you know about a typical college. Close your eyes and travel to a 9-story building somewhere in the city of Chittagong in Bangladesh with me. It is called Asian University for Women(AUW)-Access Academy. Imagine over a hundred or so young women (19-25) who have come to this 9-story building from all over Asia to learn. They all live and study in this building. Some of their teachers live in this building, too. The Admissions office, classrooms, health clinic, Access Academy office and the library are all in this building. We are now at the door of AUW-Access Academy. We enter. Like most apartment complexes in cities, there is a front desk and a receptionist. She is a young girl who is both a cleaning lady and a receptionist. She knows enough English to greet you.

As you go up the stairs, you begin to see many young women who go up and down the stairs. Everyone is busy doing something: running to the computer lab to finish an argumentative essay, going to the library to study for an exam, meeting with a teacher, going to the cafeteria, going to the roof to hang the clothes that they have just washed, going to the Karate class and many different activities. They all wear colofrul clothes. They see you and very quickly they identify you as a “newcomer”. They smile and greet you politely: “Hello, Miss. How are you?” I have never seen these many beautiful smiles all at once. They are from Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India, Cambodia and they are awaiting more peers from a few more countries in Asia next year.

I am here to interview some of the women at the Asian University for Women-Access Academy. At first, I thought of what I have to do here more like one of the “projects” that I have been assigned to do this summer. By project I mean an interesting activity that has a starting point and that will result in a written document. Very soon, however, I realized that my time here is truly more than just a project and it is really an experience that I will never forget throughout my life.
I live in the same dormitory as the students (but in a nicer room). At first, I was not all that happy about my living situation mainly because I did not know anybody and at nights I felt lonely and I thought I would make the students uncomfortable by appearing in their spaces. I did not like the food and I was scared to be alone in a big area all by myself. Above all of this, I am scared of cockroaches and bugs which really impacted my mood during first few nights here.

Gradually, I started to interact and speak with the students and without even realizing it I ended up making many friends here. It is only a week since I have arrived in Bangladesh and I already have made friends from 6 different countries in Asia. In the evening, we sometimes hang out and joke around. We talk about their futures, their worries, dreams, determination to succeed, their desire to establish a family one day, their families and how much they miss being with them. We talk for hours and hours. They sing for me and talk about their feelings, sad and happy thoughts. They ask about my life and how it was to move from Iran to the United States. They want to know how I got into a good university and what they should do to become even more successful than they already are. They are thirsty to know more about the world. When I told them I was in Argentina and Mexico for a few months they asked me to tell them all that I remember from those two countries. They just want to know, know, know...

Some of them have had hard lives and amazing life stories at this young age. They have different personalities and dreams. They come from different background and different families. But, now they are like family members for one another. Some of them are far away from their parents and siblings and have not seen their family for the past one year and a half. They have made the decision to come all the way to Bangladesh in order to get a unique education; something that is very uncommon for women their age in their localities. Of course, they dearly miss their homes and families. But, they have found profound ways to survive here. They love their teachers and each other. Undoubtedly, there are sometimes quarrel, but they know very well how to resolve the situation quickly and all by themselves. During their time they have created a family of their own with about 120 other young women who are here only to excel and learn about themselves and the world.

I am amazed by their patience, intelligence, kindness, their ability to dream big dreams and to run toward those dreams despite all the hardships and barriers. I close my eyes and imagine some of them in year 2015. They will be working at NGOs, helping their communities and the world, travelling in the world, speaking in conferences and writing about their opinions and experiences and simply making a difference in the world.

This is only the beginning of their stories. Some of these young, intelligent and beautiful women desire nothing less than running the world. I am convinced that together (and along with other hardworking determined youth in the world) they will, in fact, run the world. They are restless for the day when they are at the peak of their careers and lives. I try to remind them that the process of hiking all the way to the top is just as beautiful as the moment of victory. With their beautiful eyes that are full of energy, they try to hide their restlessness and smile. Each one of them is a true heroin and what I love about them is that they know that they are exceptional.

It is hard to describe how much I am learning from them about life, patience, determination and not losing hope.They have no idea that they are teaching me a new lesson every time they speak with me. As they go to bed every night and dream about their future, I put my head on the pillow and think about all the hardships that they have had to go through to get to where they are.

Our Neda will Stay!

2009-06-24T22:10:00.006-05:00

I wrote this in reaction to the tragic death of Neda. I am writing this piece as I am in Bangladesh for my summer internship. This is only a way for me to try and calm down and express all this grief and…

Since last week, not a single moment has passed without Neda. I did not know Neda. But I feel I know her well enough to tell you all about her …I know Neda now… Neda, like you and I, loves to live a life full of happiness and achievements. She loves to smile. Her smile is dream-like and beautiful. She could talk for hours and analyze the world with her philosophical theories. It’s so cute when she speaks her mind in this profound way that resembles a post-modern version of the Greek philosophers.

Like many of us young women, she enjoys looking pretty. She spends some time in front of the mirror every morning and night making sure her eyebrows are symmetrically done, putting on her eye shadow, fixing her hair….She keeps up with fashion religiously…A fashionable and beautiful philosopher…

Neda has been with me in the streets of Bangladesh. In fact, we went shopping the other day one of the chaotic (but fascinating) bazaars of Chittagong. We both acted very silly in our Bangladeshi outfits. All the men were staring us down in the street as they could tell we are not from around here. They would say, “Madam, hello….hello…how are you?” We both would giggle and walk away as soon as we would hear their silly greeting words in English. We bought some random things like T-shirts, scarves and things. We bought mango and peanuts.

Neda looked very beautiful in her Bangladeshi dress(Shalwar and Kameez).It was my second time wearing their traditional outfit and it was her first time. At first we both felt funny, but then we were entertained by our new look. Her dress was bright yellow. She looked like the Lady Sun that has one day decided to come down on this planet and look around. She looked so stunningly beautiful.

Neda told me about these past few years in Iran and how she is just sick of the restrictions she faces in the university and in the streets. She told me she loved her family and that they are the best part of her life. She, like me, said that she loves her dad. She said that she knew of my mother and that she had read some of her articles on women’s rights in Iran. She told me about some of her friends’ house parties in Iran. She said that despite all the restrictions, they always find a way to at least have a little bit of fun.

Neda followed me to the dormitory in which I stay here in Chittagong. I introduced her to some of the students of the university for which I am interning. They loved her. They told me, “Miss, it’s great that you have brought your friend. She is so kind and so beautiful…” Neda talked with some of them about their lives and dreams. They just loved Neda. One of the girls sat next to Neda for a few hours and said to her, “Miss, I just want to sit next to you. Tell us about Iran.” Neda talked and talked and they listened and listened.

When the girls left my room late at night, I thought Neda must be tired. So, I went and prepared the bathroom so that she could take a shower before going to bed. I stepped out the bathroom to tell her that the bathtub is ready for her and that I left her shampoo, conditioner and a clean towel. She was not there. I looked for her. She was not in the room. She was nowhere to be found.

Staring at the video clip of her that was not even a minute long, I cried all night. The damn internet was too slow here in Bangladesh for me to understand what was happening in the video clip. It would get stuck on a scene and get blurry. Looking at the blood that had covered all over her stunningly beautiful face made me nauseous. Along with her father I screamed, “Neda…Neda….” No one heard me. I did not even hear myself. I felt some scary and violent man was cutting my nerves off from inside my body. I looked away just because I could not see the rest of this brutality; “brutality” is an underestimated way to describe what happened to Neda. I looked at the bed that I had prepared for Neda. Her yellow dress was sitting there; ripped and with blood stains all over. I cried and screamed and sobbed. I am shattered like a mirror that has gotten shattered into a million and half pieces.
I cry and think about the uselessness of my tears. Neda is gone and there is nothing I can do to bring her back to this world. There is nothing I can do to apologize for what happened to her. There is nothing I can do to give the world even one more chance of witnessing her beautiful smile.

They call her a martyr now. She was simply a young woman like you and I who wanted to freely walk, smile, love, dress, talk….Give our Neda back to us. I will never forget….forgive? You slaughtered Neda. No, I won’t forgive. I will try hard to forgive. I will try. But I doubt that I can. Give our Neda back. Give her back. Do you even have a heart in your chest? You shot her in the chest…Close to her heart. Do you even have one yourself? Bring my Neda, our Neda, Iran’s Neda back to us….Bring her back.

“Neda, fear not!” “Neda, Stay!” “Neda, Stay!” “Neda, Stay!”…The last words of her father….Did she hear these words? I hope that the angel of our dreams who is sitting somewhere in our most beautiful dreams and is looking at us with hope from afar, heard her father’s last words….they were the most important words for the future of Iran and I hope she heard them. We need Neda to stay. Neda will stay. She will. Neda will stay forever. She will stay even after we all die. She will be our name. She will be the name of our generation, our land, our loss, all the humiliations that we have undergone since childhood, our dreams and our resistance. Neda will stay and take the revenge of our generation with her peaceful, beautiful and innocent smile. She will. It is now your turn to be scared of her smile. You slaughtered her with your bullets. Now it is your turn to fear her beautiful eyes that imply nothing but peace and the dream of freedom and youthful happiness.

Her blood stained your divine talk for good. Neda will stay. She will.

Safe?

2009-06-21T21:49:00.004-05:00

My childhood friend just sent me a message on the facebook telling me that he is back in the United States. He said that he just got back from Iran yesterday. I said, "I am happy that at least you are safe". He got very angry with me and wrote back, "Do you even know what you are saying? Safe? Safe? Do you know how many of my friends died or got beaten up? Safe? What are you talking about? I am safe. So what? What about my friends? What about them? "

I had nothing to say. Nothing...Other than staring at my laptop silently and in tears...

Happy Father's Day to Neda's Father!

2009-06-21T01:49:00.006-05:00

Neda is a girl who got killed by the governmental forces in front of her father yesterday. Let us take this moment to ask for peace for the innocent and brave spirit of Neda who made history! And let us(with grief and hope) wish a man who lost his beautiful and intelligent daughter, a happy father's day....Let us remind the mournful man that his daughter, Neda, will never die in our hearts and in the history of Iran.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzZGirbLiUo

Please watch this video only if you care to know what goes on in today's Iran and not to simply watch a violent video clip. This clip captures last moments of Neda's life and the brutality that is enforced upon her fragile body....

Happy Father's Day, our dearest Neda's father!

My Iran...Our Iran....

2009-06-20T15:15:00.005-05:00

I am worried. I am scared. I am proud to be a member of a generation that is couragously creating history. I am ashamed for not being among them in the streets of Tehran. In the past 10 days, I have only lived "Iran". My heart and my thoughts only belong to Iran and those who are being injured and killed in the streets of Iran.

I have just arrived in Bangladesh and while everything around me in this country is new and fascinating, I cannot help but to think of my own countries. Many have been killed in the past few days. A very young and beautiful girl was killed.

What could we do? I cannot stop crying. The internet is too slow here and I cannot follow the news as closely as I would like to. What is happening in our Iran? I hope there is a happy ending whatever that may be.

Today, I am proud to be Iranian and I wish I could do my part to help and to voice the demands of the youth. Live has not determined the fate of being in Iran right now. But I will do what I can to inform those around me about what goes on in Iran....

My favorite Iranian film director and artist, Mohsen Makhmalbaf has urged all Iranians who live abroad to think of themselves as ambassadors of Iran and to use our connections and reputation to spread the news about Iran and to speak out about the violence that is being enforced.

Let us hope for a Iran that is clear of violenec and injustice....What else could I do all the way from Bangladesh right now other than listening to Mohsen Makhmalbaf's piece of advice?

Bangladesh(1)

2009-06-20T01:13:00.012-05:00

Boston to Dhaka-July 16th, 2009

Even though I had to go to Logan Airport in the middle of the night in order to catch the 6:15 AM flight, Mimi (my mom) insisted to accompany me to the airport. As we left our apartment building to enter the cab, I looked back at the huge concrete buidlinding called 2 Peabody Terrace in which Mimi and I lived for a year and said goodbye to the life that we lived there. Mimi is leaving Boston for Washington DC for 6 months and after that who knows where…. After my time in Bangladesh is over I will return to Boston to begin my final year of Masters. It will be lonely, cause Mimi won’t be there anymore. We will go back to our routine of being far away and worrying about each other from afar.

I said goodbye to our good old 2 Peabody Terrace and got into the cab with Mimi. This was the beginning of yet another journey; a journey that like most of the journeys I have experienced in my life is new and nothing like I have seen in my life. Mimi was looking out the window and I was looking at her. I was going to miss her. Sometimes when I look at her face, I remember that I am still capable of caring and loving. I looked at her again as I was lost in my thoughts. She caught me looking at her, held my hands and said, “Enough of this drama, Azadeh. You are going to see a whole new world. I am proud of you for always trying to get out of your comfort zone to go and see new things. Don’t worry about me. I will be fine. Remember? I managed to live without you for forty years before giving birth to you. Go on your journey, young lady!”

We got to Logan Airport at around 3:30 AM. After I checked in my luggages, the coffee addicts that we are, we began to hopelessly look for a coffeeshop that was actually open that early in the morning. After looking for a while, we found a Dunkin Donuts close to the baggage claim section of the terminal. To our surprise there was already a long line at the store. We stood in line and soon we realized that all of the people who had lined up were the luggage section’s staff. After half an hour of waiting, we finally got our coffee and in a sleepy/happy mood went upstairs to sit somewhere nice and drink out coffee.

I kept on checking my blackberry for the news of Iran. Our beloved land is going through some serious tough times. One of the reasons I was not all that excited about my Bangladesh trip was the fact I was going to be disconnected from the internet for a while which meant that I could not closely follow the news of Iran anymore. Mimi and I often exchange our political views and this time neither one of us could come up with an answer about Iran’s future (at least its immediate future). It is worrisome. I know life under those restrict circumstances in Iran is tough and I know and remember the impact of getting insulted by the authorities. I know how frustrating it is to feel that a government is playing games with you that could result in the worsening of your lives. So, I understand the reasons behind all these protests and I truly admire those who risk their freedom, career and lives to go to the streets and protest. But I still get worried and a bit pessimistic when I think of violence as the solution. Those who participate in the protests have tried to be peaceful, but there have been many encounters with the ruling government and the Sepah that has changed the direction of these peaceful protests. Many are injured and, based on some of the official news, about 8 individuals were killed. I have always been scared of violence and the rush that it brings to its perpetuators. Violence generates violence. That’s all I know and this much is enough to make me terrified of Iran’s future.

These thoughts about Iran have not left me alone even now that I have arrived in Bangladesh. At least in Boston, I could share my thoughts and worries with Mimi who had experienced the Islamic Revolution (she never felt that revolution was the answer, even at that young age) and the Iran-Iraq war. But during my long flights to Bangladesh, I felt I was going to explode with all my thoughts about Iran. I kept on thinking, “Why in the world am I going to Bangladesh when my own country, Iran, is very close to burning in violence and agitation.” But I remember that 7 years ago I had no choice but to leave Iran as the authorities had taken the beautiful peace with which we lived as a family from our lives. They did not like my parents and their work for human rights which meant that they were going to do anything that they could to eliminate them from the political scene of the nation. I remembered how much I have missed Iran during the past 7 years, how much I miss my father and how much I feel I could effectively utilize the knowledge that I have gained in the US to improve at least a few people’s lives in the country that I love dearly. But…Alas…Alas that we are confined to our destiny….My destiny, it seems, fl ew me out of Iran 7 years ago and it does not seem to want to have me return to Iran at least for some time.

I went from Boston to NYC and from NYC to Dubai. I had a couple of hours to spend in Dubai. It was a pretty emotional time for me as I kept on hearing the announcements from Iran Air and the flights to Iran. I wanted to leave my gate and get on one of the flights to Iran. “I should go to Iran right now….Why am going to Bangladesh? Am I escaping from my passion and my love for Iran? Why am I lying to myself?” But I was not strong enough to change gears and to go to Iran from Dubai. I ended up taking the flight to Dhaka, Bangladesh. As we were lined up to get on the plane, I met an Iranian guy who was on his way to Islamablad, Pakistan. He had the Gulf News in his hand and was proud to be Iranian as he thought the current unrest in Iran is a positive sign. He said that he was a climber and that he was going to Islamabad to meet some other Iranian climbers and to begin a climbing journey.

Meeting him made me feel less lonely and strangely. It somehow felt good to know that there is another Iranian person on this flight who does strange things that do not fit in the clichés of an ordinary life. I mean, seriously….He was going to Islamabad to climb! Who goes to a country that is as unsafe as today’s Pakistan for climbing. I admired him in my heart, but deep down was glad that our seats were not next to each other. He came and invited me to go and sit close to him as he had empty seats next to his. Even though I enjoyed my conversation with him, I did not go to say to him for most of the flight(I only went when were almost landing). I did not go, because I was afraid that talking about Iran on this flight was going to make me cry. I did not want to cry in front of a stranger. So I just sat in my own seat away from him and once in a while quietly shed tears. A part of me was excited to go to a country of which I had very little imagination and a part of me was worried for Mimi in the US, Baba(my dad) in Iran and Leili(my sister ) in Canada. This time around, I was also worried for all those young faces that I kept seeing on CNN and BBC and Youtube who are protesting in Iran.

Dhaka to Chittagong- July 17th, 2009-06-18

We landed in Dhaka, Bangladesh. It was different from arriving in Western cities as everyone on the plane got up way before the pilot allowed us to get up. People were speaking all the way from one side of the plane to the other with each other and so on. I already had received a few strange looks from the people on the plane. I think they had figured out that I was not from Bangladesh and they had this question mark on their face that wanted to ask me, “why are you in Bangladesh?”. One guy asked me some questions in terribly broken English and when I responded, he said that he does not understand English. He wanted me to see his passport and to see that his Bangladeshi passport had stuff in English in it. At first, I was sitting next to him. But, as he started talking and move too much in his seat, I got a bit nervous and asked the flight attendant to change my seat. I felt everyone was staring at me when I got up and sat on a different seat. I thought to myself, “Azadeh, this is only a tiny sample of what is awaiting a single young woman in Bangladesh. So, prepare yourself, woman! Be strong and not scared.”

As I stepped outside the plane, I felt I was walking into a Sauna; very hot and humid. I was worried that the heat would remind me of Tehran and make me feel even more nostalgic for not being there. But, fortunately the humidity made the climate feel very different from the dry heat of Tehran. As we approached the baggage claim area, I saw two computers for public use. I left the cart that I had picked up for carrying my luggage and quickly emailed Mimi and Leili(my sister) to tell them that I had arrived to Dhaka safely.

Already sweaty, I went up to the baggage claim section. My host organization had told me that someone was going to meet me at the Dhaka airport and will stay with me for the 2 hours of my layover time in Dhaka. They had told me that the Dhaka airport is not all that pleasant for a foreign woman. I walked out of the secured area of the airport with my big luggage hoping to see a sign for “Asian University for Women”. But unfortunately the person either never showed up or I could not find him. I looked very confused and clueless which meant that people were staring at me to try and figure out why I was in Dhaka. Finally someone guided me to the domestic flights’ section. I had to give my luggage for security check. The old man who was sitting at the security table saw that I was trying hard to pick up the luggage from the cart and put it on the table. I think he felt bad for me and asked, “Bad things or no?” I said, “No”, he said, “OK!” and let me go. Someone who looked like he could be the airport staff approached me and asked, “GMG?” I gave him the confused look. He took my ticket from my hand and guided me to sit and wait for the airplane to arrive. I am not going to lie…I was a bit scared. But I think it was a great introduction to Bangladesh for me and made me realize that if necessary I should figure out things on my own.

A couple of random men approached me and tried to ask me where I was from and things like that. The airport and especially the domestic flights section looked more like a bus terminal than anything else. Different GMG (my domestic airline) staff would come and ask me questions and sometimes there were very nice. For instance, once a guy from GMG asked if I wanted tea or coffee. Some other men who also was wearing the airport uniform and had a stick in his hand came up to me and said, “whiskey?” and pointed to my luggage. I said, “No”. He said, “Sure?” I said, “ Yes, sir” and he just walked away.

It was getting close to the flight time. They came, took my luggage and took me to a different area where the shuttle comes to take the passengers to the plane. Half an hour later, I was told that the flight was delayed. I was very tired and sleepy and was trying hard to keep my eyes open. I took a book to read so that I don’t fall asleep. A guy approached me and asked me if I was studying. I said, “no, well, maybe”. He asked me where I was from and when he realized that I am originally from Iran, he told me that he has been following the news on elections and that he thinks Ahmadinejad is a good minister (all of this in broken English). I just nodded and smiled. I did not feel like talking or explaining or anything. I just wanted to pass out on some bed. Later, it turned out the reason he was talking with me was because he was trying to convince me to switch my flight from GMG to Royal Bengal. That’s how tight the competition between domestic airlines seem to be here. They send their staff to convince you to switch your flights! I was so confused when he asked me to switch my flight. I kept on saying, “No, thanks!”

Our plane finally arrived and we got on the plane. It was a very tiny plane. As we sat down, the flight attendant who was a beautiful young Bengali woman began by saying “Allah Akbar…La Elaha Ellallah…” It was quite a while that I had not heard these words on a plane. Those words took me back to Iran and the agitation that has taken over my country in the past few weeks.

When the plane was taking off, I got incredibly terrified. The plane was making all sorts of loud sounds and the whole thing was shaking as we were taking off. All of that fear did not last long as I passed out for the entire hours of the flight. I woke up just in time to hear that we were in Chittagong (my destination).
I was very worried that no one was going to show up to pick me up. It was already midnight and I had no idea what I would do. Fortunately the driver of Asian University for Women was waiting for me with a sign. He helped me get in his van and in broken English he said, “hour or more”. We were in the car for more than hour. As I was hopelessly playing with my Blackberry in the car, I realized that I could send text messages to the US with it even though I was in Bangladesh. I sent a message to Mimi and my friend in the US. My friend responded saying that he was worried for me. Being able to communicate with them made me feel a bit less tired and nervous.

I looked out the window of the car and was amazed by the traffic flow in the streets of Chittagong. For the most part, there were no traffic lines or lights and every car, bike taxis and motorcycle taxis were going in all sorts of directions. It seemed that everyone was always honking their horn. I looked at the sideways. It felt as though the entire city was outside at this late hour of the night. People were out, walking and doing things. Everyone seemed busy or in a rush. Vendors were all over the place. Women in their colorful outfits were walking in all directions and men, too, seemed busy carrying things, selling or chatting. I was fascinated to watch the guys who would bike 2 or 3 people on their bike taxis. They all seemed very thin with very strong legs. I looked at some of their faces. They looked very focused and concentrated on pedaling. Buses would drive in all directions. I saw people even sitting on the roof of busses. People were hanging from the bars of the bus and half of their body was outside the door. Every place, every car and bus looked overcrowded and full.

This was a new world. I was a true newcomer into this scene. It felt as though I had just discovered the land that only seemed and felt fictional with its many hardworking people and its heat.

Note 1: I am sorry if this piece is all over the place and not comprehensible at times. I am still adjusting to my new environment, cannot stop thinking and worrying about the events in Iran and have a hard time concentrating on writing. Hopefully as I write more about my experience here, I will figure out a better style for my pieces. Bear with me, please!

Note 2: I have been taking many photos. I wish I could upload them here or on some other website. But unfortunately, the internet is too slow for me to be ale to upload them while I am here. Hopefully, I will share them with you upon my return to the US.

Tomorrow...

2009-06-11T22:38:00.007-05:00

In less than an hour the presidential election day begins in Iran. Iran has witnessed a few weeks full of tension, hope and fear. I have been amazed by the courage of many Iranian men, women and youth who have, one way or another, raised their objections to the government's policies and regulations.

I have tried to find some substance to this "hope" in the agendas of the less conservative candidates. Unfortunately, I have not found much hope for any kind of effective change in their words and agendas. I am also well aware of the limitations of elections in the political system of Iran. I know that not all of us could have our true candidates in the race; as the Guardian Council has the power to refrain candidates whose background does not show consistent faithfulness to the Islamic Republic from making it to the final stage of nomination. I know that sometimes voting in an imperfect so-called democracy could only strengthen the faulty principles of that political system. I know that the Constitution of the Islamic Republic does not allow any kind of fundamental reform.

I still vividly remember the sweet taste of the hope of Khatami's Reform Movement that soon turned into despair and hopelessness. In fact, I am still living the storm of lost hopes that came our way during Khatami's presidency. We believed Khatami's promises for reform. I think, even President Khatami believed his own words. I know he is a good person. He just maybe one day forgot that his ideals of civil society and reform cannot take place in today's Iran. Mousavi and Karoubi, too, seem to have forgotten their limited power of the president in Iran. They have made too many promises and I am fearful that they,too, could not implement those promises.

You got it right. I am not all that optimistic. I am tired of promises and the excitement that follows hollow slogans of reform. I am terrified that once again all those beautiful and young faces who risk their freedom by going to the streets and chanting out their objections and their hopes will lose hope. I am worried...

Despite all these worries, I think I will vote tomorrow morning. Why? I will vote because I feel I should not decide for those who live in Iran. I have been following the news in the past few weeks and have come to the following conclusion: Most of those young women who live in Iran, who remind me of the kind of life that I lived in that country and whose struggles are well familiar for me have become united to vote. They are determined to try their chances once again and to vote for reform and change in solidarity. I do not give myself the right to doubt their decision as it determines their future.

I salute them and their efforts. I have tremendous respect for all those who have swallowed their bitter memories of the final days of Khatami's reform and have decided to stand up with hope once again. I respect all those who are still able to have hopes in the country where having hopes is considered a crime. All I could do from miles and miles away is to follow them in their attempts and to vote with the hope that their lives will become slightly easier and less restricted in the near future. I salute those young, beautiful and hopeful faces in the streets of Iran and hope that their wishes turn into reality...Let us hope for an Iran whose youth are content, free and proud to be Iranian...I vote only for them.

Obama's DC

2009-06-10T14:59:00.008-05:00

Last week I was lucky enough to go to DC on a short trip. Washington DC is the first city in which I resided when I came from Iran in 2001. So, I consider DC my second home and I feel strangely comfortable in the streets of this city. Even though I have not lived in DC for a few years, I continue to consider DC my most favorite city in the US. I don't like DC because it is a pretty city and things. I like DC because of the political energy that runs the city.

Last week, I went to DC for the fist time since President Obama has begun his work. I did not stay in town for long enough to really feel the kind of energy that President Obama's administration has brought into this town. However, even in my very short stay I encountered a distinct level of energy in DC. I overheard many conversation as I was on the metro or in other public spaces about specific policies that are being implemented by President Obama. I overheard many young professionals talking about President Obama as though he was simply one of them.I felt the sense of distance between the people and the White House has decreased. I also felt a buzz among some of the young professionals that I encountered that I believe might be rooted in the sense of responsibility to the United States and the world that nowadays has become the dominant theme of this town.

I am not trying to say President Obama has fully transformed the city in the best possible way. All I am trying to convey is that I felt a level of energy, hope and responsibility around town that I had not felt in the past. Let us hope that this positive energy will, in fact, impact the United States' domestic and foreign policies in effective and sensible ways.

Iran's Next President

2009-06-09T14:31:00.002-05:00

I had the priviledge to take part in a panel in Washington DC and at the New America Foundation to speak about a poll on the Iranian election that was just released yesterday.Please go to the following websites for more information about the poll, the results and to watch the event

http://www.newamerica.net/events/2009/irans_next_president

http://www.thewashingtonnote.com/

So, sister, I'm Keepin' my eye on you....

2009-03-14T18:21:00.002-05:00

One of my classmates in "Women and Leadership" class shared a clip from the movie of the Color Purple(my favorite novel) with us. This song and the dynamics presented in this clip made me think a lot. It made me think of all the times that maybe even unconsciously or maybe because of jealousy or competition I have been "mean" or "unkind" to other women. Or for instance, it made me think of the female members of the moral police in Iran who chase after the "not approppriately veiled" women on the street and arrest them. I am not saying any of us is to be blamed as for the most part we are part of an already established system and sets of norms and so we do what we are told to do or what we think it is "right" or the "norm". But maybe once in a while we do need clips and songs like the one I am about to share with you in order to rethink our behavior and our values and in order to become more aware of our own feelings, actions and the consequences of the kind of behavior that we choose to have. After all, as women we have a long path to take in order to one show our true capacity and competence to ourselves and the world. So why should be make this path harder for ourselves by creating even more obstacles on the way for each other? We are all in this together one way or another....

Click Here to watch this clip.

Miss Celie's Blues(from the color Purple)
Woh woh ..........
Uhm uhm ..........
Uhm uhm ..........

Sister,
you've been on my mind
Sister, we're two of a kind
So sister,
I'm keepin' my eyes on you
I betcha think
I don't know nothin'
But singin' the blues
Oh sister, have I got news for you
I'm somethin'
I hope you think
that you're somethin' too

Oh, Scufflin',
I been up that lonesome road
And I seen a lot of suns goin' down
Oh, but trust me
No low life's gonna run me around

So let me tell you somethin' sister
Remember your name
No twister,
gonna steal your stuff away
My sister
We sho' ain't got a whole lot of time
So shake your shimmy,
Sister
'Cause honey the 'shug
is feelin' fine

No Comments

2009-02-16T16:51:00.009-05:00

The following is an interview conducted by Amy Goodman with a friend from Gaza , Amer, who lost two brothers last month. Amer is a recent Middlebury College graduate and currently lives in Washington DC. I refrain from making any comments about it. As a "rational" student of Public Policy I try(try hard) to think logically about historic and tragic conflicts of this nature. Alas...my logic and sensibility fail every time I even begin to analyze these events, these losses, this seemingly never-ending animosity. What is there to do really? I wish Amer patience and strength. Click here to watch Amer's interview on Democracy Now. I wish for peace...

Life Does Go on in Tehran...

2009-02-15T22:06:00.009-05:00

This blog is called, "Life Goes on in Tehran". Many of you might have already come across this blog. But I had not heard of it before and just today a Canadian classmate sent me its link. I find it to be a very interesting and important photo blog. As the blogger states, the mission of this blog is, "To show that regardless of what any president would have you imagine, despite what any media outlet would have you believe, life goes on in Tehran and elsewhere in Iran." Apparently the photographer of this blog that has monthly photo albums of Tehran is a former LA resident who has now returned to Iran. For instance, if you click here, you will see the latest monthly album(Feb. 2009). According to the archives this photo blog was launched in April 2007. I certainly recommend browsing through the photos of this blog.Living in the US for quite a few years, I have realized that as Iranian-Americans we walk such a fine line everyday by both telling the world of the flaws of our country, but also by making sure that people do not think Iran is some awfully backward country that has no sign of civilization or modernity. It is because of having walked this fine line many times during my time in the US that I really appreciate blogs like the aforementioned photoblog. The following is what the photographer of this blog says about his/her reasons for having begun this blog:

"What inspired you to start Life Goes on in Tehran?

When I was leaving Los Angeles, many of my friends were worried for me. They thought I was jumping into a war zone. Soon after moving to Iran I shared a few photos with them and assured them that all is safe and normal. But I soon realized how little they knew about Iran. Their fears and lack of knowledge about Iran is justified and a result of the negative portrayal of this country in Western media -- as well as sound bites from a certain controversial President. So I decided to start a site to remind them (and the rest of the world) that life goes on in Tehran and elsewhere in Iran"

With the best wishes for this photoblogger

Is the Moon More Important or the Sun?

2009-02-11T00:30:00.003-05:00

I am reading for an op-ed that I have to write for my Comparative Politics class and I came across a paper called “Realism, Liberalism, and Dilemmas of Strategic Choice” by Arthur A. Stein in Why Nations Cooperate. I really liked reading its first few paragraphs and loved the analogy that it uses to introduce the dynamics of international politics. Given my background in literature, I always almost suffer from the dry nature of essays in political science. Also, the initial simplified analogy reminds me of the history of Iran-US relations. So I decided to share an excerpt of it with you:

“In the village of Chelm the people argue. The moon, cry some, is more important than the sun. But others, fierce partisans of the sun disagree. With the town rent by debate, the elders take up the question. After talking through the night, they decided: the moon is more important. It illuminates the otherwise dark hours. The sun, on the other hand, shines only in the day—when it is hardly needed.
Conflict and cooperation both attend the workings of international politics. In academia the scholars argue. They disagree about which predominates, about which constitutes the norm from which deviations must be explained. Some see conflict as the hallmark of international politics and hold cooperation to be rare of little consequences and temporary. Others believe that international politics resembles other political systems in which there develop norms, rules, and a generally cooperative ambiance. To them, conflict appears unusual. Scholars of both persuasions tend to concentrate their work on developing their presumptions about international politics and how these relate to patterns of either cooperation or conflict. Ironically, neither school focuses on explaining departures from the expected pattern. Rather, both schools emphasize what they perceive to be the norm.
Most basically, national choose between cooperation and conflict and such decisions underlie the entire range of international relations from alliances to war: When, how and why they choose between them, and with what consequences, thus constitute the primary foci of the study of international politics”.

I am worried for Shirin Ebadi!

2009-01-04T20:07:00.007-05:00

For Shirin Ebadi: a woman I adore and admire

I often think of my past in Iran as a ship that has sunk in the infinity of an ocean somewhere in the ambiguity of time and space. There are very few unforgettable individuals and precious memories that have kept me hopeful for finding this sunken ship of the past one day. One of those powerful images that have kept me hopeful all throughout these years is Shirin Ebadi. I have vivid memories of the few times that I felt so incredibly safe in her arms during hard times when I could not even trust the ground under my feet. Her kind eyes, feminine body, her warm embrace and her meaningful words were what kept me on my feet in a few instances when I was so ready to break down and give in.

When my mother was considered a threat to the national security of the Islamic Republic and was imprisoned, Shirin Ebadi came and took me to her own apartment for a few days. She took me to her home so that I could take my final exams in peace and away from all these political struggles. Narges(her daughter) and I would study in one room. I had a great time the few nights that I stayed with them. Narges and I would study together and during our breaks we would talk about everything that was in our chaotic minds, laugh and eat lots of ice-cream. Soon we would hear Shirin’s voice, “Girls, I’m assuming that you are both done studying for your exams. Am I right?” Looking at each other worriedly, we would resume the quite studying mode.

During the week that I was at their house, Shirin made sure that I drank enough milk, fruits and food. A few times she quizzed me on my studies and took me to school, kept my hand in her own hand and kissed me before letting me go to school in the morning. She would say, “You know what would make your mom happy, don’t you? A transcript full of A pluses.”

One night when I was studying in Narges’ room, Narges and Negar(her other daughter) were in their mother’s room and I could hear the joyful laughter of the three women from the other room. With a book in front of me, their laughter became like a melody to my sorrows and I began to remember. I remembered throwing myself in my mother’s arms every night when she would return from her law firm. I remembered gossiping, talking, giggling and laughing in her bed. As I was daydreaming, I heard Shirin’s voice, “ Azadeh, my daughter, come and join us. Don’t stay there by yourself”. I got up and nervously stepped into the other room. “How did she know what I was thinking about?”, I thought to myself. She grabbed my hand and I lied down on the bed with them. Negar, Narges, Shirin and I talked and laughed and made funny comments for a good hour or so. I laughed away so much fear, worry and nostalgia that night. It was an unspoken agreement between us. I was going to be Shirin’s daughter for as long as I was deprived from having my own mother around.

A few months after she had received the Nobel Peace Prize and a couple of years after much had happened to my family, I went to Shirin’s talk in Washington DC. When she was entering into the building, I shyly followed the crowd of eager Iranians who were following her. I stayed back, because I was scared of the moment that she would see me and not recognize me. “Why would she even care about you at this point, Azadeh?”, I thought to myself. As I was lost in my own thoughts, someone patted me on my shoulder. A woman was trying to tell me that Shirin was looking my way. As I turned my head to catch her glance, she literally screamed, “my daughter…” She politely asked everyone to clear the way, quickly made her way toward me in the crowd. It was the same warm motherly embrace that I still remembered from some years back. She cried and I cried. We cried about so much that was lost. It is amazing how even a Nobel Peace Prize could not replace the peace that was once stolen from our lives. I could hear people whispering to each other, “Who is she? She is definitely not Shirin Ebadi’s daughter”. Someone in the crowd said, “She is Mehrangiz Kar’s daughter”.

Shirin told everyone that she did not have time for autographs and interviews, grabbed my hand and took me to the closest café. We sat down and I was so emotional and nervous that I do not even remember what I told her or what I did. All I know is that she had 30 minutes before her talk and she wanted to hear all about my life during those 30 minutes. She said, “You know you are going to shine and we expect no less than a star from you. Right, my daughter? ” I nodded to her exactly the way I had nodded when she told me that she expected excellent grades from me that day in front of my school.

So much had happened since the last time I had seen her in Iran. I was now simply a high school student in the US, my mother was suffering the burdens of exile and my father (who was a journalist in Iran) was kidnapped and was being tortured by the authorities in Iran. She patted my hair and cleared my tears from my cheeks and promised me that everything is going to get resolved. I never forget the warmth of her embrace that day. In the frozen time of exile, she appeared to me like an angel from that lost and sunken ship of the past. I did not want her to leave. I wanted her to rescue my mother somehow. But she could not. She, too, had to survive her own unstable life; her own odyssey.

I did not see her again until 2005 when I went to Iran to visit my father who was now under house arrest. Shirin came to visit me. She looked worried for me. She was worried that the authorities will not let me leave Iran. I could see that a part of her wanted to say, “Why did you come? You should not have come”. This was a sentence that I heard over and over from many friends during my brief stay in Tehran. But, Shirin, I felt, swallowed her words of fear and worry and said in a strong voice, “Azadeh, my daughter, no one could hurt you. You are my daughter. If anyone harms my daughter in any way, I will not sit and watch. I have your back”. Then she smiled and opened her arms to hug me. I sat next to her for some time while some of our other friends were constantly talking about how I had no chance of getting back to the US and continuing my studies. They were all agreeing on the fact that I had made a huge mistake by going to Iran. Shirin only patted me and kept me entertained by telling me funny stories about Narges and Negar. It was an unspoken agreement between us. We both intentionally tuned out the pessimistic words that were being exchanged about my trip to Iran, shared memories of the past and laughed joyfully.

I saw Shirin again in 2008. She looked worriedly tired and her eyes were struggling to shine the way they always did. She introduced me to some of her fellow Nobel Peace Prize winners and told them that I am her third daughter. I had such a great time that night. I was among so many accomplished women from all over the world and they all treated me with so much affection as I was simply introduced as their favorite colleague’s daughter. They all wanted to know who this mysterious so-called daughter of Shirin was. When I said goodbye to her that night, she squeezed my hands in hers and said commandingly, “My daughter, promise me something, will you? Take care of my friend. Take care of your mother.” I nodded and she kissed me goodbye.

And now Shirin Ebadi’s home, the home to which I took refuge when my mother was imprisoned, is attacked by the authorities. They have also attacked and searched her office in which I spent many hours throughout my childhood. The authorities took my own home away from me, took away the beautiful smile from my own mother’s face, took away much life from my father’s energetic body and soul and now it is my second mother’s turn? What have they done to deserve this much humiliation, so much destruction by the leaders of their own country?

I am worried for Shirin. I am worried for a woman who has worked day and night for many years to defend the rights of women and children in Iran. I am terrified of the day that she would have to sit at an arbitrary café in exile for hours to kill the seemingly never-ending frozen time of exile. I am terrified of the day that she will have to become friends with the misery of being forgotten in her own country, by her friends and her colleagues.

I do not want my second mother to live the life that is so unjustly imposed on my own mother. I do not want Shirin to have to bury her hopes and her past in the frosty graveyard of exile. Shirin is my hope. She is the angel of the sunken ship of my past. I am worried for her!

I am not a Dangerous Person!

2008-08-14T00:56:00.003-05:00

“So did you bring nuclear weapons with you, young lady?” This question is probably the saddest question that random individuals ask me when they realize I am from Iran. “ Eyeran? Wow. So did you bring nuclear weapon with you, young lady?” When I hear this question, I want to both cry without hiding my sorrow and laugh loudly. I want to cry, because out of all of the wonders that one might have about me and out of all the questions that a stranger could ask me, they choose a question with which quite frankly I have nothing to do. I myself am perhaps considered a fugitive of sorts from Iran and no matter how much I love my birthplace I have a history and a baggage that is distinct from the stereotypes that exist about Iran in the world. Iran certainly has many flaws, political and social problems and those who know me(and my family) are aware that I have a lot to narrate about those flaws and repression. However, my bitter experiences in that land do not mean that I should also contribute to the ignorance that exists in the West about Iran. No government in the world represents the opinions of all of its citizens and this especially applies to rather repressive governments. Some of us consider ourselves from the Iran that despite its current circumstances is historically and culturally a very rich, unique and valuable place. It saddens me that my being Iranian at times automatically gives those who do not even know me the right to tease me for my nationality and the news headlines regarding Iran. Irregardless of where I stand in terms of my opinions and criticism of Iran, I should be respected for who I am and no stranger should be inconsiderate enough to attack me with an outrageous question of this nature in a short introductory conversation. So when I hear this question, I think about how many of us will have to constantly prove these unfortunate stereotypes wrong throughout our lives. I am willing to fight these stereotypes to prove to the world that not all Iranians are evil, destructive and dangerous. I close my eyes and wish for the day when no innocent individual is treated with disrespect for their nationality, ethnicity and race.

The Fear of Entering Graduate School

2008-08-04T00:32:00.003-05:00

So I will begin graduate school in three weeks. I will be studying Public Policy for two years and the second year I will choose a concentration. The first year will be mostly mandatory classes along with one elective. I am not going to lie…I am scared! I just received the list of my mandatory classes and even their names sound hard and so unlike the “Azadeh” that I have known throughout college. Since I majored in Comparative Literature, I studied so many amazing literary topics and enjoyed almost every second of it. But, this past year I realized that for the kind of foreign affairs and human rights-orientated fields that interest me, I need to gain a different set of skills and so I applied to foreign affairs and public policy MA programs. Now that I have decided to go to the Kennedy School of Government and have enrolled in their Public Policy program, I have started to actually realize how much I will probably be challenged by the nature of the program and in general its atmosphere.

Needless to say, having gone to a liberal arts school like Oberlin College I am used to a very different social scene and ways of interaction. In a way, in Oberlin I was mostly surrounded by hippies, idealistic and peace-loving peers and even professors. Now, I am entering a professional school with peers who are probably more realistic and hence more moderate (more practical and perhaps less academic) in their way of perceiving this world. I have always seen myself somewhere in between these two sides. So I should be fine at the Kennedy School. But I continue to be a bit nervous and stressed about it. Though, I have gone through harder times than this and I really hope I can succeed in my graduate studies. Before even having started my program, I feel guilty for the fact that many intelligent Iranian young women and men could have been in my privileged situation and be at the school that I am. But, to be honest with you this feeling of guilt has proved to be a rather unproductive feeling. Instead, I should probably look ahead and work as hard as I can so that hopefully in the future I could be influential and helpful in the lives of at least a few human beings. Who knows?

I will take the following classes this coming semester (along with one elective course and my teaching fellowship-teaching Persian-that is 20-25 hours per week):

1)The Responsibilities of Public Action

2) Market and market Failure

3) Quantitative Analysis and Empirical Methods

4) Strategy, Structure, and Leadership in Public Service Organizations

Frankly, I cannot even make sense or remember these long names, let alone understanding what they are all about. A challenging academic year is fast approaching….deep breath.Ready? GO!

"Am I Not Obama Enough?"

2008-08-03T18:35:00.000-05:00

One of my close friends from college was in town this past week. We met up at a book store in Cambridge (Massachusetts). He is an amazing writer and I cannot wait for his first book to come out. It is supposed to get published within this coming year. I will write about it here once it gets published. I am certain that he will become a best-seller. He is an amazing writer and also he is a lot to say and narrate about his childhood in Zimbabwe.

In any case, during the couple of hours that we spent together sipping on our coffee and sharing our thoughts and stories of the past year, he told me about his recent experience. Hearing about this experience made me think for many hours. Even though it might seem like a minor and insignificant moment between two strangers in the streets of Boston, I cannot pass by it without disappointment. His little story was as follows:

A few days ago, he was walking in Boston and was trying to find a restaurant. He was a bit lost and so he decided to ask someone for directions. He asked a white woman who was passing by for directions and the lady did not respond. He asked her once again and the lady still did not respond. The third time, she only looked at him and did not respond. When she turned back to look at my friend, he saw an Obama pin on her coat. My friend told me, “I thought to myself: ‘Am I not Obama enough for you to respond to my question?’ ”

We talked a bit about the connotations of being black in this country (and perhaps in other countries. My experience is only in the context of the US). I do not mean to write an in-depth post about this topic and just wanted to share the painfully ironic experience of a friend and his hurt feelings about it. “Am I not Obama enough for you?”…..My friend’s voice gets echoed in my head and the voice repeats this question: “Am I not Obama enough for you?”

We are strange creatures and are unbelievably trapped in our own world of restricting stereotypes and prejudices with which we live and consequently miss out on expanding our horizons. How incredibly sad…

Death: A Stranger Whose Being I Dread

2008-06-07T01:11:00.006-05:00

In the memory of Nader Ebrahimi and his stories

I hate death. I know death is a part of life and that without it we would probably suffer from immortality. But, I still hate death. I don't even know if it looks like a scary beast or a beautiful figure who, one day, puts you on her soft wings and takes you above this world and shows you the real deal!

Who knows?

A great Iranian author passed away yesterday. He was very sick for the past few years. I am certain that he had mastered thinking about death during all these years of illness and silent flow of thoughts and memories. A writer who could not even write by the end of his life...How scary that is? A writer who could not write.

It agitates me when I think about all these amazing older authors, artists and thinkers of Iran. They are all from a generation that got trapped between the two eras of the pre- and post Islamic Revolution; a revolution that is the creation of their own minds and fists . They are the generation of terror. They are a generation of much unspoken and unwritten stories. They are a generation whose real stories we still do not really know. Many of them are taught to hide their illicit adventures and their mistakes in the closet. They are the generation whose stories and experiences we need in order to go forward. And yet they are getting older and uniting with death without having left us their real legacy: their stories. And a few of them who have given us the gift of words and stories, are leaving us to sleep a deep sleep in their state non-existence.

Nader Ebrahimi, too, flew away....May his memories and his stories remain with us and with those who come to this world after we depart...

Exhaustion of Continuity

2008-06-02T16:12:00.003-05:00

You know I decided a while ago that I hate complaining. But, we all have our moments when we are down and not too inspired by life. Well, maybe now is one of those times for me. It happens rarely that my father and I get into arguments, as there is almost no use in fighting when we are not even enjoying the right of being physically in the same geographical region. So, even when we disagree on things (when we talk on the phone), we simply pretend as though disagreements do not exist and move on to a different subject. But, lately I feel tired. I am tired of having lengthy conversations on the phone with a father who is far away from me, with a father whom is left alone in Iran and who hopelessly awaits the moment when he could see us. I blame myself for having grown up in his absence and having grown out of the innocence with which I lived a great childhood and teenage years with my family in Iran. I blame myself for sounding like a “stranger” to him.

I feel my family and I had one thing that no one was able to steal from us in the past and that was “hope”. They took away our unity and our comfortable life, but they never managed to take “hope” away from us. It was that feeling of “hope” that would give us the concrete sense of pride. It was because of “hope” that we all progressed in our individual lives. It was “hope” that whispered every night in our ears that there will be a day that the four of us will have a happy meal in Tehran. Sadly, the strange concept of time is taking that “hope” away from us. I fear the day that “hope” steps outside and never comes back again. I see “hope” wearing his shoes and getting ready to leave. I fear his departure. It was “hope” that had made us feel the sense of “togetherness” during all these years of separation and anxiety.

The Star
Well, I never went back, I no longer suffer
from not going back, the sand willed it
and as part wave and part channel
syllable of salt, leech of water,
I, sovereign, slave of the coast
surrendered, chained to my rock.
There is no freedom anymore for us
who are fragments of the mystery,
there is no way out for returning
to oneself, to the stone of oneself
No other stars remain except the sea.

By: Pablo Neruda,
Translated by: William O’Daly
From: Winter Garden- Copper Canyon Press

Protest Theater: A Glance at Two Plays on Polygamy

2008-05-31T15:13:00.003-05:00

By: Azadeh Faramarziha Friday 30 May 2008
Translated by: Azadeh Pourzand
Change For Equality

Various forms of arts have continuously served as great venues for expressing social and political dissatisfactions. Evidently, many of the genres in art, especially in the 20th Century, have come about in the midst of political movements and, at times, during revolutions. The role of political events is especially apparent in the history of performing arts. Theater, in particular, is the art of direct and live communications with members of the audience—an audience that does not necessarily consist of certain individuals or groups from pre-determined social and economic classes and it is assumed to be the general public. Therefore, given the popular nature of the art of theatre, this form of performing arts has often been utilized for expressing political and social messages and for sharing certain objections and oppositions with the general public. The power of theatre in communicating social and political dissatisfactions is so strong that it often threatens governments, especially in situations where dictatorial tactics are utilized. As a result, the art of theater has often been targeted by dictatorships and to this day, governments with these tendencies often react to the threat posed by the art of theatre severely.
As societies have become larger and more populated, social struggles and challenges of the human kind, too, have significantly increased. Therefore, artists have become more aware of social struggles in the modern world. Artists attempt to delicately perceive the world through the minds and eyes of the members of their society and to uniquely reflect what they have perceived in their art. An artist turns her/his mind into a mirror so that regular people—people like you and I—who have become blinded by the routines and habits of life, can come face to face with the flaws of our society through their work of art, analyze these flaws and react appropriately.

However, theater in Iran has always been focused on mythological and mortal-immortal matters. Thus, since the early days of theatre—with the exception of the golden decade of the 40s—the subject of plays has maintained its distance from social struggles and problems. The figure of women in mythological plays is often introduced as that of mother of Earth and her existence is considered to be beyond mundane matters and the deceits of this world. Nevertheless, recently we have witnessed the emergence of plays which pay special attention to their society and immediate environment. It was through the emphasis of recent plays on social matters that “women” are finally projected in earthly characters and their image is distanced from the mythological figures that dominated in past depictions. In this way, she is presented and analyzed as a member of society.

Recent plays depicting social issues and struggles in today’s Iran, include “Family” and “From Your Side” debuting at the Theatre Centers Festival (December 2007) and the Fajr Theatre Festival (February 2008), respectively. Both of these two plays were creatively directed and artistically performed. In addition to the quality of these plays, what makes them unique is the important subject they have chosen to depict as the main theme of their plots.

“Family” by a theatre team called “The Oppressed” (with the supervision of Ali Zafar Ghahremani Nejad and “From Your Side” directed by Azadeh Ganjeh both were produced mostly in objection to the unfairness of the Family Protection Act; and more specifically were criticizing polygamy a right granted to men. Having utilized Agusto Boal’s technique, both of these plays were performed in the format of workshops. Boal’s technique is mostly centered on arguing and discussing a certain issue with the participation of the members of the audience. In other words, his technique is a theatrical attempt to neutralize the passive nature of the audience and to turn them into actors and actresses by directly engaging them with the theme, plot and discussions of the play.

“Family” is about a woman whose husband has the intention of marrying another woman—one of his female colleagues. In performing the different scenes of this story, the actors would invite the members of the audience to have a say in the play by suggesting possible reactions to these circumstances. “From Your Side”, too, had a similar theme as that depicted in “Family” and was meant to challenge and criticize the issue polygamy—with the participation of the audience.

The interactive format that was chosen for both of the aforementioned plays made them very inspiring and engaging. This technique encouraged the members of the audience at both plays to suggest alternative approaches and reactions to the given situations. For instance, during “Family” there was a scene where a guy—from among the audience—played the role of the husband and attempted to modify his relationship with his new wife. In another scene, a woman volunteered to play the role of the first wife and she decided to take the case to the court. Following this scene, another woman, again a member of the audience, entered the play as the second wife and as soon as she learned that the man is already married, she decided to get divorced—her decision to divorce was very much appreciated by other members of the audience.
The members of both theater teams stated that they were very content with the participation of the audiences and that they will never forget this memorable experience. What was perhaps the most important result of these plays is that the members of the audience who were from diverse social, economic and cultural classes unanimously expressed discontent with the practice of polygamy. These plays are, therefore, the proof of how all forms of art—and especially theatre—can play a role in addressing important social issues and how theatre can encourage the public to think seriously about social issues and struggles that exist within their society. Our contemporary society is indeed facing numerous struggles and dilemmas and undoubtedly different forms of arts are the most aesthetic and effective way of communicating these social challenges.

Photographs by: Raheleh Asgarizadeh

We Are Not Men!

2008-05-14T17:16:00.001-05:00

Excerpts of lyrics from the rap song "We Are Not Men"Written and sung by Shahin Najafi Performed by Tapesh 2012GermanyMay 2008Translation by Frieda(Iranian.com)

Like the girl with her hymen sewnAnd the poor one in the fire thrown
Like my mother's oppressive lotSummed up in her kettle and pot
Her body yet unseenHer unveiling unforeseen
She said after life she would no doubt go to hellThere she would suffer dangling by her hair
I said, isn't heaven under mothers' feet?*Mother, heaven is busy, catch the world you meet
She said the cantor's prayer makes me shudderI said fear has become your rudder
Seventy years of womanhood is exploitationNo life but fear and degradation
A woman innocent, her existence was her crimeTransformed, beaten into submission to be made prime
What happens to a woman who hasn't been cheatingShe is the object of fifty years of beating
She has to stay prone and unheardNot even imagine an uncaged bird
Always the object of a chaperone peepingA doll, only considered good for sleeping
You smell of whips and smacksHow much longer blackmailed by Toms and Jacks?
Like Iran you have become a trampThe future is in your hands lady champ
You smell like our land shattered Gone from being flattered to tattered
We were destroyed by our manhoodPlease display your womanhood
Take a bit of your valor perfumeSpray it on us with a plume
Ma'am, we're not men, count us outTake the banner and lead the crowd

A piece about the song:

<http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,2144,3311081,00.html>

A Simple Shift...

2008-05-06T20:29:00.004-05:00

These past few days have been strange. I doubt I can tell you much about it, as I do not really know what exactly is happening. I cannot make much sense of it, myself--intentionally so.

I just smell "change". That is all and maybe a bit beyond.

Whatever it is, I promise you that it is not the kind of change that we distrust. I am worried. But, it is just a simple shift, I believe...maybe not that simple, but nothing too uncommon.... It must be a good change. It is not all that scary, is it?

Layered Life!

2008-05-01T20:15:00.000-05:00

Where have you been, Azadeh? Seriously! It has been a long time already! Come one, woman! Come back and write! Haha…I know! I have been gone for too long! Well, I can’t say that life has been too hard or come up with any of similar excuses. In fact, lately my days and nights have been plentiful. I had an internship at a human rights organization these past few months and worked part-time on the side to make some pocket money.

These past few months I have been around great friends and amazing individuals. I have also been blessed with much alone time…Azadeh time….Me time. I have somehow realized that since moving to the US (about 6 years ago) I have been constantly running and hoping to accomplish more things in my new life. I have hardly ever paused and looked back at the person that I was and the person that I have become. I have mostly run! And so these past few months that I have given myself the time to somehow evaluate the new person that I am, I have faced way too many surprises to the point that I sometimes even feel alienated from myself. I guess that is what this country does to you –with all the opportunities and the hard work that you have to do to earn them. These past few months of self-evaluation have made me realize that I have become more Americanized that I had ever imagined, that I have become so absorbed in this new world that I can hardly even truly get in touch with the Azadeh that one day left Iran while holding her mother’s hand and waving good-bye to her father. And the hard part is that in becoming Americanized, you are always facing approximation of something that you will never fully become: American! I feel, this approximation and the fading away of the “authentic” self is what cause much distress and alienation from everything in the lives of many immigrants who have left their birthplace at a young age. It is as if you spend the rest of your life being nostalgic about losing you original self and feeling fake for never changing enough to fully fit in your new life. It is odd how even in a society like the US where most of the people you meet are immigrants; you still cannot really escape feelings of such nature.

While I respect all those who go through this process, I somehow have always wanted to escape much of these “immigration” traumas and that is why up until now I have mostly disregarded these thoughts that have been marching around in my mind for a while. But, as unnecessary as these wonders and internal questions of post-immigration might seem, they determine so much of the person that you are and your responsibilities in your new society and your birthplace. I mean these questions are the questions that become the tallest walls of communication when I talk with my friends in Iran. When they speak of what they face everyday, I somehow become a stranger and when I say some words about my life here, it is their turn to think of me as a person who has really forgotten the place that she has left behind.

What is really wrong with accepting the gray area in which immigrants like me exist? I have decided to embrace that unknown question about me that is: Where do I belong? In which of these societies to which I belong, am I responsible to make a difference? I have sickened myself by being constantly nostalgic about the Azadeh that I, one day, was in another world. Quite frankly, I think I belong to all the places in which I have breathed and spent good and bad days and nights. I think I am responsible for all of those lands and all of those peoples! Even if being a part of too many places is to make my life harder and more confusing, I still cannot really change the layered life that I have lived and I continue to live!

Little Girl Alone with Doll

2008-02-01T13:57:00.001-05:00

The doll was the first to inflict upon us that tremendous silence(larger than life) which later kept breathing on us out of space, whenever we came to the limits of existence.-Rilke

No matter what, she gives her that same smile
But what she's smiling at she deosn't say.
She knows the words a six-year-old would know,
And speaks when spoken to, in a changed voice.
"I love you, Janey. Say it: I love you."
And so she does. Still, there is that smile.
Then she's crushed against a streaming face.
"Just tell me everything will be all right."

But it won't be, and that won't matter either,
Not to that smile, past caring and past hope.
The girl has made a place for her; she waits.
Calm, breath held, all done with lying now,
She sits there ready, watching for the one
Who never speaks, whom still we're waiting for.

-by John Burt
from Work Without Hope, page 87

Female Circumcision

2008-01-22T20:35:00.000-05:00

Female circumcision seems to be a controversial topic and practice in different regions around the world. According to BBC, more than 3 million girls suffer circumcision each year. In many places where female circumcision is practiced, it is believed that it will maintain a girl's honor.

While there are many groups and a few campaigns around the world that consistently fight against such a practice, there seems to be much challenge in their attempts to abandon female circumcision.

The following is the link to The New York Times Photo Essay, called "Inside a Female-Circumcision Ceremony" by Stephanie Sinclair. As always, images could convey much more than words and verbal descriptions:

Click Here.

To read BBC's brief report on this topic, click here.

Side by Side

2008-01-17T23:56:00.000-05:00

Side by Side
Side by Side
No longer men in front
And women at the back
Together we will walk
Side by Side
Side by Side

I heard this song at a gathering tonight. A few prominent Libyan women who work in security and medical issues in Libya sang this song for other guests present at the party. They sang it so beautifully that it brought tears to everyone's eyes. They seemed very emotionally strong and very charming. With their beautiful dresses they had pleasantly dominated the atmosphere of the party. Their stories of civil war would intentionally diverge from sadness and misery and would approximate the happiness and energy that exist in the smallest of things and incidents.

A Lady of Hope: Benazir Bhutto

2007-12-29T18:09:00.000-05:00

May her soul rest in peace!

My mother, Mehrangiz Kar, has not stopped crying since the second we found out about Bhutto’s death. She has not left the house. She is writing things and trying hard to type them on the computer with her fresh typing skills…and she cries and cries. I go out, go to work, come back, go to a movie with friends and come back and she is still crying…I say goodbye to her, I greet her and she does not hear any of my words. My words have become hollow bubbles in the air.

I am feeling suffocated by all of this. Looking at the pictures and video clips of Pakistan, I want to scream and just be angry. Crying will not satisfy the anger embedded in my young soul.

I feel I really lack political and I guess in general life experiences. Other than the chaos that we see on TV and read about online and in the media, I cannot predict much about Pakistan’s future. Growing up, I would hear Bhutto’s name at least a few times every night from the Persian section of different international radio stations. Her name was a familiar song to my ears.

A friend of mine called me at 3 am to say that he cannot fall asleep and not think about the lives of millions of people that changed in an instanse by Bhutto’s death. Another friend says, “It was extremely expected and yet catastrophic.”

I am deeply saddened by the tragedy of her death which is going to—and already has—end many more precious lives. I am worried for Benazir’s children. I am worried for Pakistan’s future. I am worried for my dear college friend, Rehan. I am worried for all of those anonymous Rehans in Pakistan. I am worried….

But being worried aside, my mother’s swollen eyes, the sound of her weeping and the furious noise that her fingers make on the keyboard of her computer terrify me. These things terrify me. It is the pessimism that I cannot take anymore when it comes to places like Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq and other countries in the region. It is the pessimism that is suffocating me and is murdering my desire and ability for positive thinking about the current and future condition of the region I call home. I cannot take the pessimism anymore. I almost feel as though I should block the political and historic experiences and wisdom of the older generation; it seems to me that those experiences have stolen hope from their faces.

I almost want to deceive myself with simplicity and lack of experience. I want to feel that if we remain hopeful and work (every one of us in our way) toward a better future, something (even if it is minor) good could happen. I cannot take this pessimism. We, the young generation, cannot let this pessimism conquer our bodies and our minds. I am scared of this hopelessness. It terrifies me!

Is not hope the legacy of our Benazir after all?

The Life Cycle of Girls: Womanhood

2007-12-25T01:39:00.000-05:00

Last night while I was desperately trying to find the year in which Iran signed the Convention on The Rights of the Child, I came across a number of very interesting photo essays on UNICEF's website. Among these photo essays, one was of my particular interest. As you can guess from the tile of this post, it is called, "The life cycle of girls: Womanhood" and in contains 18 pictures of girls and women in the less privileged areas of the world. I thought you might also be interested in taking a look at these photos. This photo essay begins by the following statement:

" Despite advances, gender violence and discrimination are on the rise, according to the 2006 United Nations Secretary-General's report on achieving the Millennium Development Goals."

Gender violence and discrimination on the rise in the world....

We have a long way to go....

Here is the Photo Essay: (Once you click on begin, it will show you all the 18 pictures.)

Click Here.

Iranian Women Dervish Dance and Trance

2007-12-22T22:18:00.000-05:00

from filmmaker Aryana Farshad's amazing film of spiritual rituals and visits to sacred locations in her native Iran-- "Mystic Iran" (2002) 52 minutes.

Hallucinations

2007-12-22T02:24:00.000-05:00

Tehran!

-Who are you expecting?

- Baba!

- Is he late?

- No, he will come soon.

- Where is Mimi?

- She, too, hasn’t arrived, yet.

- Is Leili home?

- No.

- Where is she?

- I don’t know.

- Have you cooked rice?

- No.

- Like always you have forgotten to cook rice for dinner, no?

- Who cares? Don’t stress me out. I still have time.

It is nighttime. It is cold. All day I have wandered around the house. I counted all the pieces of furniture in the house: the brown coaches, our dining table, the Piano, our carpets, our phones, all those paintings and books, my desk, my bed, my parents’ bed, our lights…

- Are you crying?

- No, but I wish I could cry for hours. Have you ever been invaded by the flood of memories? Have you ever felt the pain of the memories that come out of body like pile of worms crawling on top of each other? Look at that corner! My friends are sitting there, chitchatting about cute boys, giggling and laughing. A bit further, Baba is talking on the phone. In the other room Mimi and Leili are talking and drinking tea.

- Do you have a fever?

- No.

- We can’t stay for much longer here in this empty house. It’s late. We have to go. Was this place rental?

- Yes, we had rented this apartment. Now leave me alone. I need to focus. I must remember all of this: the entrance door, my room to the right of the door, on the left hand side the kitchen, a bit further the lounge and the dining room, the piano, the bookshelves, all these books that I was going to read one day…

- We have to go. My god…You are burning in fever.

- No, no. Why would you think that I am sick? Stop telling me that I am not well. I am well, ok? I am well.

- It’s getting late. Come on. We should leave.

- No, let me be. Let me stay and internalize this utter emptiness. This is my last night in this house. I am not permitted to stay any longer and yet you are trying to take away this precious night from me. Go and leave me alone!

- You are coming with me.

- No, stop talking. Do you hear the tic-tac of the clock? I can’t forget this tic-tac. I grew up with this sound. Tic-tac…Tic-tac…Story time! Once upon a time there was a happy family in this house: Mimi, Baba, Leili and I. Four, remember it. The four of us…

- Don’t stand next to the bare window. Since we already removed the curtains, people could see that this house is empty. And here you are, a young girl, standing by yourself in this room, in the middle of the night. It’s dangerous.

- Hey, look! Do you see the mark of the tip of my nose on the window? Every night at around 8 pm I would stand next to this window and wait for Mimi to return from work. After a few minutes I would get tired and lean my head against the window. My nose would touch the soft and cool surface of the window, making me more restless to see Mimi. Right outside the window, there was a plane-tree. It was tall and had lots and lots of leaves. They cut its poor branches, last year. They said that it was going to be good for the tree and that it was going to make it more fertile. They lied. A year has passed and this tree is patiently waiting to grow back its branches. It’s hopeless. They lied.

- God, help us. She is hallucinating. We should go. Let’s go.

- No, no. I have to say goodnight to the crows that are hiding among the branches of all those trees. It’s wrong of human beings to think that crows are evil. They are very kind. They used to tell me stories all throughout the nights when Mimi was in prison, when she was going through chemotherapy. They were there for me. I will miss them. My dear friends, my dear crows…I remember vividly that long night when one of the crows of our street died in pain. That night all the other crows surrounded the dying crow and cried with its moans. I was standing outside the window in my nightgown, watching them cry. Mimi had curled up in her solitary confinement, feeling forgotten.

Oh, my dear crows! Did you see how they kidnapped Baba? And then they claim that human beings are God’s superior creatures. Did you see how they took him? He is gone, my dear crows. He is disappeared. Gone!

- The crows won’t hear you. Come. Let’s go.

- No, wait. I want to lie down on my bed.

- We took your bed. Remember?

- No, look! My bed is there. You can’t see it. But it’s really sitting right at that corner. I am going to lie on my bed and wait for Baba to come and kiss me goodnight. I want him to come, straighten my blanket and whisper to my ears, “My beautiful daughter, sleep well. Sweet dreams. Everything is going to be all right!” He is supposed to arrive soon. Tic-tac…Tic-tac…Let’s count down the minutes together.

- I hope that your father comes to you very soon. But, don’t you think it’s better to face the reality and try not to escape what it has for us? Remember? Your dad is not here. My poor Azadeh, your father is not here. He won’t come tonight. Let’s go

- Leili, Leili. How about her? I remembered just now. She is out with her friends. I will have to wait for her. She will sneak into the house, soon. I will have to stay and hear her exciting stories about her boyfriend and her university. She said that she will be back at around midnight. It’s passed midnight, no?

- Yes, it’s 3 am. Let’s go.

- No, don’t rush me. Leili should be here any minute.

-Get up. Give me your hand. Let’s go.

- Go where? No, I must stay. In fact, you should go. I want to clean the dust on the table. I want to open the windows, so that fresh air comes in. I want to cook some rice. I must wait for Leili. Mimi, too, will arrive soon. If like always her bag is heavy, I will have to go downstairs and help her carry it. Baba should come home soon. He will park the car and wait for me to go downstairs and help him with the numerous shopping bags in the trunk. No, no. You should leave. I must wait for them.

***

They did not come.

The house was rental. They evacuated the apartment. We did not come. None of us came. They are evacuating the apartment. They are pulling down the curtains, removing all of my poetry and Baba’s paintings from the walls. They are taking our family albums. They are kindly evacuating the apartment.

We did not come. Our home was rental. The walls are shocked. They look pale. The walls are not talking. I could hear them talk, they are screaming in the air. They are crying. They miss us. We did not get to say goodbye. We will miss them.

It is still not too late. We might arrive. ■

The Burden of Children

2007-10-08T22:48:00.001-05:00

Today is considered Children’s Day in Iran and some other countries. I really wish that all the children of Iran and the rest of the world could at least celebrate a day of pure happiness. It would have been so joyful to see that for once, even if it lasts only for one day, all the children of the world were to live beyond the disputes caused by adults, who are making this world an intolerable world for human beings. Till when do the children of the world have to pay for the hatred that has conquered many of adults’ minds, hearts and bodies? Till when do children have to pay for countries’ poor economic situations? Till when do they have to die with HIV and other diseases? Till when do they have to face bloodshed and brutality of this world before even they get to experience a handful of some of the smallest joys of this life?

I wish I did not have to be this pessimistic. I know that there are amazing individuals in this world— in Iran and elsewhere—who dedicate their precious lives to improving children’s lives. But, the truth is that millions of children remain helpless and neglected. It is just painful to sleep at night knowing that there is an overwhelming number of children in this world who do not even know how it is to have a home and to live in peace. Many children in the world have been forced to leave school, to become breadwinners, to fight in wars, to serve their land as soldiers and to serve as sex slaves. These are only a few snapshots of underprivileged children’s stories. They have too many stories to tell. Only if the busy adults of this world would pause for a second to listen to children’s stories…. Are we, as adults, even able to envision what it means to be a child whose childhood is taken away from her/him in an instant?

I was just reading a rather comprehensive report published by UNICEF called, “The State of The World’s Children 2007: Women and Children, The Double Divided of Gender Equality”*. This year, UNICEF’s report focuses on the intertwined nature of gender equality and children’s condition. The report states, “Gender equality will not only empower women to overcome poverty, but will also assist their children, families, communities and countries as well. When seen in this light, gender equality is not only morally right—it is pivotal to human progress” (p1). This report explains the nature of the three essential arenas that shape the lives of women. These three arenas that must be enhanced are: the household, the workplace and the political sphere. The trouble is that in many countries that do not respect women’s rights, children are also to face inequalities.

For example, a women’s empowerment in the structure of the household— domestically and financially— increases the likelihood of children attending school (especially girls) and of growing up as emotionally and physically healthier kids. In many developing countries girls are more likely than boys to miss out on a secondary education. According to the report published by UNICEF, only 35% of females and 40% of males get to have secondary education in Eastern and Southern Africa. In West Africa only 25% of females and 35% of males get to have secondary education. Although these percentages are much higher for the regions of the Middle East and North Africa, there is still much room for improvement. In the Middle East and North Africa, 65% of females and 70% of males get to have secondary education. These percentages do not indicate that these individuals necessarily get their secondary education at a proper age, which means that even less children benefit from receiving secondary school education.

The aforementioned data was only a small portion of children’s situation. It could get even more depressing, once you take a look at data that demonstrates children’s health situation and the rate of children’s deaths caused by HIV and other diseases.

Although I think the indescribable condition of many children in this world remains the human race’s shame, let us not get too disheartened by these realities. Let us remain optimistic and promise ourselves to try and make a difference, however small, in at least one child’s life during our lifetime. Let us not forget the children of this hectic planet. We are all responsible for these children! Happy Children’s Day!

* http://www.unicef.org/sowc07/report/report.php

Hope

2007-10-08T00:29:00.000-05:00

Given the realities of today’s Iraq, I cannot help but think about those who are left behind with much despair and misery after each explosion. Seriously, how do they deal with all of this? Is their any peaceful routine left in their daily lives? Have painful injuries and death become habits in their lives? Do they still like God? Do they have time to even mourn their loved ones’ death? Are they worried now that winter is arriving again? How did they deal with the heat of the summer days? How do they feel when they wake up in the morning? Are there serious similarities between the realities of their lives and their worst nightmares? I want to think that the people of

Iraq

still remain hopeful, as hope seems to be their only calming belonging in this world.

A few days ago I found an anthology called, “ Iraqi Poetry Today”. This collection contains Iraqi modern poetry in translation and is edited by Saadi Simawe. I am going to share with you one of these poems here. The poems in this collection are mostly from years before the current war. Some of these poems are really touching and bear much of the story of Iraq that is very closely tied with war, a brutal reality with which the Iraqi people have coexist throughout the past few decades. The following poem is written during the Iran-Iraq War. Let us all pray for Iraqi people to at last wake up to peaceful days.

An Iraqi Evening

by Yousif al-Sa’igh

Clips from the battlefield

in an Iraqi evening:

a peaceable home

two boys

preparing their homework

a little girl

absentmindedly drawing on scrap paper

funny pictures.

-breaking news coming shortly.

The entire house becomes ears

ten Iraqi eyes glued to the screen in frightened silence.

Smells mingle:

the smell of war

and the smell of just baked bread.

The mother raises her eyes to a photo on the wall

whispering

-May God protect you

and she begins preparing supper

quietly

and in her mind

clips float past of the battlefield

carefully selected for hope.

Translated by Saadi A Simawe, Ralph Savarese and Chuck Miller

Taking Refuge in Surrealism!

2007-09-22T23:59:00.000-05:00

Lately I have been experiencing much nostalgia, uncertainty and disorientation. These post-college days are seriously being hard on me. The hard thing about it is that there is nothing wrong with my life that I can blame, either. The problem or rather the issue is simple: It is now the time in my life when I determine the general direction of my life. I am now old enough to be pragmatic. As I remain idealistic about my wishes, it has become hard for me to decide about different routes that I could take. Additionally, I am very perplexed by my memories of growing up in Iran, of the first few months of immigration, of my precious time at Oberlin and many other puzzle-like pieces of my past. During this time when I feel especially pressured by the concept of time and space, I have begun to once again review the articles and novels that I have collected from my Surrealism classes in Oberlin. I though I should share these few lines with you, for now. I am also intending to write some things about my readings in regards to Surrealism.

"I demand that he would still refuses, for instance, to see a horse galloping on a tomato should be looked upon as a cretin. A tomato is also a child's balloon--Surrealism, I repeat, having suppressed the word "like."
- Andre Breton, What is Surrealism

" We are still living under the reign of logic: this, of course, is what I have been driving at. But in this day and age logical methods are applicable only to solving problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism that is still in vogue allows us to consider only facts relating directly to our experience. Logical ends, on the contrary, escape us. It is pointless to add that experience itself has found itself increasingly circumstance. Logical ends, on the contrary, escape us. It paces back and forth in a cage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge. It too leans for support on what is most immediately expedient, and it is protected by sentinels of common sense."
-Andre Breton, the First Manifesto of Surrealism(1924)

Indecisiveness

2007-08-23T00:28:00.000-05:00

I think I am experiencing some serious post-college indecisiveness these days! I don't know what I should be doing, I don't know what I desire to do, I don't know what is smart to do, I can't decide what is my biggest passion and many other 'I don't knows'... I must say, I have surprised myself with all of this indecisiveness. But it seems that I should just embrace this process of not being able to make any definite decisions and let myself experience this merry-go-round of indecisiveness. Or maybe I should not think in circles anymore...I don't know...All I know is that not being able to make a choice is in fact a luxury. Not too many people have the privilege to have different choices in this world.
I like this song. It is called "Indecisiveness" :
http://youtube.com/watch?v=tqOgXCihkc0

From the Moon and the Leopard

2007-07-26T13:52:00.000-05:00

The following piece is a story by Bijan Mofid, beautifully translated by Zara Houshmand that i just read in Words Without Borders: An Online Magazine for International Literature. It is a very lovely story and I thought I should share it with all of you.

From the Moon and the Leopard

In The Moon and the Leopard, author Bijan Mofid developed a hint from a folk tale into a verse drama about the tragic love of the Leopard King for the Moon, first glimpsed as a reflection in a mountain spring. The Moon responds in kind, descending to earth-though she remains always just out of reach-to engage the Leopard in a poetic dialogue expressing their impossible and doomed love. By stopping in her course, the Moon stops time, leaving the world in an endless, freezing night. The creatures inhabiting the Leopard’s mountain revolt against the misery imposed on them by the lovestruck pair and stone the Moon, driving her back into the sky. The Leopard follows her, leaping to his death at the play’s conclusion.The play was first staged in the early seventies at the Shiraz Arts Festival in Iran. Mofid himself directed the production, set on an abstract pile of white cubes, with all characters on stage at all times, enacting the habits of their livelihood quietly in the background as the central scene unfolds. It was a directorial strategy that Mofid used often, designed to paint a picture of an entire society, but also one that honed his actors’ ensemble skills.

Mofid conceived the story as an allegory for the doomed idealism of Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadeq’s democratic movement. By standing up against American and British imperial interests in Iran and demanding the nationalization of the oil industry, Mossadeq had galvanized the country’s fledgling democracy and inspired a nationalism that would spur events as far ahead and unforeseen as the Islamic revolution. Mossadeq’s flamboyant and eccentric style contributed in no small part to the heroic dimensions of his image in the hearts of Iranians, and to his Western opponents’ frustration.

In portraying the machinations of the CIA-led coup that toppled Mossadeq, Mofid is less concerned to point the finger at foreign evil-an angle perhaps more interesting to Americans, but too patently obvious to Iranians-than to explore the fault lines of corruption and conservatism in Iranian society that were so easily exploited by the CIA. Mofid himself described the play as the tragedy of a country unready for the democratic ideals that Mossadeq represented. One character describes the resulting chaos: “People are living behind barricades, shooting across the walls at their neighbors. They’ve all been reduced to beasts in the pit of this darkness. We’re living on a battlefield, but nobody’s winning, nobody’s losing.”

In the original version of the play that was presented in Iran in the seventies, the heavy climate of censorship under which Mofid worked forced him to leave the social dimension of the story underdeveloped, sketched only in vague and highly allegorical outlines. Living in Los Angeles after the revolution, Mofid staged another production at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre in 1983. He took this opportunity, free of the constraints of censorship, to rewrite the play substantially. He kept the parts of the Moon and Leopard intact, but fleshed out the animal inhabitants of the Leopard’s mountain as familiar caricatures of Iranian society as well as historical figures in a comedic indictment that follows the money trail leading from the U.S. embassy to the fall of Mossadeq. We meet Hajji, embodiment of the corrupt clergy; the Colonel, who represents both the dictatorial authority of the government and the upper class’s intoxication with all things Western; and their wives, whose stance shifts constantly for profit. Shaban Khan and his sidekick represent the paid mob, the illiterate masses who are bought by the CIA. The Teacher-sometimes called the Poet-was the character dearest to Mofid’s own heart: the liberal intellectual who is the only one able to comprehend the Leopard’s love for the Moon. It is his voice that delivers the poignant songs that punctuate the action, a voice finally silenced by execution at the Colonel’s command.

Mofid’s writing is extraordinary, and much loved by Iranians, for his ability to compress many layers of meaning into the simplest of stories. In allegorizing Mossadeq’s fall as a tragedy of impossible love, Mofid was tapping into the rich tradition of classical Persian poetry where romantic love is so often a metaphor for aspiration to the divine. The theme of separation from the beloved and the anguish of longing is deeply embedded in the Iranian psyche through the great Sufi poets such as Rumi and Hafez. The vision that the Leopard, Mossadeq, holds for the nation’s future transcends politics: his unreachable Moon is not just democracy, but enlightenment, truth, and love. The Leopard’s death-leap in pursuit of the Moon is as predictable and familiar as the fatal attraction of the moth to the candle flame, the longing for the divine that burns away all practical considerations. In mining this spiritual vein to develop his social and political themes, Mofid’s genius is perfectly attuned to the character of Iranian culture.

Leopard’s Dream
They’re getting closer–listen!
Listen to that sound!
It’s the grinding of their stained and venomous teeth.
Take him away from here!
Take him! . . . Take him!

Moon
Take him?
Where should I take him?
I myself am an exile,
an unwelcome guest on the dust of your earth,
and nowhere in all the void of space,
in all of unpitying heaven,
nowhere under this cracked, cold dome
have I ever found a home,
a haven, a place to rest.
There’s no door that opens for me–
where should I invite a guest?

Leopard
I hear the voice of the mountain
crying under the ice,
the sound of a leaf withering,
a flower falling,
a tear rolling.

Leopard’s Dream
They’re getting close!
There’s not much time–
Moon, don’t let him stay.
Don’t let this beauty, this glory,
become the prey of worms.
Take him! Take him!

The Colonel’s Wife knocks at the door of Hajji’s home.

Colonel’s Wife
Mrs. Hajji! Mrs. Hajji!

Hajji’s Wife
Shouting:
Hajji! I think it’s the colonel’s wife.

He calls back from the toilet:

Hajji
Tell her I’m not home.

Colonel’s Wife
Mrs. Hajji!

Hajji
Tell her I’m doing the ablutions.

Hajji’s Wife
Ablutions? At this time of night?

Hajji
There’s no prescribed time for ablutions.

Hajji’s Wife
Well, what kind of ablutions shall I say you’re doing?

Hajji
Tell her I’m washing the corpse.

Hajji’s Wife
The corpse?

Colonel’s Wife
Mrs. Hajji! Mrs. Hajji!

Hajji’s Wife
What corpse?

Hajji
Any corpse!

Hajji’s Wife
Has somebody died?

Hajji
What are you so nosy for? It’s a message for the colonel. He’ll know what I mean.

Hajji’s Wife
Oh, I see!

She opens the door.

Colonel’s Wife
Hello, Mrs. Hajji.

Hajji’s Wife
Mrs. Colonel, what a pleasure! Come in.

Colonel’s Wife
No, don’t let me disturb you. Is Hajji in?

Hajji’s Wife
He is washing the corpse.

Colonel’s Wife
(Happy)
Then the job is done!

Hajji’s Wife
Yes, God willing.

Colonel’s Wife
Thank God. Please see that Hajji himself gets this package. Alone. Tell him it’s his fee for washing the corpse.

Hajji’s Wife
Thank you very much.

Colonel’s Wife
The rest will be paid after the funeral.

Hajji’s Wife
But wait, come in for a minute. Have a cup of tea.

Colonel’s Wife
No, I have to go.

Hajji’s Wife
You’ve gone to so much trouble. Thank you.

Colonel’s Wife
It’s nothing at all. Thank you. Goodbye now.

She leaves. Hajji’s Wife looks into the package.

Hajji’s Wife
It seems that the fee for washing a corpse is quite high these days.

Hajji
Be thankful for God’s gifts.

Focus on the Moon and Leopard:

Moon
What can I do?
Where can I take him to hide?
For hundreds of thousands of years
in this darkness my hand
has reached for the hand of a sun.
I’ve searched so long
for one that might press my own in the dark,
might hold me, might warm me,
and lead me away
from the frozen grasp of the night.
Yes, finally, after centuries,
endless, endless centuries,
one night here on the mountain peak,
your unfortunate moon,
your star-bound bride of the sky
has felt the sun’s warm hand,
here . . . in mine.

Pause.
And my frozen body shuddered
as the sudden warmth
of these fingertips ran through me.
And now, my own cold hands
are held by the hand of the sun,
held by the hand of the mountain king,
and in his eyes
I’ve found a place of shelter.
I’ve warmed myself in the fever of these eyes.
Yes, little child,
this wild leopard, this fearless heart,
these eyes, this body full of pain,
this sea of love,
this pillar of the sky,
this king of the valleys and mountains and plains–
this is my sun, my light.

Leopard
You made me a sun.

Moon
This is my being, my joy, my hope.

Leopard
The hope you gave me.

Moon
The warmth of my burnt-out life.

Leopard
The life you gave me.

Moon
Why should I give up the light that I’ve held?
Why should I turn my back
on the sun, on the warmth of my life,
on this beautiful wild leopard . . .

Leopard
It was you that made me a leopard of the mountain.
I was the anguish of autumn:
you turned me to spring.
I was an old and withered tree:
you made a blossom out of me.
I was dry, and you welled in the depths of my heart.
I was a shriveled vine:
you turned me to wine.

Moon
You poured your wine for me,
you made me drunk.

Leopard
And you served me the same.
You filled me with love,
overflowing with pain.

Moon
Your flowing wine, your flood of love,
is sweeping me away.

Leopard
You’re beautiful. You’re beauty.

Moon
It’s the beauty that your eyes have made.

Leopard
You’re a song of destiny.

Moon
. . . the music that you’ve played.
You are legend, you are epic;
you are poetry.

Leopard
Your love recited me:
and with one sip of this bitter wine
you filled the hollow of my heart,
my empty eyes, with beauty,
with drunken ecstasy.

Moon
No, it was you who made me a moon,
you, the leopard of the mountain,
whose body is a pillar of the sky,
the terrible awesome king of the valleys and caves,
the king of the mountains and plains.

Leopard
You made me a leopard,
you made me a king.

Moon
Throughout this entire land
your love has made me infamous.

Hajji’s Wife calls from outside the thug Shaban-khan’s house, where he is sleeping. His Sidekick answers the door.

Hajji’s Wife
Shaban-khan!

Sidekick
Wait, I’ll call him.

He goes back into the house.

Shaban-khan! Shaban-khan!

Shaban-khan
What’s the matter, kid? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?

Sidekick
Sorry, boss. Hajji’s wife is at the door. She wants to see you.

Shaban-khan
I’m not home. Tell her I’ve gone on a pilgrimage.

Sidekick starts to go but turns back.

Sidekick
But it’s the wrong time of year.

Shaban-khan
Then tell her I’ve gone to the club to work out.

He goes back to sleep. Sidekick goes to the door.

Hajji’s Wife
Did you tell him?

Sidekick
He’s not home.

Hajji’s Wife
He’s not?

Sidekick
He went to the club to work out. He likes his exercise.

Hajji’s Wife
Exercise? In this cold?

Sidekick
He’s used to it. He’ll do a few push-ups, throw some weights around, he’ll be in top form.

Hajji’s Wife
Good for him. I wish my Hajji could be in top form just once in while.

Sidekick
What’s wrong with him?

Hajji’s Wife
Nothing. From the crack of dawn to the wee hours of the night he sits at the opium brazier. He works himself up to make speeches on the radio, gets all wound up to perform. But always he fusses and says that he’s not quite in top form yet. So then he goes down to the flower bed, spreads out his paraphernalia, drinks a glass of vodka, then another one, and still he says “I’m not in top form yet.” So I’m the one who has to get up, put on my scarf and veil, run all the way downtown to buy him cucumbers, melons, and radishes, the only things he can swallow.

Sidekick
And then?

Hajji’s Wife
Nothing. He sits down, drinks a glass of vodka, then another one, and still he says . . .

Both
. . . “I’m not in top form yet.”

Hajji’s Wife
And you haven’t heard the half of it! Early in the evening he starts his fussing. Why is this here? Why is that there? Why is the light left on? Why do the neighbors make so much noise? Why is Roya burping? Then he goes back down to the flowerbed, sits there . . .

Both
Drinks a glass of vodka, then another one, and still he says “I’m not in top form yet.”

Hajji’s Wife
God only knows!

Sidekick
Tell him to come to the club once in a while.

Hajji’s Wife
God forbid! Hajji at the club?! Whatever for?

Sidekick
He’ll toss some weights, do a few push-ups, I promise you he’ll be in top form in no time.

Hajji’s Wife
You don’t know him. If he needs to move his butt to get out of the house, first he has to sit down and drink a glass or two or three, and then just as soon as he gets home, he goes back down to the flowerbed . . .

Both
Drinks a glass of vodka, then another one, and still he says “I’m not in top form yet.”

Sidekick
God grant you patience.

Hajji’s Wife
And especially since a certain individual has fallen in love with the moon, he’s completely confused. He can’t tell his ass from his elbow. The moon keeps getting brighter and warmer, and if things go on like this, he says, soon we’ll be scraping bottom, because everyone’s paid for the nighttime prayers and the morning just doesn’t come!

Sidekick
Time is a thing of the past, these days.

Hajji’s Wife
Nobody needs him for weddings, christenings . . .

Sidekick
Let alone moral guidance. The goats are all mixed up with the sheep.

Hajji’s Wife
There’s no sabbath left to keep.

Sidekick
It’s chaos, total chaos.

Hajji’s Wife
That’s why he goes down to the flowerbed, drinks a glass of vodka, then another one, and still he says “I’m not in top form yet.”

She gets up.

Well, I have to go. He’s waiting for me. I wanted to deliver this package in person to Shaban-khan.

Sidekick
Not out here. Come inside.

Hajji’s Wife
Oh, no, I couldn’t. What would people say?

Sidekick
Don’t worry. If anyone gossips, I’ll tie their intestines around their neck.

Shaban-khan himself comes out, yawning.

Shaban-khan
Hello, Mrs. Hajji.

Hajji’s Wife
Hello. I thought you were at the club.

Shaban-khan
No, I was sleeping.

Hajji’s Wife
But he said . . .

Shaban-khan
He was wrong . . . Very, very wrong. You’re sick, telling lies like that.

Sidekick
But, boss . . .

Shaban-khan kicks him away.

Shaban-khan
Get lost!

Sidekick
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

He leaves.

Shaban-khan
Mrs. Hajji, forgive him. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t understand. So, what can I do for you?

Hajji’s Wife
Hajji sends his regards. He asked me to come and give you this in person.

She gives him the briefcase of cash.

Shaban-khan
Very kind of you.

Hajji’s Wife
Hajji says you’ll get the rest after the holidays, assuming all goes well.

Shaban-khan
Thank you very much. Hey, kid, get over here!

Sidekick returns.

Sidekick
Yes, sir.

Shaban-khan
To Hajji’s Wife:
Tell your reverend husband: the boy would be honored to lay down his life at Hajji’s slightest whim. As an expression of my gratitude.

He starts counting the money.

One, two, three . . .

A Poem About Stoning

2007-07-14T17:23:00.000-05:00

I translated this poem about stoning by Asieh Amini, a young, energetic and well-known activist and journalist in Iran. I admire her greatly for all of her work and for working tirelessly despite all the obstacles and risks!

This poem is about the act of stoning which is a very brutal form of punishment, often practiced in some of the Muslim countries, for those who have committed adultery. Despite all the attempts, Iran unfortunately remains one of the countries that has not yet fully abandoned this cruel form of punishment.

The Person Who Throws Stones At Me!

When the “stone rain” begins

…

Before it makes

a mountain of stone out of me,

it turns your heart into a rock.

***

Let’s even say that I am a sinner,

that I am a cruel criminal,

that I deserve to be punished

…

You, who are making a stone out of your own heart,

and are throwing these stones at me;

I have a question from you:

“At night, do you sleep with the innocence of Mary?”

Asieh Amini, 2006

To read more about stoning in Iran, click here.

Let My Father Leave!

2007-07-12T14:47:00.001-05:00

Today on my way to work, as I was waiting for the metro to come, my eyes got tired of reading, I put my book aside and decided to people watch for a while. I noticed that a daughter and a father were sitting next to me and talking in Spanish. The girl was probably my age, around 21 or 22 years old. And the father seemed to be in his late 50s. Their conversation and their tone of talking with each other really caught my attention. It seemed that they were having a lot of much fun together. The girl was telling her father about a dress she had seen that was very pretty and her father was asking her about the details of the dress. And then they started to talk about how he is going to buy that for her and how the dress should look good on her. When the train came, it was as though all of a sudden the child in the man came out. He held his daughter’s hand and said in an excited tone, “Let’s run. Let’s run pretty girl”. And they both laughed. At that point I stopped pretending that I was not listening to their conversation and I, too, laughed with them. The man noticed me, smiled at me and asked me to enter the train first.

On the train, they continued to talk about different things and laugh. The girl had put her head on her father’s shoulder and her father was patting her hand. They were seriously the cutest creatures in this world. Although I was trying to read and not interrupt them by listening to their conversations, I would get distracted by their beautiful daughter-father relationship and could not keep my eyes away from them. At some point, the daughter took off her father’s ring from his hand and tried it on her own hand. She laughed and said, “Haha, papa, look, it looks nice on me!” and kept it on. Her father laughed and said, “Miss, please give me back my ring. Go ask some handsome gentleman to buy you a ring, not me”, he laughed some more and embraced her. They noticed me looking at them again and they smiled at me.

When they were getting off the train, the man turned back, looked at me and said, “take care, my daughter”. I waved at him and tried to hide my tears in my eyes. They made me miss my beloved father so much that I could not prevent myself from crying. Why can’t I see my father and spend time with him? Why does my father have to be trapped in Iran, under loose house arrest? Why did he have to get kidnapped, tortured, imprisoned to begin with? Why is he not allowed to leave Iran? While many true criminals wander in cities in Iran, why a true believer of humanity like my father who has always been committed to his job, journalism, should be mistreated as if he is a dangerous criminal?

I want to see my father. I, too, want to be able to see my father laugh. I want him to see me having grown up. I want him to see and to feel the result of all the years that he took care of me. I want my mother to see my father. I want to see them embrace each other and cry off the years of separation. I want my sisters to feel the presence of their father. The family members of Siamak Pourzand have been longing to see him for years. We want to be able to take care of him, to show him how much we love him. Let him leave Iran. Let him leave the country that he has passionately loved all throughout his life. Let him leave the country that has turned into a lonely prison for him. Let him leave. Let him come to us. Let him feel our love while he is alive.

To read about the story of my father, Siamak Pourzand, please click here.

Flying While Muslim: Racial Profiling Post-9/11

2007-07-11T16:29:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to the screening of a documentary in progress called, “Flying While Muslim” by Lyra Porras Garzon. The documentary is mainly about the racial profiling of Muslims in the US post-9/11.Although I thought that the documentary had looked at the concept of being “Muslim” from a very general point of view and I felt that many details about the dynamics of Muslim communities and the interactions of Muslims within their own communities were missing, I thought it was a very interesting and an important documentary. In my opinion, during our time it is very important to one way or another raise awareness about the life of Muslims in the West, their criticism of terrorism and how they are being viewed by others. It is important to raise awareness about the legal situation of Muslims in the West, negative and positive opinions about them as a whole and to present the human side of their lives to the West.

To watch a preview of this documentary, click here.

“Racial Profiling is any police or private security practice in which a person is treated as a suspect because of his or her race, ethnicity, nationality or religion. This occurs when police investigate, stop, frisk, search or use force against a person based on such characteristics instead of evidence of a person's criminal behavior. It often involves the stopping and searching of people of color for traffic violations, known as "DWB" or "driving while black or brown." Although normally associated with African Americans and Latinos, racial profiling and "DWB" have also become shorthand phrases for police stops of Asians, Native Americans, and, increasingly after 9/11, Arabs, Muslims and South Asians".

The American Civil Liberties Union

They Are Sadly Doctors!

2007-07-08T00:47:00.000-05:00

Since I heard that five of those who were involved in the conspiracy to launch the car bomb attacks in London and Glasgow are in fact doctors, I have not been able to get rid of my deep feeling of sorrow and grief. It is one thing to think that uneducated individuals who are fed up with the West plan and participate in actions of terrorism. And it is entirely a different thing to think that doctors who are highly skilled professionals, respected and trusted by the society launch terrorist attacks and terrorist actions that involve murdering many innocent individuals. Even if they are extremely disgusted by what the West has been doing in the Middle East, this is seriously not the way to take revenge and to value the spirits of the innocent and unfortunate civilians and soldiers who daily die tragically in significant numbers in the Middle East and in the Muslim world in general. In my opinion, these doctors could have easily been the defendant of the blood and spirit of thousands and perhaps millions of muslins in the Middle East by simply becoming those who represent the humanly and capable aspects of the people of Islam. It makes me gravely sad to see doctors doing what seems to be the exact opposite of what they are supposed to do as doctors, as professionals whose job is helping people by curing their patients’ illnesses and saving many individuals’ lives with their skills. These doctors, I think, by committing to medical ethics, could have benefited the people of their faith in many constructive ways and here they are being recognized as number one terrorists in U.K!

To read the news about the doctors' role in the car bomb attacks, click here.

When Persia Became Iran

2007-07-02T10:46:00.000-05:00

Last night one of my good friends who is a German music producer asked me a question that I failed to answer. To be honest with you not knowing the answer to his question made me kind of embarrassed. I mean as an Iranian I simply should know these things. He asked, " So how and when did the name Persia became Iran?". I paused and responded, " I don't know". But right then I promised myself to find out the answer to his question and I did. Many of you might already know his answer.

Here it is:

When "Persia" became "Iran"This article is a part of "Persia or Iran" by Professor Ehsan Yarshater, published in Iranian Studies, Vol. XXII, No.1, 1989.In 1935 the Iranian government requested those countries which it had diplomatic relations with, to call Persia "Iran," which is the name of the country in Persian. The suggestion for the change is said to have come from the Iranian ambassador to Germany, who came under the influence of the Nazis. At the time Germany was in the grip of racial fever and cultivated good relations with nations of "Aryan" blood. It is said that some German friends of the ambassador persuaded him that, as with the advent of Reza Shah, Persia had turned a new leaf in its history and had freed itself from the pernicious influences of Britain and Russia, whose interventions in Persian affairs had practically crippled the country under the Qajars, it was only fitting that the country be called by its own name, "Iran." This would not only signal a new beginning and bring home to the world the new era in Iranian history, but would also signify the Aryan race of its population, as "Iran" is a cognate of "Aryan" and derived from it. The Iranian Ministry of Foreign Affairs sent out a circular to all foreign embassies in Tehran, requesting that the country thenceforth be called "Iran." Diplomatic courtesy obliged, and by and by the name "Iran" began to appear in official correspondence and news items. At first "Iran" sounded alien (for non-Iranians), and many failed to recognize its connection with Persia. Some (Westerners) thought that it was perhaps one of the new countries like Iraq and Jordan carved out of the ruins of the Ottoman Empire, or a country in Africa or Southeast Asia that had just been granted independence; and not a few confused it with Iraq, itself a recent entity. As time passed and as a number of events, like the Allied invasion of Iran in 1941 and the nationalization of the oil industry under Prime Minster Dr Mohammad Mosaddeq, put the country in the headlines, the name "Iran" became generally accepted, and "Persia" fell into comparative disuse, though more slowly in Britain than in the United States.

*Iran Chamber

Other People & Other Places

2007-06-28T12:45:00.000-05:00

I seriously envy those who choose to remain unaware of the world’s current events. Following the news and the incidents that daily happen in different parts of the world often creates an overwhelming sense of pessimism in me. And understandably not many people are interested in hearing about your pessimism about this world and if you choose to go ahead and talk about this negativity that you feel, then they politely tune you out and tell you to live your own life and to find happiness. While I admire this conscious detachment from the daily happenings of the world—such as wars, deaths, rebellions, earth quakes, imprisonments, sicknesses and many other incidents— it makes me very sad that many of us choose or have to choose to live our own individual lives outside the context of this world that goes beyond our homes, neighborhoods and cities. Again, I am not saying all of this to complain about things. It is just that it makes me sad to feel part of a small crowd of people in this world who feel the need or have the freedom to follow the current events and if nothing to think about other places and other people!

The Prism of My Personality!

2007-06-27T18:05:00.000-05:00

My close and distant friends often tell me that they think I have a complicated and “layered” personality. They tell me that at any given moment I could surprise them with my actions. A close friend has even told me that I scare him when all of a sudden I “switch personalities” unexpectedly.

Since many friends have pointed out this complicated characteristic of mine, I always find myself thinking and analyzing this phenomenon of multiple personalities and its role in my life. It seems to me that having multiple personalities is not necessarily a disorder, as long as it does not exceed a certain limit. A quick review of my friends’ personalities makes me realize that most of my friends who like me grew up in Tehran and have relatively less strict families tend to have complicated characters. While I do not want to blame having multiple personalities on having grown up in Iran, I do think that living under a strict political system and the feeling of being constantly watched by someone else could in fact, create such a phenomenon.

For instance, let’s go over a simple day that I would spend at home, in school and outside when I was still in Iran and was a teenager:

My father would wake me up early in the morning. Before that, however, I was already waken up by the sound of the morning prayer that could be heard from the outside (for those who know we lived closed to the Mossala of Tehran). I, however, did not care much about the morning prayer and had simply taught myself to tune out the very loud sound of the Quran and sleep. In my pajamas, I would go to the kitchen, have breakfast with my father and if I had time I would listen to my Western music until it was time to go downstairs and wait for the school bus to come. Then, I would quickly wear my garment and tight scarf (maghnaye) and run downstairs. In school, my friends and I would not cease talking about this and that Hollywood movie, American and European actors, actresses and singers. Meanwhile, we would pretend to be very religious and anti-West during some of our classes (i.e. Islamic studies and the Koran). We would say prayers in school and sometimes we would find some silly reason to burst into laughter while praying and that was when we were in serious trouble. After school, some of us would go to English classes and music classes. The environment of these extracurricular classes was fun and it was much less strict than the actual school. I remember one of the things I used to enjoy was to be able to wear some makeup for my English classes in the evening. Anyhow, as we got older, liking boys and dating were added to the list. Those of us who had relatively liberal families would manage to throw dance parties (where we would dance techno and Persian dance) and hang out with our friends and our ‘crush’ at the time. I remember that whenever I had a birthday party, for instance, my parents were very scared of the moral police breaking in the house and giving us trouble for having thrown a co-ed party and having consumed alcoholic beverages. We were the lucky ones, because some of my friends who had more conservative families, had to meet up with their dates out in the streets away from their houses. That by itself was a real adventure. They basically had to make up on lie after another in order to run the kind of social life that due to their age and desires they needed to have.

Many of us were constantly advised to never share what goes on at home with our friends and our teachers. Although we often failed to abide by this ‘privacy’ rule and would share our stories with some of our friends, most of the times we would manage to keep these stories among ourselves and not have them leak to the authorities of the school or our teachers. The funny thing is that later when I was old enough to see things more broadly, I realized that our teachers and the staff of the school would do the same exact thing. They would talk about their controversial opinions and lives at those teachers who were in touch with the authorities of the Ministry of Education and other governmental institutions.

All in all, while being a teenager in Tehran was fun, “fun” was not easy to achieve. In other words, whenever we were partying, dancing, drinking, talking with boys on the phone and in general doing things that were against the strict rules of the regime in Iran, we would feel as though we were real supermen and superwomen who had no fear of breaking the restricting rules. I must admit, later on when I came to the US, it took me a while to understand that the joy of partying, socializing and even drinking is simply because of getting together and having a good time. In Iran, I was brought up to think about these things(having a good time) as rebellious actions that showed our opposition to the strict rules were ordered to abide by all these different social institutions—starting from families to the government.

Anyhow, it is because of the kind of daily life that we(I am specifically talking about the middleclass, more Westernized middle class of Tehran) had during our childhood and teenage years that I think, many of us who grew up in Iran have developed more than simply one “face” with which we present ourselves to the society. We have learned from early on to be a certain way at home and to pretend almost the opposite of that in school and outside. This is why, I think, many of my non-Iranian friends or those who have not grown up in Iran tell me that I have many personalities and that I can easily switch from one “face” to another!

Our Dear Fatema

2007-06-25T10:42:00.000-05:00

Fatema & my best friend Pilar

Last week our dear friend, Fatema Khimji, and her father passed away in a tragic accident. We miss them and they will always remain alive in our thoughts and hearts. It is a strange feeling to know that Fatema is not here with us anymore. It was such a sudden loss that it has left me in complete disbelief. I did not know Fatema well myself, but through the stories that her best friend(my best friend as well), Pilar, would tell me about Fatema, I became familiar with Fatema as smart, strong, religious, funny and extremely kind young lady. I wish I was granted the chance to get to know her well before she leaves us and flies else where.

I dedicate this poem by Rumi to Pilar who is understandably truly affected by this unexpected loss:

Our death is our wedding with eternity.

What is the secret? "God is One."

The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house.

This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes;

It is not in the juice made from the grapes.

For he who is living in the Light of God,

The death of the carnal soul is a blessing.

Regarding him, say neither bad nor good,

For he is gone beyond the good and the bad.

Fix your eyes on God and do not talk about what is invisible,

So that he may place another look in your eyes.

It is in the vision of the physical eyes

That no invisible or secret thing exists.

But when the eye is turned toward the Light of God

What thing could remain hidden under such a Light?
Although all lights emanate from the Divine Light Don't call all these lights "the Light of God";

It is the eternal light which is the Light of God,

The ephemeral light is an attribute of the body and the flesh.

...Oh God who gives the grace of vision! The bird of vision is flying towards You with the wings of desire.
Mystic Odes 833

And here is an article published in the Hoya, Georgetown University's Newspaper(where Fatema went to school):

A Life, Devoted to Friendship and Service, Cut Short

By Michele HongHoya Staff Writer Sunday, June 24, 2007

She would wear a hijab around her head along with a blue shirt, an orange jumper and brown shoes with glitter. She prayed five times a day and in between would listen to indie rock bands or watch reality television. She had just gotten pink streaks in her hair. She was learning to play guitar.
Fatema Khimji (SFS ?07) could not be defined by one word or expression. She would often spend her time actively involved in the Muslim Student Association, pulling together brightly colored ensembles that matched her headscarf and attending the speeches at Gaston Hall. All agreed that she was just beginning to live her life and showed no sign of slowing down.
But during the mid-afternoon on June 19, a month after she received her degree magna cum laude on Healy Lawn, Khimji, 22, and her father Naushad died in a car accident after their Honda Accord collided with a semi-truck on the Ohio Turnpike. They had just left the Cleveland airport, where Khimji had returned from a weekend visit with two of her senior-year roommates in Miami.
As family and friends, including more than two dozen members of the university community, mourned the deaths at funeral services in Ohio last week, Georgetown?s Muslim community worked to keep Khimji?s memory alive; Muslim Chaplain Imam Yahya Hendi organized a memorial service in Copley Formal Lounge yesterday, and MSA held a prayer service Friday evening in the Copley Muslim Prayer Room. Her friends have also considered starting long-term projects to remember her ? they spoke of scholarships, endowments or naming a location on campus after her.
?I still can?t believe she?s gone. I cried in the grocery store yesterday. No matter how many times I say it, I?m still so sure it?s impossible,? Krisztina Schoeb (COL ?07) said. ?She was an angel on earth.?
?A Beautiful Smile?
Khimji was more than just a friend to many at Georgetown; those who knew her best said she was like an older sister in many ways. Her friends were an important priority, as evidenced by her constant willingness to provide advice, lend a helping hand or chat late into the night.
Pilar Siman (SFS ?07), one of her roommates during their senior years, remembered Khimji coming downstairs from her room every night to ask her about her day. Heather O?Brien (COL ?07), who lived in the same house, recalled with a laugh the conversations the six roommates would have on their couches until 3 a.m.
Others said that the guidance and support Khimji gave friends would not be forgotten. Several friends said that they would remember fondly the down-to-earth and sympathetic shoulder that Khimji would offer when they were in need.
?Every time I saw her, she always smiled, and she had a beautiful smile,? Hafsa Kanjwal (SFS ?08) said. ?She also had a silent presence in your life. There are some people where you know they?re there. They kind of have a silent beauty.?
Mariam Abu-Ali (NHS ?10) remembered how Khimji would drop what she herself was doing to edit friend?s essays on short notice ? and would always do so with a smile.
And still more looked back on the many selfless deeds that Khimji enthusiastically performed.
?I will never forget how, every Friday for congregated prayer, she would arrive half an hour early to help me ? carry bulky rolls of carpet from third floor Leavey to the common room on first,? Farah El-Sharif (SFS ?O9), MSA treasurer, said. ?The selfless effort she put forward and her positive and kind spirit made the trouble worthwhile.?
While Khimji may have been like a big sister to many on campus, she was the actual big sister of one student: Faiza Khimji (COL ?09). While Khimji?s family members did not wish to comment, friends described her as a loving and devoted relative.
?I have never seen so much sisterly love, and to me that in itself echoed so much about her remarkable character,? Abu-Ali said. ?Even though they lived together, I still remember a time when she saw her sister walking ? she called out to Faiza and hugged her and said, ?I miss you!??
Khimji was also known to bring laughter to her circle of friends. Renowned for her unrivaled impersonations of teachers, friends and celebrities, she was always the one to lighten the mood.
?If she was telling a story, you could guess immediately who she was talking about because she could mimic voice and mannerisms so well,? Maryam Mohamed (SFS ?06) said.
A Culture and Politics major, Khimji took classes in both Spanish and Arabic and spent time abroad in Ecuador and Egypt. Although she took her studies and grades seriously, several said she quenched knowledge for its own sake.
Throughout all this, many of Khimji?s friends took special note of the humility with which she carried herself. To her, it was a personal choice about humility that caused her to wear her hijab every day.
?She was always humble about everything, whether it be a really great internship that she got or her ever-trendy fashion choices,? Jane Kim (COL ?07), another of her former roommates, said. ?In a place like Georgetown ? this humility was so refreshing and attractive.?
A Leader in Faith
A devout Muslim, Khimji was dedicated to keeping Islamic traditions in her life. She put her daily activities on hold for prayer and chose to wear a hijab in public. During Ramadan, her friends remembered her leaving her 34th and R townhouse every day to pray at Copley at five in the morning.
Khimji?s faith served as a model for those she was around. Not only did she regularly attend her religious services, but actively listened to the lessons they preached and attempted to apply them to her everyday life. Earlier this year she came home excitedly sporting a large yellow heart on a silver chain around her neck, according to several friends, but after attending a Friday prayer service during which the readings emphasized the virtues of a simple life, Khimji returned home having decided that her most recent purchase was unnecessary.
?She took faith and put it into practice, but not in a way that made other people feel uncomfortable,? Siman, one of her roommates, said. ?Her faith just made her care about being with others.?
Khimji spent much of her time on the Hilltop working with MSA, having served as community service co-chair and Ramadan coordinator. Aside from her formal roles in MSA, however, she played a much bigger part in the student group; members of MSA remember her as the social glue that bound together the incoming freshmen and the other students.
Kanjwal, an MSA member, remembered that during one of her first days as a freshman when she didn?t know many people, she went to the Muslim Interest Living Community in Alumni Square and knocked on Khimji?s door. ?She opened the door and was so happy to see me, so welcoming,? she said, noting that she did not even know Khimji at the time. ?She made the transition a lot easier for myself and a few of the other freshman girls that year.?
In the wake of her death, the Georgetown Muslim community to which she was so devoted has solemnly united in solidarity. Hendi, the Muslim chaplain, said that he received numerous phone calls and e-mails offering assistance for yesterday?s service, during which passages from the Quran were read and many, including Hendi, spoke about Khimji.
?She was never angry, never upset,? Hendi said. ?She believed that smiling is an act of charity.?
In the Service of Others
Although Khimji had not decided on any one profession by the time of her graduation, she did have five definite options lined up; the day after her death, she was to be interviewed over the phone by the Federal Trade Commission, and she had just been called by the National Zoo, where she was thinking of becoming a volunteer coordinator. She also was considering joining the Peace Corps, which had already expressed an interest in sending her to central Asia. Wide-ranging though her job options were, they all had one thing in common ? as she had done during her life up until then, Khimji wanted to put herself at the service of others.
Many of Khimji?s friends described her as a tireless advocate for tolerance and social justice. With her great-grandparents coming from the Gujarati region of India and her grandparents and parents from eastern Africa, Khimji herself was the product of several cultures, and she was known to be not only accepting, but genuinely interested in learning about other people?s backgrounds. After living in the Muslim Interest Living Community her sophomore year, she spent her senior year in a townhouse with five non-Muslim students.
?People all live with a certain lifestyle, raised with certain prejudices. She was a very observant Muslim, but she was always comfortable with someone who wasn?t a Muslim,? Minoo Razavi (SFS ?09) said. ?That was the most admirable quality that she had ? she made you feel comfortable.?
Khimji was raised as a Muslim but was always eager to learn about other religions and their traditions. Having attended an all-girls Catholic high school, a few of her Catholic friends joked that she knew more about the religion than they did.
?Sometimes people with different religions are uncomfortable with each other, but she was the bridge,? Siman said.
While in Miami last week visiting with Siman and O?Brien, Khimji was working on her application to be a Muslim liaison for the Buxton Initiative, which works to promote discourse and understanding between peoples of different faiths. In the application that she had been working on right before the accident, Khimji conveyed the accepting, curious and nurturing personality that her friends all remember.
?I have attended Catholic schools since I was eight years old. Since that age, I have worshipped, studied and volunteered with classmates and teachers of diverse religious backgrounds,? she wrote. ?My faith reminds me that I need to leave this world better than I found it; it gives me purpose and direction and reminds me that with privilege comes responsibility, and that I have a duty to use what I have in the service of others.?

Fatema, hear our voice:

We will love you and think about you and miss you forever!

TransFORM/NATION Exhibition

2007-06-19T11:15:00.000-05:00

Dear friends,

please join us(IAAB) this Thursday, June 21 from 6-9pm for the opening reception of TRANSFORM/NATION: Contemporary Art of Iran and its Diaspora. There will be live music, food, and drinks and a chance to meet some of the artists.

http://www.iranianalliances.org/art/index.php

TRANSFORM/NATION
CONTEMPORARY ART OF IRAN AND ITS DIASPORA

Washington DC · Tehran · June 22-August 4, 2007

Join IAAB and 21 Iranian artists from around the world
to explore Iranian identity, tradition and stereotypes

Multi-media exhibitions in DC, Tehran, & online

Ellipse Arts Center · Arlington, VA (DC Metro Area)

Exhibiting Artists: Samira Abbassy, USA · Haleh Anvari, Iran · Kaya Behkalam, Germany · Mina Ghaziani, Iran · Pantea Karimi, USA · Bani Khoshnoudi, France · Haleh Niazmand, USA · Amir Rad, Iran · Afarin Rahmanifar, USA · Jairan Sadeghi, USA · Samineh Sarvghad, Iran · Farideh Shahsavarani, Iran · Samira Yamin, USA · Siamak Nasiri Ziba, Iran

Nikzad Gallery · Tehran, Iran

Exhibiting Artists: Ali Alavi, Iran · Nazgol Ansarinia, Iran · Amir Sabber Esfahani, USA · Bani Khoshnoudi, France · Farideh Shahsavarani, Iran · Maryam Shirinlou, Iran · Shadi Yousefian, USA · Mahboubeh Zadehahmadi, Iran · Shahnaz Zehtab, Iran · Siamak Nasiri Ziba, Iran

Curated by: Narges Bajoghli, Nikoo Paydar, Leyla Pope and Maryam Ovissi