This was written after my first trip to Iran in 10 years.
I was suffering some culture shock.
Sixth day of occupation. The black under-carbonated beverage I'm drinking is
called "Ha Ich" and tastes like sweetened dishwater. Luckily, my conditioning with diet coke
is so strong that I continue to drink it. Perhaps like
diet coke, I will eventually calibrate my taste buds to
not even notice the taste - rendering it neutral.
It's 4:10 pm here and everyone (Daddy, Khanom Bozorg, Zahra -
her second cousin, and Shekoofeh the maid) is napping. They eat lunch at
1:30 or 2:00, watch news/clean up at 2:30 or 3:00 and then sleep through
4:30. This is instilling bad habits in me. When I get back to LA, I'll be
a sleepwalking mess. I'm still struggling with my cold (or am I actually
allergic to Shiraz?) and this has put a damper on my enjoyment here. Didn't
even drag myself out for a walk today. But that's OK. Today was big in other
ways. I made an important discovery!
To my delight, this trip has been liberating me in several ways.
I have, for example, discovered that I have long suffered from the undiagnosed
disease: shirazagoraphobia, a symptom of iranagoraphobia compounded by linguistic
shock - also known as cell phone static effect syndrome.
Luckily, several key things have taken place that put me well
on the road to a cure. One is that I have discovered I speak Farsi much better
than I thought I did. I once heard a story about a missionary who was in
a strange land and felt moved to give a sermon but freaked out because he
didn't speak the language there, and then he calmed down through prayer and
opened his mouth and LO! He spoke in the local tongue though he had never
spoken it before. That's not what's happening with me, although I feel just
as miracle-struck. Apparently all that quality time with Khanom Bozorg in
LA paid off. So now I am able to sit back and enjoy the dizzying array of
idioms that fly by, Shirazi ones from Shekoofeh, and Burujerdi ones from
Daddy et al. This is so fun! And bawdy. Iranian idioms are very bawdy.
Also, I find that in those cel-phone static moments, or when
I've lost track of the pronoun and have no idea who or what we're talking
about, if, instead of just letting it go and pretending to understand, I
ask questions and push for clarity - two things happen, first: I get clarity!
Second, I am discovering that even the people talking are confused about
what they are saying and my questions give them clarity.
So far a lot of the conversations consist of catching up on the
marital, economic and health status of family and mutual friends. Often this
sounds like a litany of misfortunes. For example, Mr. Felaani (names changed
to protect innocent) and his wife (cell phone moment, after all these years,
I still don't know her name. Also, I only now realized that Haji Masoud.
and Mr. Felaani are the same person. This kind of lack of clarity and many
other confused lacks of linkages over iraninformation have clearly contributed
to my shirazagoraphobia over the years) came over and had tea with us. We
chatted. How is so and so? Oh, poor unfortunate so and so (too many names
for me to keep track of) had a cataract operation, and while one eye was
fixed, the other had black water on it and that eye is blind.
With this, the conversation turned nostalgically to reminisces of all the eye
diseases that were prevalent in days of yore. How everyone
would have runny eyes, and half the people in Ahwaz are
blind. And the cures! They would rub a white dirt in your
eyes or stick something else unpleasant under your eyelids.
None of this worked. And now, fortunately we have those
yellow eyedrops. Yes, and the gray eye drops. Wonderful.
No more blindness.
But baldness! Remember baldness! Used to be everyone was bald, or knew someone
who was. Not the old men who lose their hair, but that
disease that caused baldness (I think it's apioceleckiisiia).
My Dad remembered how they used to say that if you are
having trouble falling asleep, count forty bald men and
forty mosques. So he would lie there and think of the names
of the bald men...Khanom Bozorg interrupts - Since when?
("Kayyyy?") you only had to count seven bald men! Telling us forty! Distortions, distortions!
Here Daddy notes that my school acronym was SICS, Shiraz International
Community School. But he met some people with the acronym KKS - Koor va Katchalhaye
Shiraz. (BBS, Blind and Bald Shirazis).
Anyway, how about so and so? Oh, they took off his cast, but
his bones havn't boiled yet (If you notice weird words, these are either
cell phone moments for me and it's my best guess, or that's a literal translation.
I didn't know bones boiled either - "najooshideh"). Poor thing he can't move his thumb. And this misfortune of the arm befell
him on his way to the hospital from after having sawed his leg in a carpentry
accident. Then his truck, laden with loads, turned over and there went his
arm. What are the odds of that. Who, I ask, is this so and so with the arm
and the sawed leg? Oh, he's Mr. Felaani's brother's cousins, wifes...some
relation, and he's, or his brother, or father or somebody is Zahra's groom
(e.g., husband of her daughter). Of course.
That's my summary of that conversation, which just flowed with
great ease and was most relaxing, even as we pushed more fruit and sweets
on our guests, and even as Daddy took Mr. Felaani aside to look at our heaters
- as Mr. Felaani is a handyman. Anyway, Mr. Felaani and wife bid their goodbyes.
We drove them to their house (lots of Ta'arof involved in pulling this off,
but we were headed out anyway, and Daddy wanted to take me for a ride to
see the new park that they've built by the new highway. Apparently Iranians
don't like to walk far from the street for their entertainment, so this one
LONG stretch of new highway - The Martyr Chamran Highway, has a ten to thirty
foot wide band of park on each side which is apparently always filled with
people on weekend nights, people go here to meet and be met, do face time, be social, a real pick up joint - it's also called LOVE Highway for
this reason.)
But before we get to Martyr Chamran's love highway, we drop Mr.
Felaani off. Now, the previous moments have intrigued me. I always thought
Mr. Felaani and his family were related to us solely in a service oriented/work
related capacity. But this thing about Zahra's daughter's husband - it seems
to me we are related to this family by marriage. I try to clarify the point.
After they're out of the car, Daddy and Zahra and I are driving down by the
park on love highway (I look on the map and it's not called Martyr Chamran.
Daddy tells me my map is wrong. I say - look, Martyr Chamran is this bit
down here. He says no. It's here. Now I need to go back and look at the street
signs. This is typical of my experience in Shiraz and Iran. I am never sure
of any bit of information I get and figure this is because I don't understand Farsi well. It may also be because no one in Iran thinks accuracy
is actually important. I am going to get pushy about accuracy.) Not too many
people out for love tonight. It's cold. I need to visit in Spring or Summer,
obviously, for the full effect. Anyway - back to Mr. Felaani.
So, I ask, we're related to this guy? No, Daddy says, This is
Haji Jaafar's son. Yes, I know. Yes, well one day we heard a knock on the
door. (Ah! That's the thing about Iranians. They have a weird, circumvoluted
way of unfolding the story. This is how I get confused. No straight answer.
Swift detour into another story. I have no time to say "then what about Zahra's daughter's husband - isn't that a link by marriage?" which later, Daddy acknowledges is in fact the case. We are now linked by marriage.
However, it was not always so. For this answer, we have to go to that knock
on the door) and there was Haji J. He wanted us to hide him, thought he could
do odd jobs, but he didn't want anyone in Burujerd to find him.
Oh, I say, so he came to us because he was a servant in your Dad's family back
in Burujerd? No! He was a wealthy man. Landowner. But then
he lost all his land with the Shah's land reform and they
wanted to take him to jail, which he would have only spent
a few days, but he chose to flee all together and came
to our house and hid out for a year. Then one by one his
children showed up, having found him, and they ended up
staying in Shiraz ever since and working for our family.
And all his kids have gone on to graduate from college,
God bless 'em all. And one of Haj J.' sons died in the
war. OK, epic.
Let's go back to that land reform thing. How come he lost all his land and you
guys didn't? Oh, we did lose some.
OK, I'll make a long story short here. If anyone wants training
in taking depositions or cross-examination, they should try to extract a
clear, chronological story out of Daddy. I'll spare you here and summarize.
Yes, he lost all his land in the land reform and we lost some but it didn't
affect us as much. The thing is, poor guy, he had success in his wood-related
business, then invested it all in buying land and then the land reform hit.
He had borrowed a lot of money to buy the land, and the land was then taken
from him, and given to the farmers, and then the debtors were on his back.
Which is why he came to Shiraz. And since then things did pick up, all his
kids are doing well, except the daughter.
- Yes, the crazy one. She did drive him to more grief.
- What crazy daughter?
- Oh, the one they married off to that horrible oaf they found
in some hole.
- They married him off to some oaf (the word is "nakareh")? Well, might that not be why she went crazy?
- Oh, maybe. But the rages and PMS! They sure pulled the wool
over that suitor's eyes who turned out to be really cool and, despite the
fact that he had been deceived over her sanity kept her and they live happily.
- What? She's living happily with the deceived oaf?
- No. Her second husband. The first one didn't work out. And
then there were the two sons. He has a gold shop on that street over there.
- What? She had two sons with the gold shop oaf?
- No! The oaf went back to his hole up wherever he came from.
- Oh, then who has the gold shop?
- She had two sons.
- Her son's gold shop?
- No, she had two daughters.
- By the oaf?
- No, by the second guy. And a son. Maybe.
-Who's gold shop?????
If I were my teenaged cousin Ali, I would have had a nervouse
breakdown shouting at people by now for their lack of clarity.
OK, actually, I think this demonstrates that my efforts at cross
examination for greater clarity have only clarified that these people are
confused and for me not to take misunderstanding and my lack of comprehension
personally, or as an indication that I just don't get it and just don't fit
here. In fact, here, chaos rules, and you don't need to understand anything.
It's all about impressions and fragments.
As the travel book I got on Zand avenue says "Iran is not a country like Spain or Britain that stands theatrically distinct
and complete. There is nothing insular about Iran: It has
always been a bridge-country in both geographical and cultural
sense of the word...ethnic groups as well as ideas and
techniques have penetrated into the country from all directions..." so they're confused. It's not me. It's Iran.
I have discovered Shiraz on foot all by myself. I am no longer
Shirazagorophobic. Shiraz, in fact, is pretty tame. Accessible. The only
thing to fear is death by being run over, which you fear almost the whole
time, so everything else is relaxing in comparison. Daddy is annoying me
because he keeps wanting Shekoofeh to accompany me everywhere. Implying that
I'm somehow helpless. If he said to me, shucks, take the woman with you,
so she can have some fun in life, that would be one thing.
But instead it's "Shekoofeh, go watch and be careful over her and take her around." I am the third object. And he tells me not to go to Hafezieh alone, it's weird
over there. His paranoia annoys me. I don't need a babysitter.
Although I have to admit, it was great having her the first
day because at the museum of Kareem Khan Zand's Citadel,
I saw the entry fee of 20000 rials and was surprised and
pulled out the bills, and then it turns out I was reading
the english sign, but Iranians pay 1/10 of the price -
2000 rials, and if she wasn't there, I would have been
a suckered foreigner (OK, it's only 2.50$ vs. 25 cents,
but still).
On the other hand it's trippy because I would often lose sight of her and she
would be just to my left or right or behind me, and this
makes me realize what a huge blind spot you get wearing
a scarf. I have to literally turn around to see the person
next to me. Maybe I should try a maghnaeh.
I have shot three rolls of film so far and run out. I need to
buy more immediately. Every walk I just want to shoot and shoot. It's so
visually amazing here. Over stimulating. I wish I was bold enough to ask
people to photograph their faces. So many amazing faces. And it's completely
unique terrain. There is no place on earth like it. You know you're in Iran.
The dirt. The yellow bricks. The jubs. The driving. The chatter and banter.
The manto's the colors the cheesy fountains the martyr murals. There's a
pattern to it all.
You know how the US has strip malls and the same stores are everywhere over and
over, well, it's like that here, but it's the unique fingerprint
of Iran. I'm going to do a photo shoot of the Shirazi strip
malls - fruit store, guy selling watch parts out of a cardboard
box, brightly colored plastic thing store, bread store,
butcher store, guy selling little birds out of a cage,
guy selling raisins, guy who sidles up to you and says "Dollars?"
It was so much fun when I ventured out by myself. I got a lot
of "kharejieh?" and "hey missis!" and "Dollars?" (I finally stopped and asked how much for dollars - 875 tomans). The comments
on my foreignness made me laugh. I felt at ease. Also, and this may have
helped, early on I stepped into this book store to get a map of Shiraz. When
I stepped in these three people were at the check out counter and I looked
at them and they at me. One guy said Salaam. And I said "Salaam. Naghsheye Shiraz dareed inja?" and the guy gave me a big smile and said "eh! I thought you were khareji" and I said "khob, I am". And this delighted me so, because I realized that I only LOOK khareji. (You
realize the statement "I thought you were khareji" means that in fact I am not).
Yes, so far everyone who interacts with me realizes I am Iranian. See? So I get
to walk around looking Khareji, and it's my inside joke!
Until I choose to reveal the seamless fabric of my identity.
Heh heh. I am such a living paradox. Also, I got the feeling
they are used to foreigners in Shiraz. And just used to
more people. It all seemed more polite than usual. More
bustling and hustling. No one had time to harass me or
anything. (aside from some minor mattallak). Plus, I decided
on the get go to pretend I was in a foreign place, like
Rome. Just accept I was foreign and a tourist, so the recognition
of being Iranian was a bonus, and also I got to just walk
around and stare openly and shamelessly (sharmande-am)
at everything. And there was a lot to stare at. I'll just
have to show you all the pictures.
On this pretending I was in Rome thing - There is a famous photo "An American Woman in Italy" and there's this woman walking down an Italian street, clutching her scarf around
her shoulders, an anguished expression on her face - just get me through
this. Around her on the street are Italian men, all smiles and obviously
making comments and cat calls as she passes.
So I had that feeling but somehow inverted. I was just grinning inside as I walked
down the street with a most confident and gay stride. Interacting
with people in shops and even in passing on the sidewalk
(and I can't fault them for saying khareji when they see
me. The other day when I went with Shekoofeh, we were in
the Bazar vakil and I saw these guys speaking German and
I said out loud to Shekoofeh - "Hey, those guys were Germans!" So it's a natural reaction.).
It wasn't until I got to a series of sidewalk booths which had been set up in
honor of Basiji week - veterans and volunteers and martyrs
of the war with Iraq - and took the time to look at those
sad pictures of war...then I sobered up a bit. Which is
good, because I was just getting really punchy and giggly
at that point and needed some calming down before I just
stopped on the sidewalk and just howled at the absurdity
of this charade! We're all in these long black cloaks and
circumscribed and inside we're all HUMAN BEINGS with crazy
uncontrollable urges. I guess this inner joy means I somehow
connected with humanity during this walk.
We're out corralling our unlimited imagination and leveraging our limited resources.
We'll complete
this section when we
get
back!
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