March 26 : A Week's Snap Shots

Walking from home to the Khomeini Institute for our Quranic Studies class, we pass a beautiful candy store that sells Qom’s famous “pistachio brittle“ candy (soaked in saffron oil). Looking in the plate class window I see a young chadorid woman busy behind the cash register. Overhead, dominating the wall, is a framed reproduction of da Vinci’s “Last Supper.”

We worship with a burgeoning church in Tehran founded by Messianic Jews before the Revolution. A woman on violin and man on flute accompany the congregation to heartily sung, hauntingly beautiful hymns in Persian. Over the door outside, the elaborate flowing script next to a simple cross, reads “This is my command, that you love one another.”

David browses through the English section of the excellent Imam Khomeimi Library. He finds Salmon Rushdie’s "Satanic Verses" and "A Feminist Critique of the Quran."

We have lunch (a feast of fish, chicken, rice, lentils and pickled peppers) with an Iraqi family from Karbala seeking refugee status (anywhere!). An extended family (2 sets of parents and 7 kids between them) live in two rooms with a tiny kitchen and a toilet “out back.” The home is clean and welcoming. After we eat we are invited to the tiny kitchen to wash our hands as the host holds a clean corner of the communal towel for hand drying. After we are again seated on the floor, he comes with a spray bottle and perfumes our hands.

Noor is with us in the Iraqi household. She is 16 years old, obviously brain damaged and can walk only by holding onto a wall or a hand for "balance support". (Going down the flight of stone steps to the “outhouse” in the yard is a major feat for her). Noor smiles at us and then goes back to watching her soap opera—“Days of our Lives” with Arabic subtitles. Noor was a bright, vivacious 12 year old when a rocket landed on the family home in Karbala. In panic, she ran out into the street to escape the burning roof and was hit by a passing car—sustaining a devastating closed head injury. In Iraq (and now in Iran)--- no therapy and no rehab. When she isn’t watching the soaps, says her mother, Noor sits and cries.

We go to the Armenian Club in Tehran for dinner with two Armenian pastoral couples. It is such fun to be in western dress (no scarf and manteau), laughing and perusing the fine menu. We note that they don’t offer the omnipresent “Turkish coffee”, here it is strictly “Armenian Coffee”. A piano player starts up in a corner of the room and soon a guy is crooning “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” We can hear voices wafting up from the big reception room downstairs—in Russian then in French. (The Armenian Club is open to all Christians in Iran, non-Muslim visitors and diplomats.)

We follow a car through Tehran’s traffic. It has an “ichthus” sticker on the back, marking the driver as a Christian. I wonder how many Christians back home in N. America would have the courage of a simple bumper sticker in this complex and sometimes volatile context.

We climb a large hill (pure desert dirt and gravel) 6 or 7 km from our apartment. It is “Khidr Mountain” with a little shrine to St. Khidr (a mysterious person in the Quran who has a conversation with Moses—rather like Melchizadek and Abraham in the Old Testament). We are with 4 young university students who have packed a picnic lunch for us all. Iranian families gape at we two Americans as we walk by. (It feels a bit like being an enormously unusual and colorful bird that people want to watch and point to). I smile and “salaam” to the women as our eyes meet. One woman says (translated by our young friends) “I will pray for you in the shrine.” Another woman puts her hands on her heart and says “May you live forever” (i.e. “May you inherit eternal life”).

Happy New Year, 1386

The Persian New Year (No Ruz) officially begins on the spring equinox (21 March) and the streets of Qom bear witness to the coming weeks of celebration. Florists offer stunning fresh azaleas, gloxynias and pussy willows. Small globes of gold fish and tanks of turtles are offered on nearly every corner. Our favorite pastry shop now only offers large boxes of goodies, not individual treats by ones and twos. Kids have been blasting off firecrackers every night in great glee.

In celebration of the New Year I decided to go to the Beauty Parlor on Saturday (a first here in Iran). My hair, last done in Martinsville months ago, was begging for new life. David sat hunched over the computer, reading BBC News as I headed out the door. “I’m leaving now,” I said, “and will return even more gorgeous in a few hours.” “That,” he said, “would be difficult to imagine.” David is picking up pointers in diplomacy here in Iran, as well as practicing a bit of ta’arof (the exquisitely detailed art of politeness) that is deeply embedded in the culture.

(I digress for a recent illustration of ta’arof here in our apartment. The doorbell rings. It is “Quaker Mohammed” who has come to visit. I buzz him in. He appears at our threshold smiling.
Me: Come in, Mohammed. David and I are glad to see you.
Him: Is this my mother?” (He knows I miss our kids).
Me: Is that our Iranian son? Come drink tea with us.
Him: I cannot. I am being tiresome.
Me: Nonsense, come in.
Him: I should go home right now
Me: Mohammed, you are welcome. We will be very sad if you leave.
Him: I am a burden to you.
Me: Mohammed, no more ta’arof. I mean it. Come in and have some tea.
Him: Good! I dislike ta’arof. I will not use it any more.
Me: Super! Now, here comes David and I’m making some tea.
Him: (sounding both sorrowful and slightly triumphant): You see—already I have made you tired. I have spoiled your afternoon. )

Down the streets of Qom I went—about 6 blocks from our place. The Beauty Parlor had a sign overhead & a large canvas-like curtain across the door. I scooted through and found myself in a hallway of glass with double doors at the end. A closed circuit TV camera was in evidence, lest any male barge in unawares. I entered a bustling hair place with several dozen women waiting, waxing, dying and drinking tea from fine cut glass. Several stopped and gaped as I came through. I ask for “Maryam” and while waiting was prepared with photos of our family to show. Women clustered around for a good look.
They commented on Andrew & Abi’s red hair & Josh’s dark hair. (This is David. I was offended because the woman wondered if Josh was really mine since his hair was so different. For some reason they took Linda’s word that he was hers!) They liked Alex’s looks and wanted to know what country he was from. (Cuban-American didn’t translate).

They turn to me-- “Are you American?” Are you a Muslim?”
Me: American and Christian. (My Farsi has expanded slightly beyond vegetables and now includes 4 verbs, though past tense is still iffy).
Them: Is there a Christian church in Qom?
Me: No, we go to Tehran to worship but we live here in Qom.
Them: That is not right. You are our guest. You should have a church here in Qom.
Me: Well, with a million Muslims in Qom and as far as I know, two Christians, that would be difficult to keep going, wouldn’t it?
Them: You should not have to travel to Tehran. It will make you tired. It will give you a headache. Something should be done.

Several hours later I emerge rather blond (our linguistic interchange over hair color was challenging) and so relaxed I am nearly in a stupor. I have had almond cream rubbed into my face and my scalp massaged and moisturized numerous times. I have been fed wonderful pastries and tea. I have been patted and hugged. I am a new woman ready for a new year.

Yesterday (Sunday) David and I took a bus north to the Shrine. Most of Qom was shut down, storefronts secured and bolted in honor of the holy day—the death date of the Prophet Mohammed. The bus was quiet (thought it took 2 tickets each instead of the usual one) and the streets silent until we were within range of the beautiful golden dome. Humanity was everywhere! Pilgrims from Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Iraq, India—Shia with different clothing and customs but the same heart for faith and formation—lined the streets. As we stood near a Shrine entrance, the processions began to emerge for their circuits through the streets. Young men beat on drums as circles of men marched, chanted “Oh Hussein” and flung small metal whips (ritualized not actual) over their shoulders. Camels (also shampooed, coiffed and blond) came next—covered in elegant green velour blankets… a baby tethered next to its mother. Then trumpets, effigies of the Prophet Mohammed’s casket on shoulder top, more men chanting. A speaker was pulled along on a cart with a microphone, reading the Quran. People chanted along; many thumping their hearts in time with the drums. One old woman in chador fell to the ground and wept quietly behind us. A man sidled up to me. “Do you need any translation,” he said in English. “Can I help you understand anything? You are very welcome.”

The procession was long and began to repeat itself. Each town or group seemed to have their own mullah who chanted prayers. The rituals were slightly varied but whether beating their breasts or using the whips, they were clearly mourning the death of their beloved Mohammed. Out of this mourning and the martyrdom of the great Shia Imams, there is a permeating gratitude for those spiritual leaders that have gone before them to show the way. We moved down the line and through an arched opening. Stalls were set up with merchandise - every third stall full of books from the Prophet, Imams and poets. We crossed the great dry riverbed through the center of town where pilgrims rented tents and large tour buses parked. We made our way toward home, stopping at our favorite hamburger stand. (Not really hamburgers but lamb-burgers). Soon friends will be joining us here for dinners and tea and conversation. A little toy box in the corner is ready for young visitors. May this new year- 1386, bring us all peace and joy, insh’allah.

One month in Iran

Today is "Avbain", a Shi'ite holy day, a 14 day marker in a cycle of mourning and remembering the martyrdom of Imam Hussein in Karbala, Iraq. Although it is Saturday (the first day of the new week), our street is quiet. The old man who pulls a cart and yells "Nan-e khosk" ("dry bread") which he collects from everyone and sells for goat food has not come by. Another fellow who is the local recycler (I can't yet decipher what he is saying) hauls away plastics and metals, old lamps, a battered suitcase. He isn't around either. All is peace and sunshine.

Yesterday a friend, Mohammed, came to the door with a true Iranian breakfast for us-- "halim". It is a winter food (about to become unavailable as the Persian New Year begins with the spring equinox)-- a thick, stiff paste of bulghar wheat and lamb.
One puts oil on halim, then cinnamon or coconut, then spoons it down with the help of warm bread right from the baker's oven down the street. Mohammed is a "ruhanee" a cleric, more impressed with the love of God than with jurisprudence. He is doing his M.A. thesis on, of all things, Quakerism. The first time he met us (two Quakers in Qom-- what a sense of humor God has), he astounded us by asking "Are you Hicksite of Gurneyite? What is a silent meeting like? How long do you preach in a programmed meeting." And then, with feeling, "I am a Quaker (Shi'ite Mulsim version, that is). I am your son." Mohammed is also a fan of John Wesley's sermons. "Very solid," he says, "the man walked with God."

We walked downtown on Thursday to load up on new computer cards (we bought 3 cards, 90 hours on line, for $12), pencils for Persian class and fresh produce. I love looking at the faces as we stroll. An Arab man all in white, his wife beside him in full black chador--her face completely covered in black damask. A teen-ager selling brightly dyed baby chicks on the sidewalk-- little kids squealing with delight as they pick them up. (Poor birds). A younger boy with a parakeet who will pick out a poem for you with its bill, for a coin. We indulged in a hamburger at a fast food place -- it was ground lamb on an 18 inch fresh roll-- absolutely succulent.

Qom is full of cars, motorcylces and buses -- busy but much less chaotic than Tehran. Autos are often Kias, or old (25+ years) Paykans-- the old Iranian national car modelled on the British Hillman Hunter of the 1960s. The more affluent drive
the new Iranian "Samand"-- "It runs," said a proud taxi driver, "like a Peugot, has better AC for the desert, is less expensive than a Japanese car to build and can run on either propane or gasoline." There are some Mazdas, Peugots, Citroens, Nissans,
and very occasionally a Mercedes or BMW. Buses seem to be Fiats, Renaults, Mercedes. But for scooting around in traffic-- like a singular fish navigating the waves, motorcycles are definitely the rage. One motorcylcle held a serious looking cleric in a white turban. His older mom was seated behind him-- hanging on to him with one hand and her chador with the other.
Another black turbaned cleric (indicating direct descent from the Prophet Mohammed) had two little girls in front of him as he wove through traffic. Pulling up to a nearby school, he lifted them down carefully, adjusted head scarves, wiped a little nose and patted their cheeks as they went on through the gate.

Riding on city buses remains fun -- usually quite crowded but always relational in the give and take of scrunched bodies getting on and off (women through the back door, men through the front). One old woman was muttering through her shopping list and my heart delighted to recognize "eggplant, carrots, olives, tomatoes." Students often call out something in English. One univeristy student, full of laughter, said, "Ok, the fun is over. Now we will keep you on this bus for 444 days."
His buddies chorkle with laughter. An older man beside him raises an eyebrow and gives him "the look." Instant English-Persian translating is going on for everybodys benefit. A woman beside me sighs audibley and pats my arm. Seventy percent of Iran's population is under 30 years old. Life before the Islamic Revolution of 1979, before the Ayatollah Khomeini is not part of their lived memory-- it is only folk lore for them.

We have been invited to lunch and supper in many homes. The parents of Mohammed (a different Mohammed, who is an English major at a local university) had us for dinner. Their names are Sediqah ('honest') and Reza ('satisfaction'). Sediqah and Reza were 13 and 23 when they married. They now have 8 grown children (Mohammed is the 7th) and many grandchildren. The youngest, a high school boy, is named "Ruh-allah" ('soul of God'). " That is often what we call Jesus,"
says Mohammed, "soul of God." It is between 1-3pm. Everybody is home for lunch. Father (who drives a bus and is perhaps 60 years old), oldest brother (a local barber) and his wife and 3 kids, the teen-ager, others who are in and out. It is a time to lounge on the carpets, play with young children, catch up on the day. Sediqah helps me figure out my Arabic chador (which has sleeves, which I like). She hoots at my efforts to put it on and then lovingly shows me the right way.

Fatimeh, a 21 year old physics student come to visit in the afternoon. She wants to do graduate work in astronomy "because there is so much mystery there" and to be fluent in English. She is beautiful, energetic, full of questions, and is a 6'3" basketball player. She is working to gather a group of 4 of 5 young women to speak English once a week in our apartment.
"You will have to charge them all a little money," she says, "or they will not come on time or do their work. They will treat our group too casually. " I tell her no money. She says I have to. Finally we agree that she can set a modest price, collect it once a month, and we will go together as a group and give it to charity. (We decided to try to find a group that works with Afgan women refugees). I complement her on her red polo shirt. Fatimeh says, "My mother (a retired primary teacher) loves your prophet and has great devotion for him. Every Christmas she gives each of us a little gift in his honor. This was a Christmas present from her."

I give Fatimeh, Quaker Mohammed, and English -major Mohammed and their families some scripture shells from "Miss Billie" Burnett in Arkansas. She has taken sea shells-- small, medium and large, painted them, gilded the edges- and beautifully written little verses from the Old and New Testaments. She prays over each one and has given them to mission groups all over the world. Now they are circulating through Qom. "I wonder if you would have another for my sister, for my uncle, for my friend...." they say. And when David and I are together with these wonderful young adults, we often read a Sura from the Qu'ran together and then portions of the Gospel.

Tomorrow it will be a month since we left Amsterdam on a KLM flight to Tehran. What a gracious month it has been. The Iranians we continue to meet live out two frequently heard proverbs here: "Guests are friends of God" and (the response when you thank a host for good food) "May your soul be nourished." Thanks be to God.

Snap Shots of Iran- An Occasional Entry

I (David) thought it would be fun to start a new section of this blog for images within events that have caught my eye. My hope is that by sharing these visuals within a larger story I might elicit a question or a comment from you. Hopefully the emotional essence is found in the images that are a part of my memory. These snap shots might give you insight into our experience of Iranian society. We welcome your reflections and hope that they will be part of a dialogue across cultures and faiths.

Oh, I may throw in a few real snap shots as it seems appropriate!

• An excited David walked down the isle on the KLM flight from Amsterdam to Tehran. What would I experience in this new land? Would I be welcomed? Would people be aloof or friendly? I look ahead toward my seat and meet the eyes of a couple in their 60’s. They are clearly Iranian. How I know I cannot say now. They wave to me and ask, “Where are you going?” I tell them, “Qom.” Their eyes widen and then immediately soften. “Welcome to Iran. We hope your stay is a blessed one.” As I wonder at this greeting my eyes meet several other passengers and their eyes reflect warmth and interest.

• I am out jogging. Is it proper to do so in Qom? Let me take a chance. I need the exercise. I start down the street. Wow. I am in worse shape than I think. I pull up and pant. I start up again. A motorcycle flies by and a young man in a most friendly voice shouts, “Hello. How are you?” He glances at me with a friendly smile and then is lost to sight as he powers up the street with a friend on the back.


• There are three pizza places in one block near us. We are out walking in the evening after getting fresh produce. We look up at the sign over one pizza parlor and then down to a floor beneath it. We see a young man sitting on a raised platform on a beautiful Persian rug. On the platform is a hookah. He is smoking the hookah(water pipe). There were Persian rugs as far back as we could see and each with a hookah. The hour was early- about 7:30 pm and the young man was alone. Perhaps he was early and waiting for friends who would arrive later for an evening of talk.

• I am riding my bike on Boulevard Amin. It is about 8:30 pm. All the shops are open. I am looking for a bike shop I had spotted earlier. I weave in and out of the sidewalks because I am just getting my courage up to ride on the main road. I glance over at a store front. There are perhaps eight men sitting on each side of the office area. The office store front is about 12 feet wide. There is a desk at the end of this office with a younger man in a chair behind it. There is an animated conversation going on. I look up and the sign above says radiator shop. I chuckle to myself about business at this hour as I ride on. Three doors down is a financial office of some sort. There are two rows of chairs along each wall and 7 or 8 men are sitting in the chairs and they are in an animated conversation. Oh, I get it! This is the way men spend their time in the evening.


• We are window-shopping on our way to the produce stand. We are on one of the roundabouts (or maydans in Persian). We look in a shop window and see men’s clothing. This is a nice shop. Linda exclaims, “Wouldn’t Abi like to be here! That men’s jacket says Versace! I wonder what she would say that jacket sells for in Bal Harbor!” The next day I go into the shop out of curiosity (and with the consensus of Linda and Abi that I should maybe get it). I stop into the store. They do not speak English nor I Farsi. I show them I that I like what I see and guide them to the jacket. They show me several other brands, some Versace and some Gucci. I then hear distinctly that they are made in Iran. Aw! How much is the price? They write on my newspaper, $42! Do you think I bought it? Would a simple living Quaker or Mennonite be seen in a Gucci jacket? Please advise. The truth will be revealed in one week!

• It is evening. It is about 9:00 pm and in this community time for dinner. Wally has left us for the US and we decide to venture out for ice cream (excellent ice cream bars in coffee hard coating with creamy flavored ice cream inside). It is our first time on the streets. Homes are enclosed in a courtyard so all you see are walls some 8 to 10 feet high of grey or brown plaster (or in our neighborhood marble). This is broken by the bright lights of a neighborhood grocery store on the scale of a 7-11. The streetlights are not extremely bright by US standards. We wonder if the streets are safe and if areas are to be avoided. I look ahead and see a father caring a small child in his arms and the mother walking beside him. She is in chador, As I look, I it dawns on me this is a safe place to walk. I look at Linda and we realize the same thing. This simple image is a symbol of many things in Qom- safety, family, community. Since then we have ventured into most areas of our neighborhood. We had the impression that most people in Qom did not go out at night. Not! On the main Blvd there are beautiful restaurants with families pulling up about 8 pm or later for dinner. The women in chador and the men in suits. Still the snap shot of the little family was our intuitive cue to many things.

• We have just left the southern outskirts of Qom. It is arid desert and little grows without effort and irrigation here. Salt permeates the soil so moisture is not a guarantee of plant life in this environment. The soil is often red and the small hills simply look like huge piles of dirt. You sense the ancient age of the land. We arrive at a restaurant along the highway for lunch. The décor is dominated by 10 platforms with Persian carpeting. Railings break the sections and carpeted pillows with tightly packed filling rest along the railings. Our meal is brought to us and placed in the middle on a tasteful plastic tablecloth we might use for a picnic. We eat and then it is time for prayers. Mr. Haghani excuses himself. I use this opportunity to visit the restroom. Mr. Haghani is going to the same place. When I leave the stall I observe Mr. Haghani. He has his sleeves rolled up and he is letting the water roll down from his hands to his fore arms. I remember a picture of the ritual ablutions before prayer. I am witnessing this. I am not seeking to break into his preparation so I wash my hands and leave. I notice men going into an adjoining room. It is carpeted and a few men are prostrate in the position of prayer. This then is the prayer room required in a restaurant that is not near a mosque. The image is of the ablution. This brief glimpse into the sacred.