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.
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.
posted by Quakers in Qom at 2:23 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home