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.