Personality of a Nation

Can an airport tell you about a nation? Probably not. Heathrow is so chaotic that I believe it is not representative of Great Britain. Most countries put their best foot forward when it comes to visitors making their entry into a nation. There are exceptions- Linda tells me that her experience of the airport in Madrid was very unique. One airline did not post the country or city of destination on a electronic sign at the gate or on a comprehensive arrival/departure screen. She tells of passengers going from gate to gate asking if this is where such and such a plane will be departing. Is this plane heading for Amsterdam she asks the airline staff at the gate? All ignore the young woman who kneels down in the door way to the ramp and changes her baby’s diaper! People stayed congenial.

Nations seem to have personalities too. In central America, El Salvador has a distinctly different personality than Guatemala or Honduras. Most countries pride themselves on their perceived attributes. I know of one county in Europe that looks down on its neighbor because it has electric and telephone poles instead of underground cable.

Someone told us to immediately get acquainted with the people when we enter a country. The warmth, industry, cleanliness, and family orientation can tell you a lot. If a culture is friendly and warm and hospitable to guests, then this says something about the possibility of that nation for the future. It suggests a way that other nations might relate to that culture in order for better understanding.

I think this holds for our experience in Iran. We have told you of the friendliness of the people on our plane trip coming to Iran. It was striking. People seem genuinely open and friendly when they ask where we are from. I have experienced no initial reaction of hostility because I am an American. If they did feel that because I am a Christian I am ritually unclean, they keet that to themselves. If they felt strongly about American foreign policy they certainly did not or do not link it to me or to Americans in general. I have many times had men get up and give me their seat on the bus and on the metro (in Tehran). Why? Because I was a stranger in their country; a guest.

What I believe is that when a people are this warm and open then they are open at the grass roots level to accept a different view of America. Their view is not set in stone. In many ways it is as restricted to mystery and hearsay as is ours is of Iran.

I hope you hear that in spite of the great mistrust between America and Iran there is possibility. Here, in general, are the things that Iranian people believe that makes it hard to like America.

First, people believe that we are treating them unfairly. They believe that they have the right to develop nuclear technology for peaceful purposes under the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. They see it as an issue of fairness and the common person from professor to cab driver to student to laborer believes that the only purpose for nuclear power is to make electricity. This is what I read in the English Language newspaper. This is what is said on TV and by the government. They do not understand that our distrust is due to the way their government supports organizations we call terrorist, and oks their revolutionary rhetoric. They only see us in Iraq and not helping the Palestinians.

Second, they forget about the US Embassy take over and minimize its importance. In a nation where 2/3 of the people are under 30 years old, this is ancient history.

Third, they see America as the cause of the overthrow by the CIA of their elected government in 1953. This is very big to them.

Fourth, they see us as the link to colonialism; most recently British. They see America as having taken over the meddling in Iranian affairs from the British. Older Iranians still blame many misfortunes on the crafty British coming in and causing things to happen. For better or worse we are seen as the latest colonialist power wanting to take the resources of the country and not giving anything back in return. They saw the Shah and his friends making money off of oil but not giving it to the people.

Finally, the newspapers seem to always be concerned about the prestige of Iran. The papers talk about this accomplishment and that accomplishment and there is little said about failures. Every delegation from another country visiting and honoring Iran is spoken of in their newspapers and on TV.

The backbone of the country is the merchant and trader. This is a country of small businesses and shops. One business trades in light bulbs and extension cords. Another company sells purified water only. Another has produce. The person who labors believes that certain government agencies are economically favorable to a few. Those who live in wealthier north Tehran have one view of human rights and those in working class south Tehran have another view. Many in south Tehran believe that the more conservative life style of Muslim countries is appropriate and this lifestyle structure is very much bred into the system. They like this while also finding themselves very angry when they see nothing happening regarding economic reform as promised by elected officials. This group is nationalistic and conservative and less concerned about getting their political view across than having prosperity come to the nation. Most people think America must be a very violent country and dangerous to live in yet at the same time think we are very powerful. They think every American citizen has the pull to get things done. We all know that there are ways to influence government but Iranians in general give us too much credit.

Iranians are much more upfront about religion being a big part of the life of the country. Even if a person is not devout they expect the public domain to be dominated by talk of religion. They may not like the way a religious leader handles things but they expect them to be in leadership. In Iran the religious establishment is the central source of power in the government.

Iranians marvel at the number of churches we have in the US, but wonder how religious a nation we are. People ask if our friend back home really believe in God. They are very bewildered by the disparity between our beliefs and our actions as Christians. They have little understanding of the nuances of Christian belief. Sound familiar? We have a hard time sorting out actions of Muslims from their beliefs and we have uncertainty about the many religious voices we hear and the very different emphases Muslims have. What is a Shia Muslim; what is a Sunni Muslim? Why cannot Shia and Sunni Muslims get along? “They believe the same thing don’t they,” we might ask? The tension among different Muslims is very real and goes back centuries.

An American professor told Linda and myself recently that if you visit Iran and are here a week you think you can write a book on the country. If you are hear a month you think you can write an article about Iran. If you are here a year you realize that you might be able to tell stories about your experiences but you hold off on writing.

I am clear about one thing, Iranian people wish American’s good will. Yes, maybe a second thing; American and Iran have been so isolated from each other sense the Iranian Revolution in 1979 that we know little about each other. This is dangerous when you have as much power as the US holds. It is dangerous when we want to see effective and life-giving use of our influence. There are many view points within this experiment in government in Iran. It is partly a theocracy and partly a democracy with a long history of diplomacy. Finding ways to get acquainted as peoples is in everyone’s interest.

Sit Gently

Lately I have taken to climbing steps. Covered as I am in a manteau and headscarf, it is just too warm to enjoy a vigorous walk out in the growing desert heat. Our apartment stairs, however, tucked into the center of our six story building, offer a cool and aerobic alternative. I begin at ground level—our communal parking space which is enclosed in sturdy gates and walls. Often a neighbor, Little Mohammed (aged 8) is kicking his soccer ball around. He perfects his agility by lunging happily as the plastic ball careens in a new direction. We greet each other with grins.

I ascend to floor two where our apartment is. Directly across the hall, our neighbor is nearly always cooking something succulent. Curry, tumeric, cinnamon waft from beneath her door. (Often her meal preparations set off our smoke detector, which is another reason I like her). Up to the 3rd, 4th, 5th floors. It’s lovely to see all the shoes kicked off in front of doors… a clear sign that one’s neighbors are home. There are Mama’s and Papa’ shoes and a tiny child’s. Some one’s gas bill has been shredded and tossed down the steps like confetti. A TV is going loud and strong—afternoon Soaps maybe.

I trot up to floor number 6,my favorite—the roof. Doors open to the west and to the east—with sturdy bolts to keep them from banging in the breeze. On the east side of the roof are half a dozen “illegal” satellite dishes—bringing in hundreds of channels in a variety of languages. (Some of our university student friends have offered to hook us up one, but we have, so far declined). As I walked out onto the sunshine, I look north into the heart of Qom. Mosques gleam, a golden dome from the beautiful Ma’sumeh Shrine radiates in the distance, houses and streets form neighborhoods enclosed by large boulevards.

I cross over to the roof’s west side, a spider’s web of clothes lines and a central place for women’s private conversations. Today a black chador is fluttering on the line next to brightly colored baby’s clothes. A neighbor is there with clothes pins in her mouth. She gives me a hug and smiles around the pins, hangs onto the clothes she’s hanging and also manages to keep her chador on. Iranian women are amazing.

Looking to the west are primal, sharply peaked hills that are pure barren earth. A shrine to Khidr (who, in the Quran has a conversation with Moses, a bit like Melchizadek and Abraham in the Hebrew Bible) perches on the tip top of one of these hills. And behind the desert dirt are the snow capped, lush Zagrob Mountains that go all the way to the Iraq border. I love to look at the Khidr Shrine, the Zagrob Hills, to remember the day we climbed up to the Shrine—small and womblike inside, with the Tree of Life painted on the ceiling, over and over, and people sitting gently on the floor, praying.

To sit gently together is something Iranians are good at. On the crowded city buses (women crammed in the back, men packed in the front)—there is a heartening accommodation to one another. Packages are put on miscellaneous laps, children shifted here and there, the elderly and strangers always offered a seat. David and I have ridden the crowded Metro through the labyrinths of Tehran five times in the past 2 months. Without fail, some one has offered us their seat.

Having dinner with a Persian family usually involves many people on the floor around a plastic table cloth as sumptuous food is placed in the middle. Sitting cross legged, or legs bent to one side, everyone included and in close proximity to their plates, can be a bit of an engineering feat. Eating with our friend Fatimeh’s family, we were reduced to laughter as we all scrunched together. “There is,” said Fatimeh, “a saying that we have here. It is, 'sit gently'. Sit gently at your meal Sit gently in your life.”

Monday night David was watching the 11pm news, part of which is in English. On came the horrifying news of Virginia Tech’s massacre. By Tuesday morning our phone was ringing. English Mohammed was offering his sympathy and wanting to know if our university aged kids were alright. “My heart is sad with yours,” he said. “But how is it, that someone so crazy could buy guns and all that ammunition?” Later Quaker Mohammed called. He is bringing us dinner tonight, to lift our hearts, and also saffron ice cream (sinfully delicious, made of real cream with large pistachios). “I am,” he said, “caring specifically for your health because you are so sad. I will come and sit with you."

Easter with the Ayatollah

This is our first Easter in a land where only a minority celebrate the risen Christ. We spent some of Easter morning with one of Qom’s Ayatollahs as the Mennonites (MCC) staff spoke to him about relations between his Institute and the work of MCC in Qom. We were sad because we missed our services at home during Lent and Holy Week. It helped when we arrived at the institute and were brought into the Ayatollah’s presence with camera’s rolling, to hear warm greetings of “Happy Easter, Happy Passover and Happy New Year!” This was the translated version. It felt very good to have an acknowledgement of our very dear and special Christian Easter. We are learning to adjust to a new way of living out the faith calendar.

So……….

When in a Muslim country how do you know if it is a holiday? People work six days a week and take off one day only which is Friday or jomeh. Then it is back to work. Before coming to Iran, I wondered how I would handle a whole new way of organizing my week. In reality it was more disorienting than I thought. I wondered how workers could survive working a long six day week. I wondered how families could eat at 9 PM in the evening and go to bed with a full stomach. I wondered how men could get up at dawn for prayers and then go to bed past midnight.

Well, let me share with you my thoughts so far. I am by no means an expert after two months in Qom but here is what I have concluded so far.

First, getting up at dawn every day means that the man (literally man) has to leave home very early and he (literally) often gets off work around 8 pm. I know because I see them in the pizza place picking up a to-go box about 8:30 pm. The answer- there is a time each afternoon when many people go home for lunch, to spend time with family members and to take a nap. Linda and I have been to lunch as guests and all the family being home in the middle of the day felt very relaxing. “Lunch” lasts from about 2 to 4 PM and a lot of shops are closed during these hours. This is for real in Qom! Services such as barbers and grocery businesses may be open but a lot of others are closed. Tea is also a very communal ritual that paces the work load and gives the worker a break. If one is able to (work and life tasks permit) one stops work at around 12:20 PM and 6:20 PM for prayers. Most of the ten Iranian TV stations have these times scheduled on TV for prayer. You clearly know when it is time !

Second, people eat around 9 PM. For me it is not so difficult (except for the occasional maalox.) Our daily lives revolve around Farsi lessons from 4 to 7+ PM. Then dinner around 8:30 PM. We then have the world’s best ice cream around 9:30 PM. Our bodies are adjusting to this because I think we eat a lot less heavy foods and enjoy more tea with fresh fruit, yogurt and curried chicken, a salad of very fresh vegetables fixed with dried figs and walnuts and three kinds of raisins. On top of this is a vinegar. This is not just any vinegar, but grape. It smells more like grape juice but has that acidic taste of vinegar. Each different way of making the grape vinegar has a different medicinal benefit. So, with a very healthy diet and just a little meat- fish, lamb and chicken served mixed with a lot of rice and vegetables- I must be eating a lot less fat. (Except when Linda goes to bed I bring out the potato chips!)

Third, and this is the pearl of great price! When you wake up in the morning and do not hear the refuse collectors calling you, it is probably a holiday. It could be the death of a great Imam. It could be the death of a martyr of some note. It could be a Persian holiday. It could be the birth of a prophet or of the Prophet. So far, this year seems to be filled with days like this. Last week was the last day of No Ruz- the new year. With its fourteen days of new year's celebrations the last day is an ecology or nature day. Many people take their families on a picnic. Our little nearby park had over 100 people sitting in the walk ways with a picnic lunch at noon. It was cloudy and cold but they wore their coats and they certainly were enjoying the company of their families!

So, the holidays seem to help people deal with the long work week and the refuse collectors have been my clue that a holiday may be in process.

I kind of like how recycling takes place here. The garbage is picked up two days a week but by that time most of the recyclable materials are sorted through. I have seen clothing neatly folded and left next to the street. I have found fancy deserts not finished left by the street for these recyclers. Everything of value is carted away by those who know how to use them. There is a major emphasis on cleanliness in Muslim culture. It begins with the Koran where the faithful must wash their face and hands (ablutions) before prayers. It continues when each municipality hires a significant number of men to take a broom and clean every gutter by hand throughout the city. It moves in the way food is produced to make it “halal.” The purity of food is valued by society. Recycling is reinforced by those in poverty; every product that has value is worth the time and effort to save.

All of this is under girded by the Muslim belief that one should respect the world that God has created. There is little in the way of seeing the creation as just a tool to be used for humanity’s happiness. There is a reverence expected toward everything in nature and everything created by human endeavor. This carries to the belief that one should eat as little meat as possible because there is to be sensitivity to the animals God created. When this is expressed this sounds very much like the way our Native American citizens view nature.

A final note: not only do we take our garbage and trash to the curb but we also put a little sack under a tree with our latest chicken bones. You see the cats (gorbeh) of the neighborhood need to know which apartments have the best cuisine and who their friends are! I think they get the first part but knowing we are friends is coming rather slowly!

Holy Week Begins

We just learned the word for holy in our Persian lessons - “ moqadas” – to be ‘set apart’ from ordinary time. And so Holy Week begins for us in Qom, in a city where it is not celebrated and not known. A curious experience for David and I who have spent our whole lives centering around the church year and the celebration of Resurrection Sunday.

Last Friday our “English major” guys from a local university came by to spend the day. It was the end of a challenging week and we were ready for a break. We began with lunch at “Pizza Mohammed’s” a few blocks from our apartment. David and I and the three boys sat around a table sipping Sprite, eating personal pizzas and salads. The poet Rumi came up for discussion (as poets so often do here). I asked where a bookstore might be that offered Rumi in parallel Persian/English. Various options were discussed. Pizza Mohammed and two of his helpers came out from the kitchen to offer advice (M. also wrote down Rumi’s “correct” name for me--- Jalal ad-Din Mohammad Balkhi). A few lines of poetry were offered up. “I myself,” said a young man passing through, “vastly prefer the poet Hafez. Forget about Rumi.”

We took a bus north through the city and got off at the Shrine. The place was still bustling with No Ruz (New Year’s) pilgrims. Nearby merchants were doing a good business selling sweets, kabobs, scarves, prayer rugs and beads, changing money from the multitude of nations represented. I was dressed in a black manteau (like a long black cape) and was a novelty among all the chadors. “Hello, welcome, Amrikayi?”

(We recently were told an “American joke” at a friend’s house over lunch: Four people were sitting together eating apples and each person found that they had a worm in their apple. The French person threw the apple away and got a new one to enjoy. The German took out a pocketknife, cut out the worm, carefully cleaned out the bad part of the apple and then ate it. The Chinese person, grateful for the apple, ate the whole thing. The American, upon discovering the worm, had the apple orchard bombed.”)

We strolled through the crowds and passed dozens of shops… machine made carpets (a fraction of the cost of handmade ones and lovely with silk threads), qalyons (water pipes or hookahs), beautiful fabrics for draperies and upholstery, small appliances, gold jewelry, clothing. A little fenced in park was off to one side of the road … one of the ubiquitous “martyrs’ memorials” of Iran. Photos of oh-so-young men were in individual glass cabinets, flowers and other family pictures around them with an electric light to be switched on as darkness falls. Below each set of pictures are memorial stones— with name, dates and Quranic blessings. Most of the stones we looked at give 1980 as the death date. Earnest faces look out of photos, fresh scrubbed and wide eyed. Were these boys 16? 17? 18?

A woman in full chador sits before one of the photos, head in her hands and weeps for her son. A hand gently pokes me from behind. I turn and look into an old woman’s face. She has tattoos between her eyebrows and between her fingers… an Arab from Iraq. I slip a small bill into her hand. Up and down the sidewalk (between the Shrine and this Martyr’s Memorial) sit many older women, faces mostly (sometimes completely) hidden by chadors but palms outstretched, begging. “Oh,” says one of our English major friends,” this is so sad to me. These women are widows from little villages. They are ashamed to be here but they need to survive.”

We stroll together into Qom’s traditional bazaar—a labyrinth of passageways with occasional high, fine domes. (Some of it was damaged by Saddam’s bombing campaigns of the 1980s and is slowly being restored). The fragrance hit me first. Spices- cinnamon, curry, cardamon, peppers. Spice merchants offer large, sculpted piles (a foot high and 2 feet across) of multil-layered spice concoctions that one buys by the kilo. There is an “herbal pharmacy” with hundreds of mason jars full of leaves and berries. Three men sit behind the counter smiling. “Madam,” says one man, “ do you speak German?” “No,” I reply, “only a little Nederlands.” Immediately he switches to “Hollandisch Dutch” without missing a beat. We pass a bakery—two men shoveling dough into the mouth of a huge hot oven—flames are dancing inside. We walk passed a hammam- a traditional bathhouse. There is a beautifully painted arch overhead, with a Zoroastrian- looking sun smiling down. A mosque is closeby.

We peer down a set of stairs into a huge, domed area. The traditional carpet dealers are down here—selling hand woven rugs. The place is quiet at the moment. The carpet men have a modest shop full of priceless rugs. We are shown a peach colored silk carpet, and larger rugs woven with pure wool that is hand dyed. There is a stack of “indigenous” small rugs just inside the door from all over Iran. Some of the patterns put me in mind of Native American work in the southwestern US. A man can be seen through an upstairs window mending a carpet. We troop up a little corner stairwell and he welcomes us into his small workplace. He has a priceless handmade carpet before him (rose colored and full of flowers around the tree of life). He is “bringing balance” to the rug before it can be sold—adjusting lines of flowers to be perfectly symmetrical, changing sizes and shapes slightly. It is mind boggling work to me—how can he possibly do it? He is, he says, 50 years old and first became apprenticed to a carpet maker at 13, in Tehran. Yes, it is difficult work and also peaceful and meditative. He sits cross legged on a thin rug and smiles over his work.

We wander some more. An older man hails us into his shop. He sells yarns for carpet making--- raw wool, raw silk and blends of the two in burgundy, azure blue, greens and golds. A large photo of Ayatollah Khomeini hangs front and center over the back wall. Under it is a modest sized picture of a serious young man in black turban taken in the 1940s?). “That,” said the merchant (through our young interpreters) is my father. He ran this shop before me. I still use his abacas for business records and lock money in his old metal box.” “This,” he says, indicating a photo on the wall of a man who looks just like him, “was my brother. Today is the 40th day since his death, so I am remembering him today and later we will have a special ritual. Can you sit down? Shall I order some tea?”

When it is time to leave the bazaar we go reluctantly. A light rain is falling outside and humanity is still busy. The lights of the Martyr’s Memorial have been switched on over each youthful face. A café run by Iraqis is doing a brisk business. A young merchant stands at the door of his shop with a tiny goat at his feet. “Want a good picture?” he asks, “wait a minute.” He gets a baby bottle full of milk out of a fridge inside. The tiny goat immediately jumps up on his lap and begins to drink. We smile and wait nearby under an awning for the bus. The call to prayer is sounding. The rain comes down. An old woman stretches out her hand.