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.