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."