Streams of Living Water: Damavand
Damavand is an old, green city that rests at the base of 18,000+ foot Mt. Damavand – Iran’s Mt. Fuji. It is just an hour’s drive north and east of Tehran, steadily up and up, until snow capped peaks fill the horizon. Last week-end (that is, Thursday and Friday), David and I went home with our dear friend, Quaker Mohammad, and got to know Damavand a bit.
Streams of living water are at the heart of Damavand’s old history. Originally a holy place for Zoroastrians, then a significant Jewish community, its inhabitants have long tended walnut and cherry trees. Irrigation canals several hundred years old take advantage of high elevation snow melt and the abundance of the Tar River. Although the surrounding mountains are as brown as a camel’s pelt, the city is lush with chlorophyll.
After Quaker Mohammad’s family (mom, dad, siblings, uncles and aunts) welcomed us with open arms and a sumptuous meal, the three of us went for a walk. Up the mountainside we climbed, stepping along the narrow rims of the irrigations channel— was three feet wide and nearly as deep, extending for several miles. Water tumbled and sang its way down hill—clear and clean. We turned a corner and heard a shriek—Q.M. immediately spun and turned his back. A group of four women and several girls were bathing and splashing—basking in the freedom of sunshine and good company. Soon they gave the “ok, come on” shout and we walked on past—perfect etiquette observed and their bath only temporarily interrupted.
Downhill and to the right, Q.M. shouted greetings to a neighbor who was watering his cherry trees. A half built house stood on a knoll overlooking the river. The poet Hafez’s beloved bulbuls (nightingales) were singing from the trees around us. We descended to a gravel road and strolled along the river and gently back uphill. A family of Kurds (descendents of the ancient Medes) were having a picnic near a spring. The women were dressed in bright colored long dresses, sandaled feet, bare forearms and a simple head scarf. They looked vigorous and unvanquished.
As the hill became steeper we came upon an old man in a green skullcap,plodding up the hill in plastic flipflops. He chatted cheerfully with Q.M. as a roar came behind us. Two very young men in an ancient John Deere tractor, a wagon hitched behind them, pulled up. They paused mid hill with a grand grinding of gears to help the old man pile into the back, comfortably situated among burlap sacks. He grinned and waved merrily as they rumbled past us.
In the city itself, we walked past the empty Jewish synagogue, locked up with a sturdy padlock. The Hebrew engraving over the door was in good shape. The older adjoining building still had beautiful stained glass upstairs--- now used as an apartment. Q.M.’s father (born in the 1950s) grew up with Jewish friends and neighbors, went to school with them, loved them. By the middle sixties most of Damavand’s Jews had emigrated—the last old people dying in the 1970s. Behind us a stream tumbled by giving coolness and strength. The Jews had chosen a heavenly spot to worship.
Later we spent some time at the Jewish graveyard, trying to read the inscriptions. The most recent graves were from the 1970s—the oldest so worn by wind and weather that they were illegible. Most stones were in Hebrew, with two Farsi lines at the bottom, giving name and dates. Interestingly, two stones were completely in Farsi : one woman’s read “Welcome to my grave. Please pray for me as I have prayed for you.” A man’s stone nearby said “He lived cleanly, thought cleanly, acted cleanly, all his life. He lived and died well.” It was holy ground—leaving me with a sad longing for this community now gone, for not having known these lives lived so well.
Breakfast the next morning was on the rooftop. Q.M.’s brother and sister-in-law, who gave us lodging for the night, had it all arranged. We spread a carpet in a shady nook, then a tablecloth. Wonderful sangak (flat bread cooked on hot stones), fresh honey, cheeses, walnuts and hot tea appeared. In the distance lay the turquoise dome of Damavand’s thousand year old mosque, built in turn, over a Zoroastrian fire temple A Sufi tower (800 years old, to commemorate a Sufi who died 1000 years ago) was just uphill. Behind us were mountain peaks with patches of snow and ice at their summit.
Q.M.’s uncle, a generous man who lived in Japan fifteen years ago, decided to drive us toward Mt. Damavand’s summit—where many large villas are being built. People (often from Tehran) come out just for the week-end. Meanwhile, families of Afgani people do the upkeep and safeguarding. Pink houses, green houses, some with fanciful turrets and many stories dot the hillside. Over our heads, near the summit, we could see a tunnel, one of many leading over and through the Alborz peaks toward the Caspian Sea. Q.M. does not approve of the new spread. “Simple life is what I like,” he says firmly, “see how they build and then neglect their gardens?”
Then we found a herd of goats—perhaps one hundred of them along a stream, three pack mules tied up nearby and a family picnicking on a blanket. A man of fifty stood up and came to greet us. He was the owner of the flock, traveling all summer with his family as they seek higher and higher ground for grazing. Looking at his goats (a few were standing on the rocks, most were asleep in the hot sun), he said, “Everything I own is right here.”
Big dogs laid “dead asleep” in the heat… five of them for the flock of one hundred. The man whistled and called to them in a low voice—each dog whimpered and wagged in response—a deep connection to their human.
A younger man sat nearby on his haunches—a handsome, tanned face and ready smile. He is the true “goatherd”—the one who stays up all night and keeps an eye on the flock.
Meanwhile, a woman got up and began to bring us bowls of food--- the usual Iranian impeccable manners. This extended family of eight will continue to travel together until the end of the summer. In autumn, the goats will be driven down the mountainside to market and sold. Then the family will return to their home village for the winter, until the cycle begins again.
Time for Damavand’s famous ice cream—still churned from real cream, with pistachios and sweet toppings. The car was parked under an enormous sycamore tree that engulfed the shops on either side. A modest shoe shop was on the right--- built around a weighty tree limb that projected through the roof. An old man sat inside, shoes neatly arranged on shelves, green leaves sprouting around him. When we left the ice cream parlor he was doing a brisk business as families hunted for summer sandals
Damavand—city of living water and singing nightingales, where old ways and new live side by side. My spiritual chlorophyll level has been renewed. And David and Q.M. are planning how they will one day scale Mt. Damavand together.
Streams of living water are at the heart of Damavand’s old history. Originally a holy place for Zoroastrians, then a significant Jewish community, its inhabitants have long tended walnut and cherry trees. Irrigation canals several hundred years old take advantage of high elevation snow melt and the abundance of the Tar River. Although the surrounding mountains are as brown as a camel’s pelt, the city is lush with chlorophyll.
After Quaker Mohammad’s family (mom, dad, siblings, uncles and aunts) welcomed us with open arms and a sumptuous meal, the three of us went for a walk. Up the mountainside we climbed, stepping along the narrow rims of the irrigations channel— was three feet wide and nearly as deep, extending for several miles. Water tumbled and sang its way down hill—clear and clean. We turned a corner and heard a shriek—Q.M. immediately spun and turned his back. A group of four women and several girls were bathing and splashing—basking in the freedom of sunshine and good company. Soon they gave the “ok, come on” shout and we walked on past—perfect etiquette observed and their bath only temporarily interrupted.
Downhill and to the right, Q.M. shouted greetings to a neighbor who was watering his cherry trees. A half built house stood on a knoll overlooking the river. The poet Hafez’s beloved bulbuls (nightingales) were singing from the trees around us. We descended to a gravel road and strolled along the river and gently back uphill. A family of Kurds (descendents of the ancient Medes) were having a picnic near a spring. The women were dressed in bright colored long dresses, sandaled feet, bare forearms and a simple head scarf. They looked vigorous and unvanquished.
As the hill became steeper we came upon an old man in a green skullcap,plodding up the hill in plastic flipflops. He chatted cheerfully with Q.M. as a roar came behind us. Two very young men in an ancient John Deere tractor, a wagon hitched behind them, pulled up. They paused mid hill with a grand grinding of gears to help the old man pile into the back, comfortably situated among burlap sacks. He grinned and waved merrily as they rumbled past us.
In the city itself, we walked past the empty Jewish synagogue, locked up with a sturdy padlock. The Hebrew engraving over the door was in good shape. The older adjoining building still had beautiful stained glass upstairs--- now used as an apartment. Q.M.’s father (born in the 1950s) grew up with Jewish friends and neighbors, went to school with them, loved them. By the middle sixties most of Damavand’s Jews had emigrated—the last old people dying in the 1970s. Behind us a stream tumbled by giving coolness and strength. The Jews had chosen a heavenly spot to worship.
Later we spent some time at the Jewish graveyard, trying to read the inscriptions. The most recent graves were from the 1970s—the oldest so worn by wind and weather that they were illegible. Most stones were in Hebrew, with two Farsi lines at the bottom, giving name and dates. Interestingly, two stones were completely in Farsi : one woman’s read “Welcome to my grave. Please pray for me as I have prayed for you.” A man’s stone nearby said “He lived cleanly, thought cleanly, acted cleanly, all his life. He lived and died well.” It was holy ground—leaving me with a sad longing for this community now gone, for not having known these lives lived so well.
Breakfast the next morning was on the rooftop. Q.M.’s brother and sister-in-law, who gave us lodging for the night, had it all arranged. We spread a carpet in a shady nook, then a tablecloth. Wonderful sangak (flat bread cooked on hot stones), fresh honey, cheeses, walnuts and hot tea appeared. In the distance lay the turquoise dome of Damavand’s thousand year old mosque, built in turn, over a Zoroastrian fire temple A Sufi tower (800 years old, to commemorate a Sufi who died 1000 years ago) was just uphill. Behind us were mountain peaks with patches of snow and ice at their summit.
Q.M.’s uncle, a generous man who lived in Japan fifteen years ago, decided to drive us toward Mt. Damavand’s summit—where many large villas are being built. People (often from Tehran) come out just for the week-end. Meanwhile, families of Afgani people do the upkeep and safeguarding. Pink houses, green houses, some with fanciful turrets and many stories dot the hillside. Over our heads, near the summit, we could see a tunnel, one of many leading over and through the Alborz peaks toward the Caspian Sea. Q.M. does not approve of the new spread. “Simple life is what I like,” he says firmly, “see how they build and then neglect their gardens?”
Then we found a herd of goats—perhaps one hundred of them along a stream, three pack mules tied up nearby and a family picnicking on a blanket. A man of fifty stood up and came to greet us. He was the owner of the flock, traveling all summer with his family as they seek higher and higher ground for grazing. Looking at his goats (a few were standing on the rocks, most were asleep in the hot sun), he said, “Everything I own is right here.”
Big dogs laid “dead asleep” in the heat… five of them for the flock of one hundred. The man whistled and called to them in a low voice—each dog whimpered and wagged in response—a deep connection to their human.
A younger man sat nearby on his haunches—a handsome, tanned face and ready smile. He is the true “goatherd”—the one who stays up all night and keeps an eye on the flock.
Meanwhile, a woman got up and began to bring us bowls of food--- the usual Iranian impeccable manners. This extended family of eight will continue to travel together until the end of the summer. In autumn, the goats will be driven down the mountainside to market and sold. Then the family will return to their home village for the winter, until the cycle begins again.
Time for Damavand’s famous ice cream—still churned from real cream, with pistachios and sweet toppings. The car was parked under an enormous sycamore tree that engulfed the shops on either side. A modest shoe shop was on the right--- built around a weighty tree limb that projected through the roof. An old man sat inside, shoes neatly arranged on shelves, green leaves sprouting around him. When we left the ice cream parlor he was doing a brisk business as families hunted for summer sandals
Damavand—city of living water and singing nightingales, where old ways and new live side by side. My spiritual chlorophyll level has been renewed. And David and Q.M. are planning how they will one day scale Mt. Damavand together.
posted by Quakers in Qom at 5:02 AM
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