Storytelling 1 : Netherlands
We left our apartment in Qom on a Thursday in late June when the mercury was heading for 42 degrees C (a toasty 107 degrees F). Our “water cooler” was no longer cooling our apartment (ditto for everybody else in the city) and our classes had been completed for this school year. On our last evening, Mr. Haghani from the Imam Khomeini Institute came to visit, bringing our passports, visas and two huge tins of Sohon—Qom’s delectable “pistachio brittle.” With immense fondness we said good-bye to him, packed up a few items of clothing for summer time and rode to Tehran’s airport at 4am.
The British Air flight to Amsterdam was comfortable and I found a friendly woman with whom to chat. “Are you a born again Christian?” she wanted to know, “I have lots of friends who are.” We drank coffee and talked about our kids. I slept. Soon we were in Amsterdam – a fine mist and 19 degrees C (about 65 degrees F)—heavenly.
Storytelling is what our summer “back west” is all about…. connecting with churches, schools, retirement communities, community groups, anybody who would like to talk…. sharing the many positives of life in Iran and the importance of interfaith dialogue. We began right away.
The next morning David and I awoke with minimal jet lag. Our modest hotel room was over a restaurant/pub in a village north of Amsterdam…. comfortable beds, trees and canals all around, a field of cows across the street. We enjoyed our breakfast and two strong cups of Dutch coffee, then immediately rented two bikes for the day.
The Netherlands must be one of the finest places on earth for a long bike ride. Bike paths are abundant, motorists respectful, people of all ages cycling vigorously. We set out toward the Zuider Zee and the fishing village of Monnickendam. The bike lane took us south and then northeast. Sheep elliptically fat with wool stared at us meditatively. Sleek coffee colored milk cows munched on emerald green grass. Church spires were evident in each little village—always with a brass rooster shining on the steeple top… a reminder of Peter’s betrayal of Jesus and our ongoing need to be very humble about what we insist we’ll be able to do. We pedaled on. The cool wind in my face and hair was a benediction of sweetness.
We stopped at Monnickendam as the shops were opening up. David’s luggage was circulating somewhere between London and Amsterdam, and he was a man with a mission…. a pair of socks and a bag of underwear. Mission accomplished, we biked down to the lovely little harbor full of sailing ships. A woman sat on a bench reading, a golden Labrador retriever sitting beside her. A group of octogenarians zipped by on their bikes, heading south. People climbed over their sailboats and readied them for a day on the water. Café tables sat in the sunlight awaiting customers.
We biked on to Pomerand for lunch and a respite from pouring rain. People all seemed to carry ponchos and umbrellas as a matter of course; little kids ran through puddles; baby carriages were equipped with plastic “windows” that snapped in place against the rain. By early afternoon we were back in our hotel, a lovely 20km stretch of Dutch scenery in our hearts.
The innkeeper was waiting for us. “Your friend Mr. H. called in your absence,” he said, “he is in Amsterdam and would like for you to call him right away.” Oh, good—our Dutch teacher/ grad student friends whom we met in Qom last spring, and hoped to reconnect with. I recalled our first sight of them on the streets of Qom—redheads and blonds, a groups of 12 or more, striding purposefully along as David and I ate a “lamb-burger” in one of our favorite spots. “They are definitely not Iranians, “ said David sagely. A day or two later we were invited to a lecture on Sufism at the Khomeini Institute with a “Dutch group” who were in town for several days on a two week cultural tour of Iran. We had much in common.
We planned to meet for coffee right away, and wandered to the bus stop right in front of our inn. It was now pouring full force. We got off at Amsterdam’s Centro Station, and met our friend inside. Together we walked toward a large building with “Jesus Loves You” alight in neon on the top floor. It was the old Salvation Army building, now gifted to “Youth With a Mission.” Two more friends were waiting for us. David and I shared deeply about our first half year with MCC, our love for Qom, our challenges with Farsi, our hopes for ongoing friendships and understanding. Our three friends shared a deep love for Iran (one has been in the country several times) and their hopes for cultural tours and dialogue between people to build friendship, and international understanding. Their deep faith and passion for Iran was impressive. The evening ended far too soon.
The next day David and I boarded a train for Amersfoort, to meet with two Mennonites and two Quakers after a Mennonite Church Board Meeting. (Dutch trains are also wonderful things—comfortable, spacious, quick). We had met M. and several other Mennonites in Tehran in April as they were touring Iran for four weeks. Our hearts were united in the desire for dialogue, detante and renewed relationships of friendship and trust between Abrahamic faiths.
Despite of our efforts to use only bikes, buses and trains, we did need one taxi in Amersfoort. We flagged done a young guy with a personable manner, and he efficiently wove through the streets to our hotel. We shook hands as we prepared to roll our suitcases inside and register ourselves. Thinking that we might need his taxi services the next day, David asked for his name and phone number. The man smiled with warmth and handed us a card with his mobile phone number. He had heard us chatting about Iran and our upcoming meeting re: interfaith dialogue. “By the way,” he said, “my name is
Muhammad. And I am from Tehran.”
The British Air flight to Amsterdam was comfortable and I found a friendly woman with whom to chat. “Are you a born again Christian?” she wanted to know, “I have lots of friends who are.” We drank coffee and talked about our kids. I slept. Soon we were in Amsterdam – a fine mist and 19 degrees C (about 65 degrees F)—heavenly.
Storytelling is what our summer “back west” is all about…. connecting with churches, schools, retirement communities, community groups, anybody who would like to talk…. sharing the many positives of life in Iran and the importance of interfaith dialogue. We began right away.
The next morning David and I awoke with minimal jet lag. Our modest hotel room was over a restaurant/pub in a village north of Amsterdam…. comfortable beds, trees and canals all around, a field of cows across the street. We enjoyed our breakfast and two strong cups of Dutch coffee, then immediately rented two bikes for the day.
The Netherlands must be one of the finest places on earth for a long bike ride. Bike paths are abundant, motorists respectful, people of all ages cycling vigorously. We set out toward the Zuider Zee and the fishing village of Monnickendam. The bike lane took us south and then northeast. Sheep elliptically fat with wool stared at us meditatively. Sleek coffee colored milk cows munched on emerald green grass. Church spires were evident in each little village—always with a brass rooster shining on the steeple top… a reminder of Peter’s betrayal of Jesus and our ongoing need to be very humble about what we insist we’ll be able to do. We pedaled on. The cool wind in my face and hair was a benediction of sweetness.
We stopped at Monnickendam as the shops were opening up. David’s luggage was circulating somewhere between London and Amsterdam, and he was a man with a mission…. a pair of socks and a bag of underwear. Mission accomplished, we biked down to the lovely little harbor full of sailing ships. A woman sat on a bench reading, a golden Labrador retriever sitting beside her. A group of octogenarians zipped by on their bikes, heading south. People climbed over their sailboats and readied them for a day on the water. Café tables sat in the sunlight awaiting customers.
We biked on to Pomerand for lunch and a respite from pouring rain. People all seemed to carry ponchos and umbrellas as a matter of course; little kids ran through puddles; baby carriages were equipped with plastic “windows” that snapped in place against the rain. By early afternoon we were back in our hotel, a lovely 20km stretch of Dutch scenery in our hearts.
The innkeeper was waiting for us. “Your friend Mr. H. called in your absence,” he said, “he is in Amsterdam and would like for you to call him right away.” Oh, good—our Dutch teacher/ grad student friends whom we met in Qom last spring, and hoped to reconnect with. I recalled our first sight of them on the streets of Qom—redheads and blonds, a groups of 12 or more, striding purposefully along as David and I ate a “lamb-burger” in one of our favorite spots. “They are definitely not Iranians, “ said David sagely. A day or two later we were invited to a lecture on Sufism at the Khomeini Institute with a “Dutch group” who were in town for several days on a two week cultural tour of Iran. We had much in common.
We planned to meet for coffee right away, and wandered to the bus stop right in front of our inn. It was now pouring full force. We got off at Amsterdam’s Centro Station, and met our friend inside. Together we walked toward a large building with “Jesus Loves You” alight in neon on the top floor. It was the old Salvation Army building, now gifted to “Youth With a Mission.” Two more friends were waiting for us. David and I shared deeply about our first half year with MCC, our love for Qom, our challenges with Farsi, our hopes for ongoing friendships and understanding. Our three friends shared a deep love for Iran (one has been in the country several times) and their hopes for cultural tours and dialogue between people to build friendship, and international understanding. Their deep faith and passion for Iran was impressive. The evening ended far too soon.
The next day David and I boarded a train for Amersfoort, to meet with two Mennonites and two Quakers after a Mennonite Church Board Meeting. (Dutch trains are also wonderful things—comfortable, spacious, quick). We had met M. and several other Mennonites in Tehran in April as they were touring Iran for four weeks. Our hearts were united in the desire for dialogue, detante and renewed relationships of friendship and trust between Abrahamic faiths.
Despite of our efforts to use only bikes, buses and trains, we did need one taxi in Amersfoort. We flagged done a young guy with a personable manner, and he efficiently wove through the streets to our hotel. We shook hands as we prepared to roll our suitcases inside and register ourselves. Thinking that we might need his taxi services the next day, David asked for his name and phone number. The man smiled with warmth and handed us a card with his mobile phone number. He had heard us chatting about Iran and our upcoming meeting re: interfaith dialogue. “By the way,” he said, “my name is
Muhammad. And I am from Tehran.”
posted by Quakers in Qom at 2:41 PM
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