Books, Needles and Blind Men
Autumn has come to Qom. The air is cool and sweetly fragrant, morning and evening.
Villages an hour west of us have snow on the ground. When we take an evening stroll, the desert sky is a bright, clear canopy of lights and a sweater feels good under my manteau.
David and I now spend an hour each morning watching tv in Farsi. We are able to understand parts of the news and enjoy children's shows. I recently read a book written for young children that a friend loaned to me. A lovely young cockroach (with a beautiful Persian face and wearing a flowered chador) is urged by her father (a widower with only this one child who is "the light of his eyes") to choose from among her suitors and get married. He is a very old cockroach and wants to know that his daughter will be well and happy in life. She seriously contemplates all of her suitors, and settles on a good looking mouse who is a perfume salesman. A compelling plot with a cross cultural marriage. It is my favorite Iranian story so far.
We recently spent a morning at a local clinic, having blood drawn and a chest x-ray done so that our student visas can be processed. I sat for an hour in a small room with twenty-one women in chadors, as we all waited for the busy nurse. A variety of children waited, wandered and wailed. When I entered the melee, a younger woman immediately stood up and offered her chair. I politely declined. She insisted. I declined and was given a gentle push from behind. A woman my age said firmly, "You are our guest. Sit!" I sat.
A teen-ager had her blood drawn and promptly passed out. She was laid on a nearby bed, patted, given sips of water, encircled. A little girl of seven or eight wept with fear as her blood was drawn and a dozen women made cooing noises in her direction. Finally it was my turn. "Where are you from?" asked the harried but pleasant nurse. "America." Murmurs of wonder around the room, smiles, heads shaken.
I rose with the cotton ball in the crux of my arm and headed across the room to the tape dispenser. Two women beat me to it. One taped my arm and the other patted me.
"Good-bye," I smiled as I left. The room rose as one, each woman with a hand over her heart. "Good-bye, good-bye. We will pray for you."
On the drive back through Qom to our apartment, a line of rapid movement caught my eye. Seven older men, single file and holding onto a rope, were moving energetically down the sidewalk. Their faces were bright and cheerful, talking and laughing as they went. Three men help the rope with one hand and a white cane with the other. Interspersed were four sighted friends. Faces lit by trust, care, forward momentum and community life, they wove and bobbed up the street like a kite's tail, fluid and joy-full.
Villages an hour west of us have snow on the ground. When we take an evening stroll, the desert sky is a bright, clear canopy of lights and a sweater feels good under my manteau.
David and I now spend an hour each morning watching tv in Farsi. We are able to understand parts of the news and enjoy children's shows. I recently read a book written for young children that a friend loaned to me. A lovely young cockroach (with a beautiful Persian face and wearing a flowered chador) is urged by her father (a widower with only this one child who is "the light of his eyes") to choose from among her suitors and get married. He is a very old cockroach and wants to know that his daughter will be well and happy in life. She seriously contemplates all of her suitors, and settles on a good looking mouse who is a perfume salesman. A compelling plot with a cross cultural marriage. It is my favorite Iranian story so far.
We recently spent a morning at a local clinic, having blood drawn and a chest x-ray done so that our student visas can be processed. I sat for an hour in a small room with twenty-one women in chadors, as we all waited for the busy nurse. A variety of children waited, wandered and wailed. When I entered the melee, a younger woman immediately stood up and offered her chair. I politely declined. She insisted. I declined and was given a gentle push from behind. A woman my age said firmly, "You are our guest. Sit!" I sat.
A teen-ager had her blood drawn and promptly passed out. She was laid on a nearby bed, patted, given sips of water, encircled. A little girl of seven or eight wept with fear as her blood was drawn and a dozen women made cooing noises in her direction. Finally it was my turn. "Where are you from?" asked the harried but pleasant nurse. "America." Murmurs of wonder around the room, smiles, heads shaken.
I rose with the cotton ball in the crux of my arm and headed across the room to the tape dispenser. Two women beat me to it. One taped my arm and the other patted me.
"Good-bye," I smiled as I left. The room rose as one, each woman with a hand over her heart. "Good-bye, good-bye. We will pray for you."
On the drive back through Qom to our apartment, a line of rapid movement caught my eye. Seven older men, single file and holding onto a rope, were moving energetically down the sidewalk. Their faces were bright and cheerful, talking and laughing as they went. Three men help the rope with one hand and a white cane with the other. Interspersed were four sighted friends. Faces lit by trust, care, forward momentum and community life, they wove and bobbed up the street like a kite's tail, fluid and joy-full.
posted by Quakers in Qom at 5:53 AM
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