From Ashura to Ash Wednesday (January 19-February 6)
Part one:
Welcome to winter! Qom has spent all of January and the early part of February in the “ice box.” Frigid temperatures (12 or 13 degrees F many mornings), 18 inches of snow and ice (some still remains on our roadways), frozen water pipes (three times -our neighbor helped us thaw them with a blow torch), keeping our modest heaters going and experimenting with lining up pillows inside our doorway to keep out the chill have been the reality for us and for many in central Iran. Brrrr.
On January 18 we headed to Tehran to experience our first Ashura celebration. Ashura (the 10th day of the Islamic month of Muharram) commemorates the death of Husain, a grandson of the Prophet Mohammad who was killed in battled near Karbala, Iraq. The martyrdom of Husain is remembered with great reverence, this beloved Iman who stood up to corruption in Muslim political life.
The streets of Tehran were lit with brightly colored lights. Temporary stands had been constructed and free tea, milk and chocolates were being given away to all who would come. Hot bowls of soup were offered and many sheep were slain—sometimes lying at the side of the road. We came upon groups of men in solemn procession, slapping their chests and chanting as they remembered the tragedy of Karbala. This is at the heart of Shia spirituality: the memory of loss, of existential injustices, and the moral imperative to live a just and faithful life.
On Friday night our friends took us to a special occasion. A wealthy family who owns factories were, with their employees, making a special effort to feed the poor during Ashura. We were invited to join in. We entered a good sized yard in which 20 huge cauldrons were simmering (they would each yield 500 bowls of lamb stew) and people were taking turns stirring. First the men stirred and then the women. We shared dinner together (men in one room, women in another) and were warmly welcomed. The woman next to me said, “My daughter lives in Tampa.” She also liked Los Angeles. Another asked what it was like to live in Qom and seemed pleased that we found our neighbors so friendly. Early in the morning all this stew would go to S. Tehran, to feed the poor.
(David) My friend ushered me into the company of the leading bazaaris or merchants. Men came and went with a TV portraying on a national network the rituals of Ashura. The men greeted each other warmly. Except for the cleric who taught philosophy at the University of Tehran, almost all were older than me. As they came and went my friend told me, “this man is heading on business to Washington, D.C., this one is into appliances, and this one is my present client who is starting a chain of restaurants.” It was explained who I was. The grand gentleman who hosted this gathering asked about my impression of Iran. I gave a positive in Farsi and they were pleased. Then my host went into a lecture on the present situation in his country. One of the points he made was to suggest that the British were still behind much of the economic problems of the country. This is a common refrain from the generation now in their late sixties and seventies. These men poked a little at the cleric and he responded in kind. He held his own in the discussion. The group was irreverent by nature. The gentleman heading to the US asked me about my take on social life in America. I cannot remember what I said but we kept it light hearted. One man stuck out among all the others. He had greeted us at the gate. He seemed to be in charge of the big vats of food. He helped people find a seat in this inner gathering. He was not one of the helpers hired to feed us. So what was he? I asked my friend. “He is a major bazaari dealing in a carpets. He helped us when a foreign friend needed an estate settled. He serves everyone here because he believes in helping others.” Later we had a long chat with this gentleman as we waited for the women. He had one of those charitable hearts that transcends culture and religion. It was quite an evening!
Part two:
In worship at “our” Armenian evangelical congregation we were still singing Christmas carols on January 19 (Armenians had just celebrated Christmas on January 6) and drinking lots of hot tea afterward. Church, too, had had frozen and broken water pipes. The pastor, while writing his sermon had heard “rain outside”, then realized that the “rain” was inside, right under the broken pipe.
Classes are rolling along and we are getting lots of books read. In the evenings we often have friends over for tea and conversation. One group likes to review movies and do an occasional Johnny Cash imitation. Another friend likes to talk about physics and astronomy, another is interested in the American primary elections. One afternoon at the library, David met a sheik from Burkina Faso, in full native regalia. The man had excellent English and was glad to chat.
A friend invited us to dinner and his dad came to pick us up. “I am,” said his dad, “sixty years old. And my car is thirty!” The old Paykan (modeled on the British Hillman) creaked and groaned but ran alright. At home the family was gathering—our friend, Mohammad, his younger brother, their parents, a married sister, her husband and 2 year old, and the star of the show, 92 year old grandfather. Grandpa was more agile than I, sitting cross legged on the floor without difficulty. He was bright and articulate and had no impairment in his hearing. “I was,” he said (as translated by Mohammad) “born in 1915. I had no chance to go to school and have never been able to read or write. My family of origin had ten people in it. My parents farmed for a wealthy man—they grew cotton, oats and wheat, horses and camels. When the crops were harvested, my parents would load them into saddle bags on the backs of camels and bring them into the Qom bazaar. When I was 14, I began to work full time, too. Three other men and I farmed a large property for a wealthy man who was not good to us. We grew oats, cotton and wheat. At harvest time we put everything in four equal piles. The owner took three piles of produce. We four peasants divided the fourth pile and that was our pay. We used to wear long cotton tunics with a wide cumberband. My mother made these. But Pahlavi didn’t like us to wear these outfits to town; he thought we should wear suits. As a child I memorized poetry and parts of the Quran. We had a very pious family. That’s what I think the younger generation should know now—have a strong faith and be willing to work hard. They have many good opportunities that I couldn’t have imagined as a child.”
Now it is Lent, the season of spiritual examination before the great celebration of Easter Sunday. David and I went to an Ash Wednesday service at the Roman Catholic church in Tehran. Perhaps 30 people were there, and the priest gave a fine homily. He had been to Qom for interfaith dialogues and knew several of our friends here. “I have,” he said ,“been a priest in Tehran for more than 40 years. You can’t imagine the changes I’ve seen.” Ashes on our foreheads, we sang and prayed and hoped together
Welcome to winter! Qom has spent all of January and the early part of February in the “ice box.” Frigid temperatures (12 or 13 degrees F many mornings), 18 inches of snow and ice (some still remains on our roadways), frozen water pipes (three times -our neighbor helped us thaw them with a blow torch), keeping our modest heaters going and experimenting with lining up pillows inside our doorway to keep out the chill have been the reality for us and for many in central Iran. Brrrr.
On January 18 we headed to Tehran to experience our first Ashura celebration. Ashura (the 10th day of the Islamic month of Muharram) commemorates the death of Husain, a grandson of the Prophet Mohammad who was killed in battled near Karbala, Iraq. The martyrdom of Husain is remembered with great reverence, this beloved Iman who stood up to corruption in Muslim political life.
The streets of Tehran were lit with brightly colored lights. Temporary stands had been constructed and free tea, milk and chocolates were being given away to all who would come. Hot bowls of soup were offered and many sheep were slain—sometimes lying at the side of the road. We came upon groups of men in solemn procession, slapping their chests and chanting as they remembered the tragedy of Karbala. This is at the heart of Shia spirituality: the memory of loss, of existential injustices, and the moral imperative to live a just and faithful life.
On Friday night our friends took us to a special occasion. A wealthy family who owns factories were, with their employees, making a special effort to feed the poor during Ashura. We were invited to join in. We entered a good sized yard in which 20 huge cauldrons were simmering (they would each yield 500 bowls of lamb stew) and people were taking turns stirring. First the men stirred and then the women. We shared dinner together (men in one room, women in another) and were warmly welcomed. The woman next to me said, “My daughter lives in Tampa.” She also liked Los Angeles. Another asked what it was like to live in Qom and seemed pleased that we found our neighbors so friendly. Early in the morning all this stew would go to S. Tehran, to feed the poor.
(David) My friend ushered me into the company of the leading bazaaris or merchants. Men came and went with a TV portraying on a national network the rituals of Ashura. The men greeted each other warmly. Except for the cleric who taught philosophy at the University of Tehran, almost all were older than me. As they came and went my friend told me, “this man is heading on business to Washington, D.C., this one is into appliances, and this one is my present client who is starting a chain of restaurants.” It was explained who I was. The grand gentleman who hosted this gathering asked about my impression of Iran. I gave a positive in Farsi and they were pleased. Then my host went into a lecture on the present situation in his country. One of the points he made was to suggest that the British were still behind much of the economic problems of the country. This is a common refrain from the generation now in their late sixties and seventies. These men poked a little at the cleric and he responded in kind. He held his own in the discussion. The group was irreverent by nature. The gentleman heading to the US asked me about my take on social life in America. I cannot remember what I said but we kept it light hearted. One man stuck out among all the others. He had greeted us at the gate. He seemed to be in charge of the big vats of food. He helped people find a seat in this inner gathering. He was not one of the helpers hired to feed us. So what was he? I asked my friend. “He is a major bazaari dealing in a carpets. He helped us when a foreign friend needed an estate settled. He serves everyone here because he believes in helping others.” Later we had a long chat with this gentleman as we waited for the women. He had one of those charitable hearts that transcends culture and religion. It was quite an evening!
Part two:
In worship at “our” Armenian evangelical congregation we were still singing Christmas carols on January 19 (Armenians had just celebrated Christmas on January 6) and drinking lots of hot tea afterward. Church, too, had had frozen and broken water pipes. The pastor, while writing his sermon had heard “rain outside”, then realized that the “rain” was inside, right under the broken pipe.
Classes are rolling along and we are getting lots of books read. In the evenings we often have friends over for tea and conversation. One group likes to review movies and do an occasional Johnny Cash imitation. Another friend likes to talk about physics and astronomy, another is interested in the American primary elections. One afternoon at the library, David met a sheik from Burkina Faso, in full native regalia. The man had excellent English and was glad to chat.
A friend invited us to dinner and his dad came to pick us up. “I am,” said his dad, “sixty years old. And my car is thirty!” The old Paykan (modeled on the British Hillman) creaked and groaned but ran alright. At home the family was gathering—our friend, Mohammad, his younger brother, their parents, a married sister, her husband and 2 year old, and the star of the show, 92 year old grandfather. Grandpa was more agile than I, sitting cross legged on the floor without difficulty. He was bright and articulate and had no impairment in his hearing. “I was,” he said (as translated by Mohammad) “born in 1915. I had no chance to go to school and have never been able to read or write. My family of origin had ten people in it. My parents farmed for a wealthy man—they grew cotton, oats and wheat, horses and camels. When the crops were harvested, my parents would load them into saddle bags on the backs of camels and bring them into the Qom bazaar. When I was 14, I began to work full time, too. Three other men and I farmed a large property for a wealthy man who was not good to us. We grew oats, cotton and wheat. At harvest time we put everything in four equal piles. The owner took three piles of produce. We four peasants divided the fourth pile and that was our pay. We used to wear long cotton tunics with a wide cumberband. My mother made these. But Pahlavi didn’t like us to wear these outfits to town; he thought we should wear suits. As a child I memorized poetry and parts of the Quran. We had a very pious family. That’s what I think the younger generation should know now—have a strong faith and be willing to work hard. They have many good opportunities that I couldn’t have imagined as a child.”
Now it is Lent, the season of spiritual examination before the great celebration of Easter Sunday. David and I went to an Ash Wednesday service at the Roman Catholic church in Tehran. Perhaps 30 people were there, and the priest gave a fine homily. He had been to Qom for interfaith dialogues and knew several of our friends here. “I have,” he said ,“been a priest in Tehran for more than 40 years. You can’t imagine the changes I’ve seen.” Ashes on our foreheads, we sang and prayed and hoped together
posted by Quakers in Qom at 2:36 PM
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