Shirin Ebadi, Human Rights, Women, and Islam

On May 16, a fundraising event was held in honor of Shirin Ebadi and Her Excellency Sheikha Haya Rashed al-Khalifa in Rutgers University’s Center for Middle Eastern Studies. Shirin Ebadi, the famous lawyer, Nobel laureate, and human rights activist, spoke after dinner. There was nothing new in what she said, nor was anything new needed. However it is time to draw up a balance sheet of Ebadi’s ideas and philosophy just to make sure that every bit of the fruits of her efforts is preserved.

In the aftermath of the announcement of the Nobel Committee that Shirin Ebadi had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, I lost a good night’s sleep over it. No, not because of the excitement due to the honor which as an Iranian woman I felt, and not because I was thinking about how many qualified Iranian women were in fact honored along with her, but because of the difficult situation she was in. Following the announcement, the news broadcasters qualified the decision by singling out her claim that Islam is perfectly compatible with human rights and as a result with equal rights for women. I rolled over all night thinking where she came up with this idea and how this important thought had been overlooked by the keen eyes of many zealous Muslims who cared to portray Islam as such and many other human right activists who did not want to alienate Muslims. I tried to foresee the arguments she would come up with. The day after and the day after, all the way up to the day of the ceremony and her acceptance speech and her book’s publication and beyond, she presented no argument beyond appealing to a moderate interpretation of Islam. The compatibility of human rights and Islam has remained nothing more than a bare claim.

While I respect Shirin’s religious faith and applaud her effort to democratize it, I’m still hesitant to be too optimistic about the fulfillment of all her claims. In her speech at Rutgers, which was in fact a summary of her book, she revisited the issues of women, gender, politics, democracy, Islam, religion, culture, etc. All were backed up with not more than a very few cherry-picked examples. No arguments were given which would stand up to the present audience’s questions, let alone the ruling conservatives of Iran, the zealous clerics in the seminaries in Qom, or, on the other hand, any feminist movement.

Ebadi claimed that the problem of gender discrimination in the Middle East is not Islam’s problem. How? Very simple. One reason she gave was that the non-Islamic countries still have gender discrimination: The United States does not have enough women in its Senate and Congress or as cabinet minister and so on. The second reason was that the discrimination against women is not the same in all Islamic countries. Neither of these arguments was carefully enough examined to be of any use in bolstering her claim. The Islamic countries she mentioned, where the women enjoy some sort of equality, are multi-cultural and multi-religion nations. Of the countries identified as Muslim nations which are not being regressive towards women, Bangladesh and Pakistan still inherited the multi-cultural essence of their original motherland India. Similarly Malaysia and Morocco are all very much affected by the non-Islamic cultures that they were in close contact with.

On the other hand, Ebadi’s examples of non-Islamic nations with gender problems turn the table around. So if it is not Islam, then it should be the culture! Well, is she ready to accept the challenge? Does she mean a women-loving culture which produces Nizami’s Haft Paykar, Saadi’s ghazals, or Hafez’s Shakheyeh Nabat, or, for that matter, Ferdowsi’s women, has produced all these discriminatory laws towards women? I simply suggest that she read Vis o Ramin, a celebrated medieval love narrative unique in the literature of the world, and judge it for herself. And if medieval Iran is too unrealistic, I refer her to the resumé of thousands of Iranian women from her own generation and even older who have emerged from a wide range of backgrounds and were nurtured by the same culture which she tries to blame.

She then made an analogy between gender discrimination and hemophilia, arguing that women are only the carrier of disease, which is passed on to her son without ever being affected by the disease herself. This analogy was well-received with laughter and applause; however, it remains an analogy and should not lead us to any conclusions. But even if we do draw conclusions from it, does she mean that we, the women, are responsible for the maladies we are facing? I hope not!

Then what? Well, there are still problems. She mentions some: stoning law, divorce law, child custody law, polygamy law, travel permit law, honor killing law, blood money law, and etc. Where are these laws from? Of course these are all shariat, but the conservative version of the shariat. Ebadi believes that there is a milder version of Islam which does not advocate any of this, though she is not very clear on its operative system and how or by whom these mild interpretations should be implemented. Ordinary people? The elite clerics? Those who have a hold on jurisprudence?

There is no use for interpretations if they are not done systematically and are not institutionalized. This includes the permissibility of interpretation by non-authorized clerics or laymen. Any new version of reading and interpreting religious texts needs to be brought under an umbrella of what in other religions is called a reformed version of that religion; and still we should remember that the reform movements won’t eliminate religious orthodoxy, i.e. if the modern version of Islam does not permit certain kinds of punitive acts it does not mean that act would be abolished. Still, a fully-established and well-recognized reformed branch of a religion needs to go through the processes of empowering, legitimization, and entrenchment in order to be of any use; and the political power structure, the majority of legislative and judiciary bodies, should adhere to that branch of religion to make it effective.

A reformed Islam is passed overdue. Like any other religion, Islam has to face such an unavoidable destiny. However, like all its predecessors, the movement needs to come from and within the faith. Post-Vatican II Catholicism and Reform Judaism both developed from within their respective original faiths and texts. The reform within these religions were not just a mere interpretation of texts or the insertion of reformed ideas into these religions, but a close examination of the texts and reading, teaching, and advocating this close examination and, more importantly, challenging dogmas and being prepared to be challenged. It is the third factor which we need to emphasize, though we cannot ignore the importance of the first two, which requires a huge amount of courage and dedication. We, as a Muslim nation ruled by Islamic laws, need to go a few extra miles. Except for one short aborted and native movement, Babism-Bahiism, and an even more fleeting one launched by Kasravi, there has not been any serious major or minor attempt in any established way towards reform in Islam in recent centuries. We all are familiar with their bloody fate which was no better than that of the medieval Sufis or those very few other medieval movements, all labeled as heretics. Conservatives have had quite a tight control over the laws and the parameters of religion, and any digression is suppressed with great severity. The definitions of ertad, blasphemy or heresy, are so broad that they could bring down just about any reformist claim very easily. I’m surprised how Ayatollah Sane’i or President Khatami or Ayatollah Montazeri and the late Hojatoleslam Salehi Najafabadi were not formally charged with this, though each one of them has been pushed into the same dead end corner.

Once a friend of mine, an Iranian physician who had come back from a conference in Beijing, told me that in the conference, a Vietnamese surgeon asked him about the current state of health and medicine in Iran. My friend, caught by surprise, told him that the state of our medicine is like our traveling—we travel by airbus and jumbo jet as well as by donkey. What do you do in Vietnam? The colleague answered that there they only travel by bus. I thought about this anecdote as Ebadi was talking in Rutgers. Women rights, human rights, etc., in Iran move from one extreme to the other. While one woman in one part of the country gets stoned for adultery, the government allegedly provides another place with an official house of prostitution. While one woman is battling in court to divorce or for child custody, another gets millions of votes and becomes the head of city council. While one hundred sixty thousand women are getting arrested in just two days for bad hejabi, our activists in the UN are fighting against the stoning law which had been applied in the rarest of cases. And while clerical reformists are advocating and arguing over the legitimacy of the enforcement of hejab as unsubstantiated law, our feminist activists boycott the election which would have placed them in power. We are truly the land of “broken mirrors” and it is not easy to see our true faces and I have no idea with what certainty Shirin Ebdi points to the sources of our problems in our culture; it is a gross oversimplification indeed.

Ebadi equates human rights with woman rights and considers this equation as the key to the process of democracy in the region. Of course the fate of many issues, at least, in Iran, is tied directly to women: democracy, human rights, reformism, and peace. However, reducing human rights and democracy to women’s rights is another oversimplification; and looking for a shortcut is even more of an underestimation. We have the examples of Communist [pdf] China or Soviet Russia which were far from democratic; and human rights violations were not less than in many other places. Still formal gender equality was maintained, although there is still a wide range of domestic abuses in both countries. To focus on “women rights” in accordance with the UN Declaration of Human Rights not only won’t help the women’s movement in Iran, but is a severe distraction, while emphasizing justice as a major tenet of Islam will lead us to unavoidable means of equality to maintain that principal. Why not ask for the given? Women have enough in their power to ask for the justice which includes equality. Twenty-five million voting ballots are nothing to be ignored; let us use them for a possible change!

So much emphasis, no matter how well-meaning, on the heartbreaking, suppressive, and misogynistic sharia laws not only won’t do any good, but is counterproductive. For those of us living in the US or Europe, it is a constant battle and a waste of energy just to wipe out the stereotypical image of “the battered, abused and backward Iranian women” which is bestowed upon us by well-meaning activists. Recently, a young Iranian writer told us that a publisher would reject her novel unless she revised it. The problem was with the male character in the book, who was a loving, caring father and did not abuse the heroine of the novel. The publisher bluntly told her she could not sell a book in which the Middle Eastern female character is not abused by a father or brother or husband in the States. A female friend from Pakistan, a very accomplished journalist, was asked to write her memoirs. She finished, but it was rejected. Why? She was too strong, too professional, not abused, and was too successful prior coming to the US. These are just a very few example of what this negative portrayal could do to us.

We as Middle Easterners expected to be particularly grateful for any show of favor from our “betters.” An Iranian women friend in France who received the honorary Légion d'honneur award from the European Parliament in Strasbourg for her services to refugee women in France refused to have any public celebrations, and was harshly criticized for this. The female French activists expected her to be especially grateful for receiving such an honor since she herself is a foreigner, indeed the first foreigner to receive this award. One of the services she had performed was creating a very simple language teaching method suitable for illiterate women who need to speak French to make living in their host country. Ironically enough, Shirin Ebadi’s book fall as a victim in this way as well. Her book was the only book written by a Nobel Laureate which did not received the publicity which it deserved. It never got in the display windows and the desks of the bookstores, Why? It should be clear by now...

Our activists, such as Ebadi and Mehrangiz Kar, could be more valuable to the human rights, women rights, and democratic movements if they could separate the domain of their activities. Lectures in American and European universities and campaigning in the UN against some isolated cases of stoning which is an extremely unusual and rare practice which the Islamic Republic has executed only few times and in remote and backward regions of the country which are largely out of the central government’s control, a practice which the ruling clerics are either against or embarrassed by, is a waste of time and energy. This could very easily be solved within the Iranian judiciary system and by some local advocacy. The conditions set to make the claim, to prove the case, to testify to it, to judge it and to implement it are so difficult, bordering on the impossible, that not even one case of stoning should ever happen. When we get access to a platform in the UN, why waste it on such an isolated case rather than campaigning for something which affects us all in a more vital way, such as the freedom of press, or the condition of prisons, the hejab, or unwarranted searches. In all these cases not only do we have the international community on our side but the people, many progressive clerics, and above all our kind and generous culture. The international community will not and can not help us to defeat the suppressive sharia laws, but our tradition and culture does.

Campaigning on the employment of women, encouraging their activities in various NGO’s, training young Iranian lawyers to work as volunteers in various parts of the country, for example, would be a more positive move and would be welcomed by Iranian women. With some forty million women in Iran, of course there are hundreds of horrifying stories which could be found (as everywhere else in the world). Taking them as a norm or representative and posing them as typical not only won’t eliminate those individual problems, but in many cases hinders our progress.

What worries me the most is the impact such advocacies will have on the Iranian women’s situation. I’m also worried about wasting the limited energy we have and losing momentum. I’m worried about exhausting ourselves by going on wild goose chases. I’m worried about missing opportunities. It had happened to us several times and it might happen again. What I’m worried most about is losing our morale. The outcome of constant confrontations and constant failure is nothing but demoralization; and when it is coupled with the unfair image of “battered Iranian women,” exaggerating the strength of our adversaries and underestimating our own, nothing good will come of it. And above all, making a vicious circle out of our problems and turning them into a cluster of pain is just a prescription for suicide rather than a way out. Instead, a little encouragement and a positive self-image will do wonders. Harping so much upon laws which none of us are likely to confront in our life, such as how if a woman is run over she receives less compensation than a man, or how two women count for one man as witnesses, are good for putting our law books in order but do not meet our immediate and everyday needs.

Being able to have a relationship characterized by mutual respect without being threatened by assault is more our concern. Having self-confidence and self-respect is more essential for obtaining and demanding our rights, and millions of wonderful laws in the court’s library cannot take the place of such things. The young women who run and got elected in even religious cities like Arak or Ardebil as the head of the city council were not worried about how much blood money they might receive if they were run over. What they needed was the vote of the majority of people who would trust them and respect them and believe in them. Fortunately, they received even more than they had asked for. The culture which Ebadi blames as the source of our problems is fortunately on our side and loves us and adores us. Let us hold on to it and be good to it. It has been very good to us.

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Iranian Friendship

The best thing about Iran is its mothers and the second best thing is its friends. I do recall years ago I met a client of mine, a fashion designer who, when she noticed I’m Iranian, told me her ex-husband was Iranian too. I tried to find something appropriate to say, considering her bad experience, when she continued that although he was not a good lover and husband, he was her best friend and still is. I felt relieved when she continued that not only was he such a good friend, but his family and particularly his mother were such amazingly loving people. That was not an isolated incident and it was not the comment of only one individual. It never surprises me to receive that kind of acknowledgment. The impact that this particular aspect of culture has on our life had never lost its high value to me.

My trips to Iran would not be so exciting if friends were not part of them. Not only the old ones; classmates, college buddies, neighbors, and colleagues, but new ones as well. Those I met just few years ago in conferences, in meetings, in concerts, in parties, and occasionally in art exhibits. I go to Iran mainly to visit them and talk with them. Whenever I return from these trips, I feel a little awkward to explain my happiness just by saying “I was with friends.” Even my husband, who is so familiar with Iranian culture and tradition, has a hard time to grasp the concept of “wonderful times” in terms of just being with friends. My recent trip was very special to me since I had few reunions with old friends.

I met few of my high school friends in a restaurant for lunch after some forty years. They all were married and some of them had grandchildren. All of them were professionals, physicians, chemists, sociologists, environmental scientists and biologists. (We were all in the Natural Science School. I was the only one who left the field for the humanities and the arts.) The most impressive aspect of it was the fact that we all came from very modest lower to middle class families. We all attended a local public school which did not have a library. There was no public library available (the Library of Parliament was the only public library in Tehran at the time) and believe it or not we did not even have laboratories at school. Our parents were mostly involved with various problem of life with not much time to tend to our needs. There was no entertainment either. Sports facilities were non-existent and books were such a rare commodity that if anybody had one we would all borrow it and pass it around. A book which was borrowed would never return to the original owner, it would have gone through so many hands that it would have been impossible to trace it back. I do recall once my brother borrowed two volumes out of three of Anna Karenina (second volume missing). Being such a lengthy novel we could not wait for any of us finish the entire book, so we divide it and passed it around and read it and shared our portion with each other; and since we could not locate the 2^nd volume we had to guess that part of Tolstoy’s writing. It did not even occur to us that we were doing something that we were not up to: to fill up the gap in Tolstoy’s novel.

In our reunion, we all remembered that novel which probably was our first one to read on seventh grade. We remembered even each other shoes or dresses; we remembered our exams and even the mistakes we made on our exams. We remembered very well that none of us knew where we were heading; none had any role model except our female teachers. There was not that much ahead for us to follow; our mothers were very different than us; all they knew and insist on was that we study and study.

However we had each other. Talking to each other was the second big luxury and entertainment next to “contemplating.” Now that I think about it, I feel how fortunate we were. It was just between these luxurious activities that we discovered and formed ourselves as well as we could. There were some errors as well, such as when Nahal and I both decided we were tall enough so we should never need to wear high heel shoes. I’m 5' 3" and Nahal was 5' 3.5".

I met some of my friends from our old neighborhood. We lived in a neighborhood called “Chaharsad Dastgah” means four hundred units. This neighborhood prided itself on a few things. The most important was its small triangular clay soccer court which was the birthplace of Iran’s National Soccer Team. Almost every member of the team was trained in this humble court which was not made for this purpose but had been usurped by soccer loving youth of our community.

We all gathered in the weekend place of one Armenian friend. Lots of friends were there. It was so exciting to see those old friends who had changed by now. However, after fifteen minutes they were all transformed into what they were just forty years ago, only a little grayish and wrinkled. We talked and recalled the good old days. My brother was talking about my mini mini skirts which apparently was a favorite topic in some circles, when Fariborz, a famous soccer player in National Team arrived and asked whose skirt was short? Mina’s? When? We all laughed. He would drive me to and from work for three years and never noticed my exposed legs? I did not know if I should be flattered or insulted. I decided to be just nostalgic for the passed days of honor and trust, for the days that we were the guardians of goodness, the days that not everything was “me” and not every end was “my feeling,” but the days when we took pride in our discipline and restrictions.

It was so touching that Mrs. Habibi, the pretty wife of captain of our National Soccer Team still remembered, not my legs, but the name of the movie we saw together: My Fair Lady.

A visit to the cemetery was also an achievement on my part. I had avoided it during my last two visits back home. When we buried my father there in 1972, the cemetery was new. Now it has turned into a huge green park which is the eternal home for some dozen more beloved. It was not exactly the same as visiting the friends, but visiting the loved ones, who did not wait enough for to see our better days and departed untimely (is there any good time for that kind of departure?) would bring a feeling of grief mingled with feelings of liveliness. It tells us to extend our love and affection we had for them to those who are still around. Lots of aimless love was hovering in the cemetery. I manage to gather a bag full of them with me to share with others who are still with me.

Among those I visited, was the grave of a handsome young man, Aman Teymori, the only son of my friend Eftekhar. He was killed in an accident caused by an avalanche just less than three mounts ago. At his grave I was filled with dismay and grief, more so than over any of the other losses I ever encountered. I did not even dare to suggest his parents to share that love with others; it was too cruel, although, I learned they have not wasted any time and bonds of love are already established between them and the survivors of one of the ski resort keepers who died trying to save their son. (www.daraman.com)

Besides the mothers and friends and the landscapes and parks, taxi drivers should have a proper place as a contributing factor to the beauty of Tehran. Yes, what would a city be without them, those temporary “friends” who patiently drive us from one part to the other part of the city safely, in the city that some ninety percent of drivers do not like to use their turning signals, those who can give us the most accurate information about any place we want and those who—I do not know how—remember all those labyrinths of northern Tehran, those who, when they finally take us to our destination would tell us “ghabeli nadareh” meaning their service is not worthy of us, we do not need to pay. Most of the time they are just being polite, but it still feels good. They are mostly very educated and well informed and also very political. I think the kind of free zone that we enjoy in every taxi owes its freedom and independence to these brave, outspoken and intelligent drivers. One can talk to them about any subject. Not only the most accurate news is being broadcast in their little kingdom, but also one gets pampered like never before in adult life. They stop without nagging so you can buy a bouquet of flowers or an ice cream if you want to. They can even stop at the bakery and pick up some fresh bread for you. Once they take you somewhere they remember it for the next time, and they go out of their way to leave you on exactly the same side of the street, even if it means driving few blocks back and forth; all these while carrying on a conversation about the elections or the candidates’ qualifications for office.

In this trip I also met several interesting drivers, whom I can never forget. One of them, Ali Akbar, while driving my to the dentist, talked about the blessing of having children. When I told him I do not have any, he turned back and said, “You sound as if you have so many, you sound as if all the children in the world are yours.” I wanted to cry. The man did not even know me, but sure he listened and did not give me a usual cliché response. I look forward to seeing him on my next trip. Do not be surprised; in Iran, personal relationship does not have a fixed boundary.

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My Seventeen Day Trip to Iran

My seventeen day trip to Iran ended peacefully and nicely. Those of my friends and families who were nervous can breathe now. No nuke was dropped, mini or otherwise, no air strikes of any sorts whatsoever. People were happy, life was going on, and it was business as usual.

It was after some thirty-five years that I saw Tehran in the Spring. I think it is one of the most beautiful cities now. A network of highways, trimmed with amazingly colorful landscaping, has wrapped the city like a handsome basket of flowers. I hope the metro project expands quicker and some part of current traffic would move underground so one can enjoy the surrounding better.

There was not any sign of anxiety on the people’s part over the various US threats against Iran. It seems that people are getting used to this kind of rhetoric and do not take it seriously. I think the Islamic Republic in general, and the government of Ahmadinejad in particular, has desensitized the people to the point that even taxi drivers, who are always ready to comment on political and social issues, were quieter.

All over the city every quarter of a mile big, well-designed banners were hung, with a simple message: “ Ettehad-e-Melli, Ensejam-e-Eslami”—National Unity, Strengthening of Islam. It is the first time ever since the Islamic Republic was in power that the ruling authorities so openly appealed to Iranian national identity prior to its Islamic identity. Something like this had been done previously on a number of occasions; even Imam Khomeini appealed to Iran’s 2500 years of history to encourage people during the Iran – Iraq war, and every so often the clerics conveniently remembered that we have a history prior to Islam, but there had never before been such a campaign for Iranian national unity.

I did not hear even one word about the enrichment of uranium or atomic energy. It was as if such things did not exist. Instead I heard almost everywhere about Dehnamaki’s Movie Ekhrajiha (The Outcasts). Some thought it was very funny. Others did not see it because they considered Dehnamaki himself to have been a thug who was trying to reinvent himself. Some thought that making a big box office hit does not mean anything. Some thought Iranian movies are very derivative and that even its humorous aspect is not creative but is taken from other comedies.

However, there was another big hit movie, not funny at all, Khoon bazi (Blood Sport) by Rakhshan Bani Etemad with brilliant acting of her daughter Baran. The film was about the drug problem and what made it more interesting was that Bani Etemad had discussed drug abuse among the upper-middle and upper classes, unlike the customary idea which considered it as a poor and lower-class problem.

Of course the subject of Islamic veil in the month of May is always the top issue and this year it was there in its full display. It was the headline of newspapers, under the various titles of “bad hejabi” or “shol hejabi” (bad or slovenly veiling). The difference this time was that the head of the police department took it upon himself to deal with this issue as a kind of crime. It was on his top agenda to curb bad hejabi. The police had arrested one hundred and sixty thousand offenders in the first two days, and finished processing only forty thousand of them. The government was under attack from various sides, including clerics. The most popular argument was based on two premises. One was that those who are considered as bad hejabis are the legitimate children of Islamic Republic, i.e. the Islamic Republic had been incapable of instilling into its own people the mode of behavior it wanted to enforce and therefore said it would not work and to give it up. The second argument was a matter of priorities. Did the government deal with other more pressing issues? Did it bring the oil money to the people’s table? Did the government fulfill its promises? Is the hejab the most important issue at this time? However important as all these arguments are, no one expected to receive an answer to any of them. People just hope that they would be heard.

Noushin Ahmadi

While we are at it, I should say luckily the last two woman activists (related to the campaign for one million signatures) were released. However Noushin Ahmadi and Parvin Ardalan, who had been freed on bail, got jail sentences.

Parvin Ardalan

My two trips to my favorite place, book shops, were wonderful. I bought a lot of books. I do not want to make you eat your heart out, but I bought a whole bag of books for less than one hundred dollars, lots of fiction and non-fiction. Have you ever bought any book for less than one dollar? I do not mean to be wicked!

I would like to mention one important issue to the publishers. There is no clear indication on most, indeed practically any, of the books that they are fiction or non-fiction. I noticed Amin Maalouf’s Garden of Lights was translated as The Life and the Philosophies of Mani, the Iranian Prophet. This book is fiction and it is a great injustice to the Prophet of Manichaeism and the author if the reader takes it as a historical work. There were so many books of these kinds. Another important issue is the customary short biography of the author and the blurb which are totally missing. I hope some one pays attention to that.

Food was great as usual. However, I wish people would eat less meat. I do not understand how such political people would consume that much meat. Just consider that eight pounds of grain should be used to produce one pound of meat. Please, please, please people of Iran, vegetables are wonderful. Eat them!

Also regarding food, the bad news is that cooking, which was considered a pride of the Iranian household, is now passé. No one cooks any more. “Take outs,” “orders,” and “reservations” are in.

This was my third trip to Iran. Whatever I saw was so accented with love and tenderness that it was difficult to find something to nag about. Even when the government’s off and on gaffs cause such uproars, one is more impressed by those energetic and courageous protests than the government’s foolishness. I for one cannot stop myself from choosing the best. I notice the uproars.

With all my naïve optimism I came across two defects that I could not ignore. One is Iran’s tile works. The country which is one of the oldest ceramic and tile art centers and has produced the magical monuments in Isfahan, is doing so poorly now. Even in the expensive houses of north Tehran, one gets very disappointed when walks into the bathrooms. Should we blame it all on Afghan’s refugees [pdf] who are the major body of construction workers?

And the final defect I find was the Almond. Yes, the Almond! My generation can remember very well that one table spoon of its bitter oil was used to clean our systems every so often and even sometimes as a threat and deterrent. Yes the same nut which for centuries was used to describe the most beautiful eyes is not such an Iranian commodity any more. In the nut shop there were three piles of almonds. Two of them are very attractive, all the same color, large and elegant shaped almonds, the third was of mixed sizes and colors and none looked like almonds. I asked the shop keeper what was the difference. He pointed to the two attractive ones and said they were American almonds and that the crooked mixed ones were Iranian and tastier. Well guess what, they were all bitter or tasteless as hell. If you go to Iran, even if you want to patronize Iranian products, avoid almonds.

Everything aside, the Alborz Mountain, covered with snow, still stands there majestically.

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O Camelia, Camelia, Camelia

O, churl, drunk all, and left me no friendly drop to help me after?

Camelia is part of the next wave of disillusioned Iranian men and women who are coming here for their “fifteen minutes of fame.” Yes, I’m warning you all, that’s all you get! Just “fifteen minutes” of fame. (Ah, Azar Nafisi, where are you now?) And when they arrive they will find that she has drunk it all. She has used all the “selling” commodities and nothing is left for them to sell for a green card, university scholarship, book contract etc.

I read Camelia, by the journalist Camelia Entekhabifard. It was my fastest read, less than twenty hours. I’m a very slow reader, but there were two reasons for such a record-breaking achievement. The first one was my unwillingness to pay $23.95 for 225 pages of delusional stories called a memoir, so I borrowed it and I had to return it before leaving for Iran. The other is, of course, its lack of content—there is nothing to read. A self absorbed, yet ambitious young woman who thinks she can make a fool of everyone all the time is writing a self-congratulating memoir. What else is new? Every couple of years we have one of them. I hope hers is the last.

I should admit that she is very a smart, spirited young lady. I met her in her first book reading in Labyrinth in New York on Friday night. The most attractive part of her was not her hands (as she repeatedly claims in every chapter) but her shoes, a very high heeled, bight red velvet with embroidery, completely out of place with her very conservative two pieces suits and old fashioned neck scarf. It reminded me more of Shahrezad, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out she meant it that way. The contradiction did not end there, it only just started.

She started her talk by apologizing for her English. She explained it was her first public reading and she was very nervous. To tell the truth, it has nothing to do with her nerves; it was her grammar. I was quite disappointed at both NYU and Columbia whose graduates with a Masters Degree in any field spoke the language so poorly. She did not utter even one single correct sentence. I was wondering what her rush was to write a memoir and not waiting for her language facility to improve so that she could enjoy writing it. However, she managed to talk straight for one hour and twenty minutes and to relay her ideas and thoughts to her audience very well. No, she did not use her hands.

Going back to her book, well, there is good news and bad news. The good news is that the book will probably sell very well in the United States. It contains everything that the American public loves. There is a Lil Orphan Annie-Camelia who is innocently trapped in the hands of an abusive Islamic Republic and an interrogator. Even worse, she is in prison for a period of three months. Wow! Then she frees herself simply by using her hands and her voice. Wow again! There is no defense lawyer, no Shirin Ebadi, no Mousavi Kho’eini, no Fa’eze Hashemi to help; nobody from the Bar Association either, and no other journalist. She is there by herself, alone.

She is the victim. Another box office point! Americans love victims. I recall when Jewish Iranian memoirist Roya Hakakian wrote her memoir, the Jewish magazines pushed hard to portray her as victim and Roya, to her credit, shunned the offer. As we noticed, the book did not make it in the market so well, but Camelia’s will, you bet! She has not done anything and is charged for everything, poor girl!

Cleverness? Yes she is clever and Americans love clever people. On her first day in jail she decided that she had to do it herself, and by the second day she went into action. She is smart, she is pretty, but no one can see her, she is a good actress, she must perform the best performance of her life, and she has pretty hands and she is determined to use them. And her voice? Of course! Oh, the power of love! She gathered all the energy she had and channeled it in her hands, the only visible part of her body. She frees herself from the Islamic Republic’s prison in three months just by using her hands and her voice! Wow! And bravo! And one big bravo on behalf of her first boyfriend, the soccer player Ali Da’i, too. I think he is sorry that he did not marry her and exploit all her cunning in some of his crucial games.

The bad news is for the next wave of fame and freedom seekers. They will find nothing to impress these Americans with, Camelia did it all. (My advice to the future wave of parents is to think about it in advance, read the memoirs of survivors of Nazi Germany; you may find some secret Auschwitz somewhere in Iran which could become handy! No, Camelia did not use that.)

To be honest, two chapters of the book are worth reading, i.e., “Daisies in Autumn,” and “Zan.” The rest of the book is devoid of any sort of information or a worthwhile narrative. The author is very observant. Her poetic style coupled with her detail-oriented mind have helped her to depict the situation and scene vividly. However, she is not writing a fiction, but a memoir. As a distinct genre, memoir literature either requires a distinguished personality or someone with a bundle of wisdom and experience. Camelia lacks both. The book is just the recounting of the life of some self-absorbed young women who happens to have been in the public arena. She had a job which was both glamorous and culturally esteemed. She happened to have been in a unique part of the world where a peddler who sells newspapers is a head and shoulders above a peddler who sells tee-shirts, just by the virtue of his commodities. Nowhere in the book, is the reader presented with this distinguished aspect of Iranian life. In fact, nowhere in the book does she emerge out of her cocoon to lead her reader to some facts or truth about the country, culture, or Iranian politics. It is only in “Zan,” where she comes close to depicting some slim portion of what a memoir should do; and in “Daisies in Autumn,” where she talks about the high school girls and their relationships. (I wished she had not written four pages about her name.)

Even as a personal, and in fact a very personal, narrative, one never gets to the truth or matters of fact, let alone motivations or causes. I came across so many instances in which the author used the word “confusion” as verb or as a adjective or noun to describe her state of mind when she lies, cheats, or otherwise does wrong or makes a bad decision. I do not imagine what Persian word she used in her original text to be translated as such, but I can assure the reader with certainty that we do not have any word in our language which means “confusion” in the sense it is used in the English language. The widespread use of this world to justify some good amount of her misdeeds and bad judgment seems to be translated from a different language and culture. Iranian do not lie, cheat, and do wrong out of confusion, they do so for various other practical and pragmatic reasons. Camelia, almost in every few pages, does wrong because she is confused. She even mislead me to think that there might be a new phenomena of post-revolutionary Iran, and with much relief I found out it was just the terminology she adopted to justify what she was doing, probably coached by her editor.

Blaming others, an old device, is used frequently, and so is the manipulation of events by moving back and forth to confuse the reader. After finishing the book, one does not even know on what charges she is arrested. She gives a fuzzy narrative of an incident with quite an bit of manipulation. On one page, she writes all of them including some seventy men whom she had to admit she slept with. However there are no charges against her for being in Prague working with Radio Azadi. (This particular station is very different than all Iranian stations in Europe, and is different from Voice of America.) There, she broadcasted a program under the pseudonym Camelia Nakha’i. How strange that the interrogator, who knew everything about her, ignored this part of her life. The same with her relationship with FBI. However, she makes her short visit with Farah Pahlavi or even Reza Pahlavi (who are now private citizens and many Iranian abroad come to meet them on various occasions which never cause them any sort of problem) so important for no apparent reason.

It requires some mastery to portray oneself as both a dangerous subversive and an innocent at the same time. And she thinks she’s pulled it off. Well, not so well. No matter how unaccountable the Iranian judiciary is, if they feel someone is truly a danger, they will not let her go after three months, even if she had one hundred pairs of pretty hands. We are all too familiar with Iran judiciary system to know that three months in jail could not be enough for a serious charge. For a simple demonstration one can stay in jail for a much longer period. (Mohammadi is dead now and Batebi is still in jail just for showing his bloody shirt.) And believe me, if a prison in the Islamic Republic brings in an special interrogator for one prisoner (as she claimed regarding her interrogator) she would have been hanged by now. Camelia can delude herself as much as she wants, but I am worried about the young innocents who, God forbid, might believe her nonsense and put their life in danger.

It is interesting that with all her self absorbedness, she is not even concerns about the way she portrays herself. Indecisive, confused, irresponsible, delusional, being flirtatious to obtain what she needs, provocative, boasting, extremely manipulative, and empty of compassion. (She is the only woman prisoner whose memoirs I read who not only has no compassion and regard for any of the women working in the prison, but she does not hesitate to arouse their jealousy.) I’m sure Camelia does not like to be describes in these terms, but after reading this book, I do not feel I have any other choice. I think she has relied too much on her cleverness or our shallowness. But she is not as clever as she thinks, nor are we so shallow.

Indeed, Miss Camelia, with your pretty face and hands and name, after reading your book, I did not find anything else pretty in you. Your story is wrapped in fictions and the truths, if there are any, are so distorted that one wonders what you gained by writing them. Please do not get me wrong. I wished you would have written only the truth. Or better, I wish you would have written the book as fiction, it would make a very nice story. I am a big believer in writing, of all kinds. I think we Iranians have been quiet enough and that we have to write, to give information about ourselves, to introduce our culture, to bring our imagination and our inspiration to the world and become part of it, but we have to make sure that whatever we are doing is done responsibly. Then it makes no difference if it is fact or fiction.

With your book not only do you betray yourself, but you betray those you claim you love. You betray Fa’eze, who is not a woman to sit idle when one of her staff is in prison innocently; on the contrary, she would have raised hell. Woman activists would make some noise. They do this quite regularly. Shirin Ebadi would not have missed the occasion to help. Other journalist would have written something about it. Abtahi is a very brave man, and Khatami, had enough power to take an innocent one out of prison, and it has been done so. I’m sorry to tell you that the lonely women in prison who channels her energy into her hands to seduce her interrogator, if she grows her hand, it won’t (in the words of the poet) grow green. They might grow, but not green. No leaves would sprout, not even a bud. It would get yellow and it would dry out and fall off. Do not count on your hands and your looks and your charm; they all fade away, and you will remain lonely again, and when those days come, even the Pulitzer prize you dream about won’t help. If you get a chance read the book Everyman by Philip Roth. It will help.

P.S.

Camelia, why did you pray five times a day? Iranian Shiites go to prayers only three times a day; they recite the noon and afternoon together, and evening and night together. You mean no one corrected you on that issue? I’m just curious.

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Bam-e Tehran

My second trip to Iran was two weeks prior to the Iranian presidential elections. I had intended to be there for that political event, and also to participate in the pilgrimage to the Pir-e-Sabz shrine which was taking place during that period. Tehran was in a very unusual situation. Eight candidates running for the presidency had ornamented the city with their banners and messages. Interestingly enough, there was not a single word of Islam in any of them. Instead there were plenty of Iranian three color flags. Also, you could park your car anywhere you wanted, roll up you shirt sleeves a little higher, and pull back your head scarf a little more and no one would bother you!

Akbar Ganji had been let out of prison for a short while by the authorities supposedly for medical reasons but actually to reveal things about one of the front runners, Rafsanjani, and so discredit him. Instead, not even checking in with a single doctor, he issued a manifesto and condemned the entire establishment and the ruling clerics. As a result was taken back to the prison. He then went on hunger strike just a week before the elections. Reformists, supporting him while boycotting the election, gathered every night and day in front of Evin prison

Mobilization in Iran for Akbar Ganji

but my brother objected. He was afraid I might get into trouble, that being American citizen and marring to a Jew could cause me a real headache if arrested in the wrong place. With Mansoureh and Farah, another old friend, we left, promising not to go to Evin.

We went for dinner to an Indian restaurant. As expected, it was the best Indian food I ever had, and then we drove further

Mansoureh Shojai

north. Tehran had changed drastically from what I remembered; and so it was Mansoureh who knew where she was going and occasionally asking Farah if she should go this way or that way and Farah would say it does not matter. (That was her general attitude, nothing mattered to her ever.) We finally decided that we were lost. (In Tehran using the road map is not that popular yet. That is why the taxi drivers need to have a very high IQ, which they all seem to have, in addition to their Masters Degrees and being such a good companions.) After passing through various narrow mountain roads, we finally came in front of a walled complex with some two hundred people standing there in groups eating fresh walnuts, fresh almonds, and barbequed corn cobs, customary Iranian snacks. I looked at Mansoureh, who had promised my brother not to go to the prison, and she shrugged, saying “I did not promise not to get lost!”

Everybody was there: Noushins, Shirins, Azadehs, Royas, Farhads, Alis, and Payams. We talked about the elections, about the reformist candidates, about the uselessness of voting, about the usefulness of boycotting, about how the government’s legitimacy would shatter if the people did not vote, about whether or not the this government’s legitimacy indeed had come from the people’s vote, about the reformists’ ineptitude which was being used by the reformists voters like a hammer to bang on the heads of the reformists’ candidate. Behind the wall of that complex, Ganji was ill, on hunger strike; the crowed outside the wall was to support and help him. I think those daily gatherings helped. Thanks to the Iranian journalists who kept him on the front page, he is out and alive.

It was almost 2 am. We got back to our car. Farah was very tired, but not us. I just wanted to tell Mansoureh about the death of Mercutio, the little dog I had for fourteen years. She suffered two heart failures and finally died of low blood pressure. I still miss her and wanted to tell my friend exactly what happened. I wanted to tell her story to Mansoureh under the moonlight, and it was her idea that we should walk with the moon behind us while I narrate the story so that when we return, the moon would be in our face so that we could see Mercutio’s face reflected in it. We drove to the nearby parking spot under some steps leading to a flat area called “Bam-e Tehran” (“Roof of Tehran”) on the mountain overlooking the city. Farah

Bam-e Tehran

decided to sleep in the car and we left. We walked up to the observatory terrace overlooking the city, which was shining under our feet like a giant piece of jewelry. And behind us was a the rocky body of the Alborz Mountains. The moon was above us like a majestic deity; my beloved dog is housed in it until we all join her in heaven.

I told Mansoureh all about the dog’s suffering and the pain she went through; and the care and all the nourishment I gave her, and the last few days, and finally the painful loss. I cried and she cried with me. When we returned, the moon was in our face, shining. I heard a barking, and then again, I thought I am imagining. I was not. A little further on, a few people where walking and a little dog was running around and barking. This is not a usual scene in Iran. People do not take their dogs to public places. And here at 3 am in an isolated area a little dog, from distance like Mercutio, sounded like magic. We went to them I picked up the dog and gave it a kiss and hug, and returned to our car. We woke Farah and drove back. It was only then that I noticed how fortunate I am to have friends like Mansoureh and Farah to be with me, listening to the trivial tale of my dog’s death with such sensitivity while each one of them was fighting for such vital matters in their life, one with the political upheavals and the other with a life-threatening disease. It was then that I noticed that under no condition would I have dared to walk in Central Park, in New York City, unarmed, at 3am.

Next week I’m going to Tehran for my third trip. With deep sorrow I have to face certain pains for which I am not prepared. My dear friend Farah died last month due to an illness she was suffering from. She was old friend and very exceptional. I’ll miss her.

In addition, after some 25 years, I think it is finally time that I face the loss of my mother, something that I could not bring myself to face on my last two trips back home. This time it is unavoidable. April 27 is her anniversary and is the last day of my stay in Iran.

It is now that I realize that that night on “Bam-e Tehran” under the moonlight it was my mother who was shining on my face and smiling and welcoming me back home and with her usual warmth and love, and forgave me for not accepting her untimely departure, as if it was her choice.

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An Iranian Passover

This Passover was quite a monumental time for us. My husband’s parents did not feel like celebrating the holiday and one of our friends with whom we would usually spent one of the first two nights had moved out town. We decided to spend the first night with one of our Iranian Jewish friends in Long Island.

Ilana and Hamid are from Hamedan, an old historical city “Hekmataneh,” in western Iran near another old historical city, “Susa,” apparently the original hometown of Jews in the world (according to Hamid and Gore Vidal). Queen Esther was from there, and so was Mordechai, and their tombs are located in

"Queen Esther and King Xerxes"

Hamadan, and are a source of pride to the Iranians of all religions, who make pilgrimages to them. While driving home from the train station, Hamid and Evan, my husband, decided that there were many Iranian Jews who are direct descents from Aaron (Cohanim, or Priests), versus the Ashkenazi’s who have many descendants of their aides (Levi’im). I have no idea if these matters are decided in this fashion, but who am I to say?

It was the loveliest time I ever had on Passover. The lengthy ritual of reading a text whose language I do not know and the assigned repetitive questions raised by the children and the uncomfortable chairs that one has to sit on for almost four hours (there is no comfortable chair in the world) leaves me with nothing but exhaustion on Passover nights. However, not this time.

Ilana and Hamid are both very political, unlike most minorities in Iran, who believe politics have nothing to do with them, even though they both are mellowed down a bit. They do not pretend to be just guests in this world. I hope this partial withdrawal is the side effect of the life in the Diaspora rather than a philosophical one. In any case, we always have very engaging discussions with them which adds more grace to their Iranian hospitality.

Their two daughters, Sarvin and Nasim, have grown to such admirable gracious ladies. It was so delightful to see them participating in the ritual, so graciously carrying the pitchers of water and basins in which only men wash their hands, without the slightest sign of resentment or embarrassment. In their young age they seemed to be wise enough not to expect modern social agreements from a five thousand old religion. They seemed to grasp and appreciate the essence of the faith which has been good enough to survive this far.

In addition to us, Hamid’s mother, Bahiyeh Khanom, and his brother, Homayoun, were there to form a Seder of three generations. Casual as everything was, still one would not miss that within this family there was a natural order and hierarchy. Each person has his/her place and duty, which they filled so nicely. There was no clash, no rivalry, and no tension. The tone was nothing but balanced, peaceful and harmonious, but light and happy.

If I have to label Ilana and Hamid's sader, I would call it highly secular. There was quite a bit of negotiation taking place as to how to perform the service, read the text, rushing through certain parts or eliminating others. Ilana announced right at the beginning to cut everything short since she had worked hard and seemed hungry; Hamid very politely tried to keep up with my husband and did his best to show that he is Jewish too; Hamid’s brother, Homayoun, who seemed more knowledgeable than Hamid and at least had stepped into a synagogue a few times, did not need to go through that pretense, and gave a nice humorous reading of text and added his witty, clever remarks. Hamid’s mother asked repeatedly that the section of the plagues and the curses be eliminated, even though the Iranian text in this section is somehow different than the Ashkenazi’s, and the entire table and food and drinks are covered so that the curses won’t enter the edibles. Her insistence on eliminating the section was remarkable and I took it not only as an aspect of her very compassionate motherly personality, but as indicative of the humane culture she is from. When all was said and done, the service took place, everything was read, questions were asked, answers were given, and all the symbolism was mentioned, but no horseradish and no gefilte fish was served. These are not included in Iranian tradition. The food was excellent as always in Ilana and Hamid’s, their indoor and outdoor Iranian kitchen is nothing to be missed.

The whole service was of course the men’s show and nobody minded. It was held mainly in Persian with a very little Hebrew sprinkled in here and there. The text was read by Hamid, Homayoun, and Evan, who stumbled when reading in Hebrew just to be a good sport. Homayoun did really good job; he was really funny and added his humorous commentary to the text and, being the youngest male child, read all four children’s questions and answered them all as well. Evan said he wished he would have recorded it.

Those four women did not seem to have any less presence than men, if not more. Their arbitrary place in the service had nothing to do with their real positions in life and they all seemed very assured of it. No, there was no orange* on the Seder plate, and Ilana, a veterinarian and sonographer and a champion horseback rider, was perfectly and graciously happy to provide all those wonderful meals.

As for the Iranian tradition of beating each other with scallions? You bet, it was the most fun. We all participated fully and vigorously in it. I did not make the mistake I made in my first Iranian Seder some thirty three years ago, and picked up few big scallions instead of one tiny one! Oddly enough, in spite of all the fun and laughter we had, all the discussions, all the political talks, and all the disagreements over various issues, the religious aspect of the Seder was still not lost. Not even a moment past without feeling the grace and the blessing which one ought to feel on these holidays. Their acceptance of faith, their peacefulness, their order, their love, their humanity was all that was written on the tablets brought down by the prophet some five thousand years ago. With all their avowed secularism, it seems they always live in accordance with the Holy Scriptures, with no alteration. In this family religion works perfectly well in its secular form, whatever this means.

In the Haggadah it is related how the five great rabbis gathered on Passover night to discuss the Exodus from Egypt. They were only roused from their discussions by a student rushing in to tell them it was time to recite the morning prayers. Just like these ancient sages, we did not notice how time passed by, it was one thirty and we should have gone home long ago. Our dog was waiting for us to have his nightly walk, and it would take us at least two to three hours to get back. We arrived at four in the morning. Those who know us can imagine what it meant for us and how much we could have enjoyed the night.

* When Jewish feminists complained to grand rabbis about their exclusion from the services, one of the rabbis responded: "the place of women in the services is like having an orange on the Seder plate." Jewish feminists, to prove their point, placed an orange on Seder plate afterward.

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Passover

Among the Jewish holidays, Passover is my favorite; it has something to do with its occurring around the Iranian New Year as well as something about its meaning which reminds me of most of our holidays: cleaning, preparing special foods, bringing symbolism into life, referring and pointing to one thing which stands for something else.

In our first Passover, my husband gave me a little brochure regarding what should be done. I do not remember how much of it I understood, but I never forget the hot taste of the horseradish on my pallet. I learned about chametz and cleaning the house in certain fashion. It was years later that I learned Passover is not just getting rid of chametz.

We spent the first Passover with my husband’s family, who were not very kosher about it. They zip through the little Maxwell House Haggadah and rushed over the roasted leg of lamb. My husband’s grandfather, rest in peace, after the first page would announce, “Let’s assume we read it.”

Little by little I learned more about this holiday as we occasionally attended the Seders where the Haggadah was read through more faithfully. As we moved to a more orthodox neighborhood and time passed by, I noticed that things were becoming more elaborate than what it was in Park Avenue and New Rochelle. Little by little the list of forbidden items became longer. The leavened bread ban was extended not only to other grains but to the green beans, green peas, sesame seeds and tahini sauce, mustard, and others which I had no idea what for. One Jewish friend explained many of these extensions was to build a fence around the law and to avoid whatever is doubtful, whatever could possibly be mistaken for wheat. Even mustard? I wondered.

As for the history of the tradition, it is told that Hebrew slaves were leaving Egypt towards the Promised Land, a hard and troubled trip through the desert full of hazards, which they succeeded in doing eventually. There are reference symbolically to all the hardship and pain that the Jews went through and many Haggadah have illustrated them beautifully and even humorously. Four questions are raised, always the same: why we eat matzo, why… and why… any why…? And the Table of the Covenants? I once asked, but guess what, I asked in the wrong place! No one knew the answer.

Several years ago we were invited to Rabbi Fund for a Seder. I did not dare ask any question in room full of rabbis. However, as if he read my mind, in a very elegant speech, the rabbi answered all my questions and said nothing about matzo, God bless him.

The rabbi explained that the Jews made a pact and committed themselves to this exodus. They knew they had a very hard and difficult road ahead, but they still accepted it full-heartedly. They were not forced but walked into it willingly and knowingly. Why? Why should anyone willingly accept hardship and danger? Is that not against human nature to avoid what possibly would bring harm? Are we not supposed to prefer safety and survival? Why should our ancestor endanger their lives as such? The answer, of course, is “freedom.” They were willing to pass through the unknown desert from slavery to freedom. But was that all? Is this commemoration of one of a kind incident? And was this “freedom” found in Jerusalem? Was this freedom just an end? Rabbi Fund answered this very eloquently. No, freedom was not an end, it was not “there, in Jerusalem.” Freedom was in that “covenants,” in the “commitment” and in “choosing,” freedom comes when we choose one and commit ourselves to it, when we “make a pact,” when we accepted a way of life, no matter how difficult and hard it might be and when we let go of other possible choices; it was by “choosing” that we liberate ourselves from running astray.

Once more I felt how close we are, this notion of “choice” as a liberating factor which is celebrated in our life again and again, when we are named, when we become Bar Mitzvah, when we choose a partner, when we accept the citizenship of a country, or when we cast our votes. Is that not the same for all of us?

It is years since I, a goy, have lived among the believers. To my dismay, I found very little of any sort of these essentials we share together being acknowledged. On the contrary, efforts are made to distinguish us as much as possible. It seems there is a competition to show how different we all are from each others. You think it is hard? Not at all. When we forget about the meaning, the cornerstone of humanity, and stick to the structure and forms, there we are: the valley of differences and “otherness.”

Last night in the rows of “Kosher for Passover” products I was amazed at the variety of pastas in all forms and shapes (made with potato or matzo), the variety of cakes and cookies, covered and uncovered with chocolates or whatever else, which had filled the supermarket shelves. I wondered what would have happened if we did not eat cake or pasta for a week? What would happen if we deprived ourselves of certain things that we like? What would happened if we restricted ourselves for one week to a tiny flat matzo and cheese and spinach and eggplant and yoghurt and potatoes and tons of other vegetables and call it a week of deprivation for the sake of practicing “choice” and “commitment?” And what would happen if we repeated it every year? Nothing would happen, except that we just might grasp the meaning of these rituals, we might learn that committing ourselves is a virtue that would bring us more freedom, we might learn that a little restrain wouldn’t do us any harm, it might just give us a very satisfying feeling of achievement. We might learn that, after all, limiting our lives a little bit is not the end of the world; it just gives us more room to concentrate on our life and achieve our goals better. We might learn to celebrate “choice” as a real “freedom.” And then what? Nothing. We might learn almost that all religions share this in one way or another. Is it that so bad?

Have a happy Passover.
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Third Annual No Ruz Day Parade

Today was the third Persian No Ruz Parade in New York City. It was the first one I attended and half participated in. Not only did Iranians participate, but the New York City Police Band, the Mother Cabrini Girl’s Band, and the All-City Boy’s Band marched. Our Mayor Mike did not attend; I assume it is not his style. He is scheduled, however, to hold a New Year’s Party for Iranians on Monday. I hope he will honor us with his presence, though I doubt he will.

It was a gorgeous spring day, sunny if little cool. It was the best one could get in this part of the country in this season, and I was grateful. The parade started at 41^st Street and ended at 26^th Street in Gramercy Park. It took two hours and was extremely orderly and organized. I do not know what the New Yorkers made of it. It did not in the least resemble the TV portrayal of Iran or Iranians, nor did it look like those occasional film clips from Iran. It certainly was a good slap in the face for Warner Brothers and its 300.

It was interesting to see how Iranians identified themselves when they are free to choose, when there is no Islamic Republic to do amr be ma‛ruf va nahi as monker, when one is free to choose only the best. It was a display of colors, dances, and music and best of all was the overwhelming presence of women. It was two hours of dancing and dancing. The folk dresses were so colorful that I do not think Madison Avenue, even with its full array of oriental carpet shops, had ever looked so colorful. I personally was not that pleased with the music selections—I thought that even with the pop music and the very common music or our folk music, the organizers could have chosen better. There was only one singer of live music; there could have been more. There are plenty of good performances of folk music which were not used. However, I think the presence of women and the colors and the whole energy invested in dancing for two hours made up for all this. (On second thought, it could have been their presence which made everything else fade!)

In my humble opinion, this parade was not merely the celebration of No Ruz, and not only homage to our culture by us the immigrants in the United States, but a political and social statement. Millions of Iranian told both the governments of Iran and the United States who they are and how they like to be perceived: happy, peaceful, expressive, colorful, variant, tolerant, and yes, not male-chauvinist. Did I forget to mention that Iranian woman in full color ran the show? They did a wonderful job.

[Please revisit this post; we plan to have pictures of this event posted soon.]

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300

In the middle of our heated anxiety over a US war in Iran and the mini-nuking of our country, I received an impassioned email-petition addressed to the film company Warner Brothers protesting the movie 300. Dr. Vahdati Nasab addressed a very important issue in his petition and asked Warner Brothers to research the topic discussed in the movie and apologize for distortion of historical fact by either the script writer or the scenarist or whoever was in charge of the distortion. The petition calls our attention to Iranian history in 450 BC and the reign of the King Cyrus the Great who was even acknowledged in the Old Testament, and even, according to the Iranian epic Shahnameh, is honored by occultation (which he did not mention).

While I do agree with Dr. Nasab, and while it pains me to see any part of our culture getting distorted for whatever reasons, political or else, still, deep inside, I am neither surprised nor willing to cast the first stone. We Iranians are to a great extend responsible for many of these misrepresentations.

A few months ago, the Pope’s speech in his home town Bavaria [.pdf] provoked the Moslem community over an alleged insult to Islam (depicting Islam as war mongering and blood thirsty).

When the clerics in Iran protested the Pope, I had the same feeling as now. Yes the Pope could have avoided his very insensitive remark if he wanted to. Yes, the screen writer could have been more careful in depicting Iranians in the battlefield if he had any sensitivity. Yes, Warner Brothers could have been more careful when producing the movie if they had any interest in giving either accurate information to those who would see the movies or if they had cared about the role they play in documenting history, even if the main purpose of their production was entertainment. And yes, as an Iranian I feel very upset when any aspect of my culture or history is tainted. But in the other hand, are we sure that Warner Brothers has any interest in our national pride or the accuracy of our history? I’m not so sure; I’m not so sure about the Pope’s good will either. I do not even know why we should expect otherwise. These people or institutions have their own agenda and they pursue it. Why should anybody care about our interests? I am not even sure if they know what our interests are. To be even more just, even we are not united in that front either. Our interests and what we take pride in are as varied as our populations and are sometimes even in conflict with each other. Moreover, time and again our countrymen have made declarations to prove their points disregarding the consequences.

I recall just shortly before the Islamic Revolution that there was a conference in Columbia University. One of the speakers was Dr. Reza Baraheni, just released from prison, where he had spent a few months (or, as he put it, “102 days”). In his talk, he recounted a legendary anecdote regarding the King Cyrus’s father who, interpreting his dream that a vine tree which had sprouted in her daughter’s lap had taken over the entire world, orders his minister to kill the baby who was born of his daughter. The minister disobeys and leaves the baby with a shepherd to be nourished. When the king became aware of his minister’s disobedience, he kills the minister’s newborn baby and feeds him with its flesh in a feast that night. He adds to this anecdote that in jail sometimes the meat in the food was bleached white and tasted very different and they were all wondering what had become of the political prisoners who were disappearing. He apparently thought that his ingenious suggestion of Iranian cannibalism rooted in the history would not only overthrow the Shah, but win him a Noble prize to boot. I do recall that after the meeting, when a few of us rushed to the stage to protest this, the organizer, one of the Trotskyists, Nasrin, defended him and said he, being a poet, is entitled to his poetic license and that the goal of the conference was not stating historical facts, but a political statement.

Unfortunately in expressing our disagreement with our governments, the Shah’s as well as the Islamic Republic, we Iranians generally have been so vindictive that we ended up damaging those we claimed we love. It was not only Dr. Baraheni who indulged in this sort of exaggeration and manipulation of fact and fiction to pursue his aim; we all have our own share of misconstruing and misrepresenting history.

Many Iranians opposed to the Islamic regime have raised outrageous claims like Dr. Baraheni’s with the same kind of intention. They are quite unaware that while they are trying to discredit the government, or even trying to prove a very legitimate criticism, they depict the Iranian people and culture, which they supposedly love and care about, as vicious and barbaric.

A few months ago, a feminist activist friend, reading the celebrated book, Reading Lolita in Tehran, was bewildered how “unfavorable the author was towards Iranian women and how ignorant and dismissive she was to the feminist movements back home.” She was right that, the author was so busy portraying Khomeini as villain that she became dismissive of or even disdainful towards the Iranian woman and their incredible progress in every aspect of life.

The opposition’s claim of the growth of prostitution in Iran and the decrease in the age of the prostitutes, which they put at twelve; their allegation of the rise in the rate of “selling the young girls to the Arab countries,” which they now put at thousands and thousands, are just examples which are aimed to highlight the poverty and failure of the Islamic Republic’s economic plan. However these statistics portray Iranians as not much better than their portrayal in 300.

The Islamic Republic has its own share of distorting the facts, truth, and history, which ironically discredits itself, just to maintain its interests and position. I recall how when eleven Jews in Shiraz were arrested and tried and convicted for conspiracy and espionage, amazingly enough, not even a single middle rank, or even lower rank Muslim Iranian official connected to this operation was arrested. I tried to figure out what sort of information these alleged spies could have gathered to deliver to Israel, which did not involve any non-Jewish officials of its protection. Where was that information? Who was supposed to make sure that no one, such as a cobbler, would not have easy access to it? Do we arrive at any conclusion but how incompetent the Islamic Republic’s intelligence services are? How vulnerable the whole system must be is if a cobbler could circumvent all the security services and obtain the secret information! I’m sure the Islamic Republic won’t admit anything of this nature even if it were a matter of life or death.

In the last twenty-eight years, we have heard again and again that how a wide range of Iranian, even clerics, were accused of being “paid by foreigners” and “agents of the enemy of Islam.” Even if a fraction of these claims were correct then, I think, the Islamic Republic, by its own admission, should question not only its legitimacy and its popularity, but its competence.

Those of us old enough to remember life in pre-revolution Iran also recall that we would call anyone who dared to disagree with us a “SAVAK agent.” We all were comfortable in claiming that one third of the Iranian people work for SAVAK. The joke was that even there are three SAVAK agents in any group of two Iranians!

None of us thought then or now that all these ratios and numbers and figures have another side as well. Not all signify the brutality or insensitivity or incompetence of our government, but it also reflects on us, our culture and our country. After all, what sort of person, and for what reason, would spy on his own family and friends and jeopardize their life and welfare? What sort of culture breads the generation of fathers who sell their daughters? Are we reduced to that level within the short period of time of almost a quarter of a century that money dictates our behavior? Are we not declaring something derogatory along with these exaggerations? And why are there no protests when we dishonor our heritage in such a way?

My pain is not just limited to these petty naggings. I have much bigger pain. We have turned our back to our culture in every respect. We do not encourage it, we do not spread it, we do not nurture it. Our rich culture is sitting untouched in the shelves of libraries. The books about our history remain unread and the facts about it remain unexamined and not discussed. If we want to do something about it, we have to do it systematically. If the average audience knew a little about Iranian history, undoubtedly the Warner Brothers would not have dared to produce such film. Why don’t we promote our culture and educate our young generation about it? Why don’t we get the schools and local libraries to have shelves on Iranian culture? Why not donate money to these educational institutions to be used as scholarships for whoever does any scholarly work about Iran? Why don’t we support our young artists who are representing our culture? If every year we can recruit only five hundred PhD students to write their dissertations on Iranian art and culture, after which they will naturally will devote their rest of their lives to promoting it, then we would not need to write these petitions, we would not need to argue with ignoramuses or to stop them; the educated audience will do it for us. Let’s be democratic, let’s delegate responsibility, let’s do our work; let the audience do its work; let Warner Brothers do its; let the Pope does his job; and let our culture do its: let it thrive. Why should we all wait until too late?

"Look, Xerxes, I'm just not that into you!"

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