INTERNATIONAL SERVICE

Watch that 'q' change to an 'n'.


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"So back over to Tehran. Tell us, would you say that your writing would be different if you were sitting in London?", came the voice on my mobile as I paced the cold echoing hallway having nipped out from the Latin beat and salsa of a Thursday night gathering. I wondered if my anonymity was a good enough example while conducting the cosy conference call of three – plus the few hundred thousand tuning in maybe. A friend then opened the door to see where I'd gone, "Daveed?", they shouted. Damn that echo.

"Yes", was my simple answer before elaborating further, "but it's not necessarily the establishment I adapt for, I worry about antagonising with the people and their culture". I've pondered this matter for a while now and am amused at how my 'freedom of speech' is not restrained by a well placed few, but maybe by the ideology of the mass – it's chickens and eggs though. "But there are ways to present things to... you know?", I semi-smugly added in conclusion.

Also on the BBC I see much the same thing but from the other end. As the homepage repeats 'Iran' (watch that 'q' change) with greater frequency I've taken to visiting its 'Have Your Say' public comments section, a forum for all manner of sqitted mush. Of late there's been a few of the, "How should the world deal with Iran?", "What now for Iran?" and a "Here's a neutral question about Iran, how on earth can you say it's anti-American?".

"45-minutes away, Yellow Cake, Alooominum toobs, satellite images – do they think we're stoopid?"

I use these features as a measure of sorts, a measure of how much stronger the Americans are at the game. Oddly enough when 'Have Your Say' first appeared it was the measuring point that frustrated me. As the entries are monitored and were previously measured before posting, we witnessed a for, against, for against series and no indication as to what the mood was. "There are surely some matters that clearly get a weight one particular way?", I wrote to the Head of News around the time, indicating that maybe their tweaking distorts the picture. You might for example have had 8-displayed responses to, "45-minutes away, Yellow Cake, Alooominum toobs, satellite images – do they think we're stoopid?". Four of these responses might say, "let's blow those sand monkeys further down the evolutionary ladder", and four-hundred could have said, "read the receipts!".

Things changed.

Fourth in the 'most recommended', backed by 179 people to date – John, NYC, USA:
"Another question set up so this "Have Your Say" can become a US-bashing forum. Why should we fear Iran having nuclear weapons? Because they are a fundamentatlist, theocratic state which severly curtails freedoms and human rights. The US, on the other hand, is still a bastion of freedom and human rights despite what is highlighted by the foriegn press. Which do you fear?"

In first place, backed by 261 people to date – Russell, Winnipeg, Canada:
"The world should do nothing about Iran. Iran is a sovereign nation and it is entitled to have nuclear power consumption. Just because the USA is war-mongering doesn't mean the world has to listen to their made up lies. The country the world should fear is America! Their government is crazy!"

DANGEROUS COMBINATION

Me on the family's surveillance equipment.


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"Gather your things, I want you gone tomorrow, you can't stay here anymore, you upset me". It was meant seriously but said in passing, a sort of, 'oh and by the way, I never loved you', sort of way. This third occasion however, I happily responded, "Certainly, I'll be gone tomorrow", and I meant it.

Phone bills, of the shared variety, are surely one of life's more volatile elements - a dangerous combination of numbers so correctly; so annoyingly correctly displayed. By tossing one of these babies into semi-unstable commune you'll have the makings of a hit reality-TV show, or in my case, an eviction notice from my grandmother.

"Daveed, we got our phone bill, it's three times as much normal?".

I instinctively responded, "No worries, leave it to me", it wasn't wholly likely I was responsible but I saw it as an opportunity to contribute to the living expenses that my family repeatedly refuse to except.

"On the odd occasion I use a different type of internet card: with this one you pay in the bill, not upfront", I explained to a confused flock of eyes, "let my friend explain – they gave me the card", I added, sure that the friend's experience and native tongue would help.

"You're a fucking idiot, you stupid fucking idiot, how dare you insult the family and involve a non-family member in this matter", my father responded as the ordeal went transnational. Seemingly my dear and distressed grandmother had littered my father's answer-machine in England with, "fucking messages", about the whole, "fucking thing".

"You just don't trust us!", my uncle later added having concluded that I called my friend to check they weren't extorting money from me. Whilst away that day at work things had festered following the misunderstanding, but those numbers were still so correct while my family were so annoyingly not.

I'd compromised my cultural exploration, cautiously keeping to the imposed curfew of 9pm and when not, ample notice was given

I'd seemed to be getting better at the temporary living arrangement, arriving with gifts in hands, helping with the kids homework, keeping my belonging out of the way – certainly I could've done more. In many ways I'd tried to keep the peace; keeping up with my grandmothers demands; keeping an eye on the bigger picture. Most frustrating of all, I'd compromised my cultural exploration, cautiously keeping to the imposed curfew of 9pm and when not, ample notice was given. There's more, but not now.

From all this I take a collection away with me, it'll make a book maybe: reflections upon the logic of an unknown-aged woman - 'A Dangerous Combination: Ignorant and Opinionated'.

Later, comparing the 'mobile calls' column on that wretched piece of paper I'd reached a new conclusion, it seemed that my dear cousin's semi-secret nightly calls to the mobiles of his girly friend's had mounted up, and it was me who was now paying for it.

BUMPER CARS

During the 4-hour crashing of heads in Dubai.


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"So the bumper cars start, sending the father spinning backward out of control – y'know, kinda goofy like", our Liverpudlian senior-creative enthusiastically illustrated with accompanying jolts and an animated smile. I followed the explanation as we flicked through the booklet, staring down at what appeared like my illustrations, my writing and my hard-work. Our northern friend walked us through an unseen variation of my brainchild, "they've shit on it", I mumbled under my breath in horror.

"Then we see the father making eyes with the boys, y'know, 'I'm after you', y'know, it's that father-son thing, like... y'know, it's gloves-off". I raced further ahead in the booklet, "the boys high-five!", I nudged at my colleague in alarm. Not wanting to interrupting the amateur dramatics, I quietly took it up with our Dubai-based colleague to my right, "they high five!?", I whispered. A strong indian accent responded, "y'know we...", he paused to find the words – 'jazzed it up', 'made it more lively' maybe. 'Shit on it', were the words I refrained from putting in his mouth.

Crafted for the Iranian market and well within the limitations of Iran's culture ministry.

I was sat in the pre-pre-production meeting amidst a cocktail of nationalities representing different interests, gathered to tweak and refine a television advert to be aired in Iran for a Sony camera. It was nearly a proud a moment for me as the excessively long 3-months that it had taken to get to that meeting, my efforts had shone through. Of the 9-concepts proposed the 3-short-listed were of my making. The concept finally selected was a carefully choreographed one, merging cliche with parody resulting in a multi-layered, humorous advert crafted for the Iranian market and well within the limitations of Iran's culture ministry.

It was then the turn of the director to explain his 'treatment', this was a likely clash I'd been concerned about for some time – frighteningly aware of how they've previously butchered concepts. My planned precision in shooting sequence and scenes, all synced to specific music – detailing camera-angles and shot-durations – had left little room for a director's input.

The meeting was more correctly a game of Chinese Whispers – I'd previously sat in our offices in Tehran, being the animated guy, getting provisional confirmation on the script, having gone through all the subtleties – careful to illustrate the details and their meaning, preempting any creative conflict. Yet our indian colleagues had added their 2-Rupees' worth, passing it on for the French director to have his 2-Euros' worth – hugely deviating from the client's prerequisites.

Over 4-hours we'd resolved these embellishments, regrettably concluding on a compromise of everyone's ideas, leaving a tough lesson for me to learn and the ashes of a provisionally excepted concept.

CROSS ROADS

An Alam being lifted as sign of respect for Imam Hossein during Moharam.


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"The Iranians are not blessed with the greatest of capital cities", I reflect while strolling late at night with friends, gaining on the 1, 2, 3 - pause of the Moharam drums. "Tehran has facilities...", a friend responds, "yes, but there's nothing defining, no great landmarks, a tourist could skip through Tehran on the way to Shiraz or Esfahan", I interject. Tips of feathers appeared on the road ahead, lit by the street-lights – reds, yellows and greens braking the dull night and guiding us to the proceedings. We continued listing attractions of Tehran as the beat drew upon us – the Azadi Tower – 1, 2, 3 - pause, Darband – 1, 2, 3 - pause.

The Islamic calendar had once again afforded us with days off, of which we chose to spend in the city of Arak. Packed six to a car we took it in turns to contort for space as we made the short trip a friend's, friend's historic house. If Tehran struggles to inspire an itinerary then Arak is the rotting corpse of a plan that never took off. We concluded this when we chanced upon the defining crossroad that seemed to double the city's size.

the repeated chaining of one's back, the chanting, the lifting of large scaffolding adorned with religious paraphenalia

It was just past this crossroad that the drum beat originated, encroaching on midnight the streets crawled with the now traditional sight of boys checking out girls, girls checking out boys, boys checking on other boys and girl checking the girls checking the boys. There was the more obvious traditional spectacle of Moharam happening centre to the road – oblivious: the repeated chaining of one's back, the chanting, the lifting of large scaffolding adorned with religious paraphenalia – and there was what went on around it. The centre of the road was the man's domain as tradition was observed, squabbling to take the weight of the decorative Alams or in some way assisting in the procession as it slowly rolled down the street, 1, 2, 3 - pause.

Arak's lack of anything kept us inside, comfortably hidden from the serious seriousness of these days. We were captured in a period lost to Iran, walled in the historic house once run by a somebody. Excluding us you would struggle to find anything suggesting we'd reached 1980 but mostly we were somewhere in the early 20th century. I kept looking up, mildly entertained by having to stretch the head back to glance the high ceilings. I also sized the house up by trying to reach into a sprint in the hallways and occasionally trying alternative routes to enter a room. I enjoyed the doors that didn't fit, that scuffed on the floor, didn't lock and gapped holes. I stared at the faces that stared at us from the walls – large mustaches, upright gents lined nicely, wholesome beard, military uniforms – all black and white, interrupting the de-saturated tones of the countless rooms. Arak has at least one place for the itinerary, and I reveled in it during every drum pause.