RELIGIOUS PERSUASION

Censorship from one nation to the next.

flickr View my photo journal

"So, do you know the different types of Muslims out there?", he asked me, seemingly having rehearsed the question in his head; I guess it was an inevitable question to follow with considering he'd told me he was from Jeddah and I'd said I was living in Iran. In anticipation of this question I'd considered the array of potential responses; I'd concluded that he must be Sunni and figured he'd know that my being from Iran, invariably and unwittingly makes me Shia. "We have two main types of Muslim: Sunni and Shia", he added, not entirely sure if I knew the difference what with my muddled background I'd informed him of between the questions. "Yes, I'm aware there are four – potentially a fifth – and I guess you must be Sunni?", I asked. "Yes, and you must be Shia?", he responded, to which I eeked out some kind of vague answer.

Prior to this, we'd sat beside one another in silence for seven hours before he settled my curiosity as to whether he was Indian. He'd put his in-flight sandwich to the side and waited till I'd eaten mine, "is this a ham sandwich?", he then asked, and to my embarrassment, I wasn't entirely sure. "Turkey, I think" – it was a Muslim question and how I wished to be correct, fully aware of the ensuing conversation. I asked the air steward, who confirmed that it was indeed Turkey, and so we got started.

"Are you learning Arabic?", he asked after I remarked upon the Islamicness of his question. "No, the dictionary I was fingering through was a Farsi to English one", I told him, "but so much of the language uses Arabic". He seemed to think that Iranians spoke Arabic, yet he wasn't so incorrect, I explained my frustrations of trying to learn Farsi and being confronted with so much Arabic thrown without foundations. We flicked through the dictionary and I pointed out the compound verbs, "see, Arabic word, Farsi verb", I said pointing to the word 'utter' - 'to utter'. "But you're not pronouncing it correctly", he exclaimed, repeating the word with a throaty flex. I flicked through to the pages containing Arabic characters, "all the words in this section are Arabic", I told him; he looked at me with a pause; leaned back as if to check if a punch-line was up my sleeve, then laughed. I pointed to several compound verbs and proceeded to read them out with a tongue flex; he laughed again, asking me why I'm bothering to learn.

He restrained to make a comments regarding Sunni-Shia differences and was nearly clever in holding his true opinion back. "It clearly says in the Koran that there are no further prophets after Mohammad", for which wasn't precisely the issue I thought. "Well, as you know, the distinction comes from recognising the leadership after Mohammad", I precariously interjected before he came back at me, "so, which holds more power, an Imam (leader) or a prophet?", he asked, as if he was holding a trump card. I had to concede that in such ranking he would be correct, but I felt the need to explain some background.

Iran struggles to keep some semblance of identity through three main theatres: culture, ideology and rule

"Our language, Farsi, has so much Arabic in it due to an Arab invasion", I cautiously started, managing to find some continuation from our previous discussion. I explained that before this time, Islam – as far as I knew – was not the dominant ideology of Persia. I explained what little I knew of the Zoroastrian faith and referred to Iran's two and a half thousand years of monarchic rule. I ventured far into matters I knew little about, mentioning variations of Islam though various dynasties within Persia. I dropped in my patchy history of England's not too dissimilar predicament with Henry VIII; "to me, it seems like Iran struggles to keep some semblance of identity through three main theatres: culture, ideology and rule", I boldly stated, attempting to explain that these elements are inseparable. It seemed that from my fellow passenger's point of view, Iran was making a mess of things.

We arrived in America and repeated that awkward moment whereby one says goodbye only to meet again in queues. I joined the visitors queue hoping to not have to revisit the second-interview room and explain why 'Iran' appeared on my visa-waiver form again. "So what language do they speak there in Iran?", the upbeat immigration officers asked me as I added various biometric details in, "Farsi is the national language, but it's interesting you ask...". I summarised the conversation I'd just had with my new found Arab friend, flinching after I said the words 'Arab invasion'. He took a look around him and hushed his voice, "invasion are just a sad fact of life". He explained that we're all one side of it at one time or another. I stood feeling very uncomfortable as he vaguely mentioned how the native Americans know this only too well. I left, having been given the all-clear, feeling slightly glad that Iran and America, thus far, were not on either side of this sad fact of life.

AMERICAN PEACE

Gathered among friends

flickr View my photo journal

This is a slightly adapted email sent out recently…

So, this weekend; the final of the three-nights-one-location party stint ended on a good note. The first of these nights deserves a write up in itself, having been spent with English Farsi students and being reminded of how much I’ve adapted to this place. It was weird to have my Englishness trumped.

So, as mentioned, the regular and rotating Peace Delegation from America came once again to [my friend’s] house for a soirée of sorts. Before they arrived I joined the group of cosmopolitan Tehran folk amassed and discussing the variety of guests due. Our friend linked to this Delegation informed us that the Delegation’s organisers had exceeded the annual quota of visits and that there was talk about increasing what was seen as a successful program.

[The host] was freaking out [with joy] about having a black woman, a Jewish Rabbi and some dude high-up in some church be guests at his house. Oddly enough, the Rabbi turned out to be a young Jewish author and the Christian dude ended up being a former band manager of various greats (having toured and worked with The Dead, The Who and a few others that escape me now). It was only the black woman who failed to fit the description; she turned out to be a well decorated Native American from a reservation in Arizona.

As we met them at the door they needed each name to be repeated until they comfortably got their tongues around the strange new sounds. “And you are?”, they asked one-by-one, “David”, I responded, reaching out my hand. “David?”, they repeated, “yes David” … “David?”, they asked again, awaiting a reassuring punchline that never came. As the weather was pleasant we guided them through the house to sit out on the balcony whereby they, like many before, commented about the great view [of the Alborz Mountains] – even though little could be seen in the dark condition.

"I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much"

It turned out that the touring Christian (of some peculiar strand) was from the [San Francisco] Bay area like [the host], to which streets and notaries were reeled out one after another; the native Indian answered questions related to her cluster of clothing and I made inquiries with the Jewish east coast gent about his book that was short-listed just that day for a prize. He talked about this book, informing us that it was entitled ‘Children in War’, which was - if I remember rightly - a collection of non-fictional accounts, as the title would suggest. During his explanation he came back on somebody’s comment with, "I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much". I asked him why he thought like that, to which he went into detail as to how there are apparently a large volume of Jews who fit a schizophrenic profile, Jews who simply can't deal with both the Israel issue and their conscience. He then went on to talk about some kind of lobby thing called J Street that is there to confront or compete with K Steet - or was it the other way around? By this I gathered that he meant there was a lobby group(s) that has strong support for the plight of the Palestinians.

Similarly, I was talking of American politics with the Christian dude, but not before I answered his list of questions about Iran. Every other sentence I had to remind him that what he sees before him and over the balcony – if anything at all – is far from the reality of Iran. He mentioned that he was about to begin a PhD in Sexology, to which it took a few minutes for the group to move beyond the resulting jokes. I both volunteered information I'd learned about sex in Islam to which he brought further inquiries. He said that they were heading to the holy city of Qom the following day to which I mentioned that he could be in for a treat and could also stock up on literature for his future studies. I spoke about the sex calendar devised by the mullahs, indicating the best times for a Muslim to have sex within the week/month/year. He perked up on that one. I also mentioned a few of the related Islamic laws and also of one in particular concerning falling through floors during earthquakes and impregnating things below - that and matters concerning anal sex. He'd asked about gay folk in Iran - to which I had to amusingly remind him that we didn't have any here. I followed on this by adding the oddity that is gayness in Iran; that the men pretty much do all but penetrate in display of their affection with other men. I talked of a book I'd read entitled, ‘Sex Morals and Marriage in Islam’ saying that he might be able to get one of the clerics to run around for him to gather this and many more.

With that I felt it best to educate him on how he should behave before the people he was about to meet in Qom; educating him on how better to shake hands and how best to phrase his requests. By coincidence he was already wearing a ring very similar to those worn by mullahs; that, coupled with the beard he’d been especially growing for the visit, assured me he’d do just fine.

He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb

My conversation with the Christian dude pretty much carried on until they left - for which I was a little worried that I consumed all his time when there was so many other interesting people that he could have spoken with. He mentioned at one point about having visited [the Iranian poet] Hafez's tomb, following with complimentary words about the nation and its history. He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb. He welled up in his explanation; nearly enough to drop a tear. Seeing his red bulbing eyes partly avoiding me seemed to trigger me off too, yet for wholly different reasons.

I was engrossed with his perspective on America and its politics; he was deeply critical and deeply angered. He was sickened by paying tax and knowing that the official figures of how much of that got spent on the military is about 35%; we agreed that this is more than likely lower than is the case when noting how these things are publicly presented. He spoke of the big players such as Haliburton, KBR and the Carlyle Group and how the American people are at the whim of these corporations in many respects. Obama he was looking forward to, suggesting that it might be a break from the current elite - I contended that this result would make little difference should it actually transpire.

"I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted.

On that, we spoke of possibilities that might swing it another way: Iran was his suggestion. I suggested that something would surly be brought out of the bag for the voting occasion to inspire a specific choice, sadly I had to admit that Iran could indeed be that. He was disillusioned with the system and felt maybe it needed taking back, yet had no confidence in this coming about. With that he spoke of his concern for his children, suggesting at one point that he feels bad for bringing them into the world with what he felt was looming: "I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted. He followed this with talk of fuel prices, limitation on food, decreasing employment figures and a disgusting health care situation.

We brought the conversation back to Iran, whereby he asked about the political situation both now and previously here. It seemed he’d done his research and there was little for me to add. We spoke of the '53 coup, the Shah and the current regime which led to talk of the current developments in the nation with regards to sanctions and how Iran is dealing with business internationally. I brought it back home with the big topic of these days that is inflation. He was worried about the dollar for next year and I was worried about how over 90% of Iranians would be able to afford anything next year if the events of this year repeat themselves. It all seemed rather odd to discuss all this from the balcony of one of the more fancy high rises of Tehran.

Details were exchanged and goodbyes were said before we wished them well for their pending Qom trip. The Christian dude went to shake my hand and frightened me by doing so in the mullah like way - it took a moment to remember where he'd learned it from.

NT STAYIN

More posters regarding the Islamic dress code.

flickr View my photo journal

"David is ur english friend who wanted 2marry an iranian still available? Are u watching channel 3? Mother fucker bastards [other words edited out] is sayin any girl dressin against our 'islamic stndrds' deserves 2b raped. I am nt stayin here 1more day. Whatever d price...". I wrote something back to this, philosophical it was – I kinda believed it too – it seemed to help calm things, at least until two days later when we were discussing this again over coffee.

It felt wrong that two men sat plucking from history the development of nations to justify those broadcasted words. We aired our supposed views, one girl was steaming and the other not even listening, "I'm not staying another minute!", shrilled one as the other tapped messages on their mobile. I joined my male friend in forgiving the bad mouthed child, "they are adjusting, in a difficult position, it takes time", and I kinda believed it too.

Our development must be aboriginal, my counterpart pointed out, for we are not insignificant and this is our problem.

"Iran is fresh to the industrial world, fresh to these concepts that have matured over a slow period among 'western' nations", I respond, "the Shah's time was a blip, a facade of the west, I'm not sure it suited the Iranian people and culture, not en-mass, such unequal development can crack the society and did". "Foisting these ways upon a nation without the background, the infrastructure or the understanding might cause more problems than solve", I suggested, ignoring counter arguments arriving with my every word. I went with it, consistently seeing this perspective out, "without these things we might be leaping into subservience (again?), facing west, behaving western yet never being western – by that I mean being in control of our destiny". Our development must be aboriginal, my counterpart pointed out, for we are not insignificant and this is our problem.

"Western seduction is easily succumbed to, frequently so and why not?", I pointed out, referring to chronic brain drain of which our female friend wanted to contribute, "thus development is distressingly slowed". My counterpart reminded us that relative to the region things are not all that bad, I agreed, I champion Iran, would choose it over many other neighboring places – the other oligarchs – subservient or not – don't appear half as indigenous. But I threw it out there, "Iran is stalling", I suggested, "waiting for the inevitable new world order, where it will comfortably face east and allow itself (and be allowed!) a suitable renaissance", and I kinda believe it too.

BEING GAY

My brother's final collection show at the RCA.

flickr View my photo journal

"Hey, Superman?" inquired the boy standing in my path down London's notorious Brick Lane. He aimed me up and repeated himself, "...how's it going Superman?". Out of flattery and sarcasm I chose the latter, guessing this was some kind of taunt. We scuffed passed one another with me choosing to ignore things either way. Again he mistakenly addressed me causing me to get a second opinion from friends and family with me. "What?" I abruptly responded while turning on the spot, "you looking for a place to eat?". I hate those street ushers, "no, we've just eaten".

"You see Dave, it's awkward, I've been squatting for the last year or so since coming to London", my friend explained after I inquired as to why he was so coy around my family moments before. "I tried breaking a new one the other day but had problems, I've been staying with friend since the police found out the last one". And with this began my lesson on how to start a squat, Squatter's Rights and planning permission problems for landlords.

"Hold up boys", I heard over my left shoulder as we passed a group of part BMXed first generation Asian locals. I was walking with my friend towering over me, he was part leant on my shoulder and swinging his leg with every step (no doubt this was easier than tying the lace). "The law says you can't break and enter a place, but if a place is open and empty you can stay there providing you do a few things...". He stopped, he then flinched, as I looked to see why I felt something hit my right shoulder. For the second time I turned on the the spot, "what?".

"yeah what you doing like being gay and stuff"

"What you doing? What you being gay for like?", said one of the eight or so youths consciously limping along with chips in hand. "What's you problem?" I inquired in rage as my friend encouraged me to leave it. "We don't like that shit round here", said another, "yeah what you doing like being gay and stuff", added another. I made towards them slightly, "what are you going on about?".

It was all so bizarre, I was walking through one of London's more diverse regions, among a predominantly mixed immigrant community and being enlightened on conduct in my home nation by first generation school boys. Interestingly the Brick Lane area is home to many Muslims and having arrived from the Islamic Republic of Iran I found it especially bizarre that there was less tolerance in how men walk together in London, I mean, the Muslim men in Iran walk together with linked fingers.

"What you fucking doing like, walking like with your arm round each other and shit?", said another. "It's none of your business how I am with my friends...", I shouted back as they walked away seemingly surprised at my challenge. My friend tried to place this moment, nearly going as far as excusing their behavior. We caught them up at the end of the road where they'd gone their separate ways. Two of the boys stood in our path and things evened out.

"Mate, mate, you know like, my friend yeah, you know, he gets like that and shit", the local conduct was subject to negotiation it appeared. "You know what I mean mate, you just shouldn't be doing that shit around here, you know like arm around each other and shit", this boy was alone, his friend had his lips sealed. I heatedly had my two bob's worth which went some way in diffusing my anger and left having the one with the mouth offering matesy hand shakes before leaving this super hero and his floppy sidekick alone.

ON FREEDOM

A poster campaign, "It's our own fault", promoting good hejab in Iran.

flickr View my photo journal

A lot of changes have been taking place in Iran over the last week, the Islamic Republic has been remembering itself, taking further steps than enforcement of the dress laws. Coffee shops have been closing due to women smoking in them, clothing shops will have to have their stock put to the scrutiny of the Islamic ideals and Satellite dishes have been torn from roofs.

I occasionally duplicate my blog at an interesting site by the name of MidEastYouth.com, a site that brings folk from the Middle East together to share and publish words and ideas. I'm flattered that they except me as a youth and often enjoy the lively debates that spin off from mine and other people's writing.

Occasionally I get lost in these debates and felt that one of the recent ones resulting from an article concerning the struggle for free press in iran [oddly enough this has now been deleted by the author who feared the repercussions, or so I was told], would be a timely one to reverse-post with. Here is my last response/rant.

Esra [site founder], I feel you've rather missed the point about Chomsky (with all due respect). The beauty with Chomsky is that he doesn't have ideas, or at least not in that way. You will often hear him state that he is far too unqualified to make predictions and you will note that he's at pains to simply present facts and make suggestions as to other ways to perceive them. It is by not sticking his neck out like this that I feel he gets a large audience and relatively little bashing.

That Chomsky 'doesn't try hard enough' [referring to Esra's comment] to enforce any ideas might make sense with what I say above. Although it should be added that Chomsky was very active in his early years as far as protesting and organising.

As for Chomsky not being a force for change [referring to Esra's comment], I very much disagree here. When the people have access to such a wealth of mostly hidden facts, then has them presented in a way that exposes alternative agendas - I feel this is a very powerful source of change. he has been a huge influence for me, a true intellectual power-house with such a perfect form of presentation, modest, selfless and relentless. He has inspired me to dig deeper, try harder and alway reflect upon my bias.

Which leads me on to City boy [the author of the article in question], maybe I need to be clearer here [referring to his response to mine]. Yes, we can be reductionist about bias and suggest that all individuals include an amount of prejudice in their words, actions and behavior, this should be universally appreciated. But we must look at the bias in the institutions and corporations.

To get back to Chomsky, he asks us to consider that the media's market is the advertisers and their product is the consumers - with a bias toward more wealthy consumers. With this in mind we have our understanding as to the trail of influence. Jina [commenting on City boy] suggests that Fox news is a mirror for the government, yet I feel this also misses the point, again, Chomsky would tell us that the Government is the shadow created by the corporations, and especially so in the USA I would add. Regardless, the media simply align themselves to the market thus adapting what we consume.

Where this is slightly different is in cases like the BBC, whereby license payers contribute with the government to provide a service. Yet I see this as a more interesting form of media distribution of which is certainly still open to bias. One may simply read of BBC Persia's reporting during 1953 when Mosadegh lost power. More amusingly the BBC did a documentary about it recently.

But one sees these cases where the consumer is fed to fulfill the needs of the government and those higher up: the corporations. Was it no small coincidence that the largest company of the that period ('53 coup) for Britain was British Petroleum which pretty much functioned only in Iran.

The field may be larger, the fence maybe lower but we are still sheep

City boy, aziz e delam [returning his Farsi endearment], please do not purport to be a tour guide for 'reality'. "Freedom of democracy" is an illusion for a few countries and although I have also heard our dear Chomsky suggest that indulging the political process has benefits, he is never a faithful for the concept and neither am I. The farce of a system that we have in those countries (that feel so enlightened to export such a virtue) is simply a means to control the masses. The field may be larger, the fence maybe lower but we are still sheep to use the metaphor. My guess is that soon the fence won't even be needed as we will simply obey.

But you know my field is different with methods such as these [blogging] although my basement [term used by City boy] doesn't have the resources to compete with the majority of the established media. Yet it is not the resources I desire as this will then create a market and thus I am no different.

So OK, as you suggest I can write for these institutions and corporations [in my basement as is suggested], but you honestly think I am at liberty to say what I will.

But then we can get on to systemic failings, which I might state is where America struggles more. Robert Fisk talks occasionally about this subject whereby career mindedness or even the need to maintain a job has sucked the life out of any ability to counter the corporate line. So we can sees the compounding distortions.

The 'West' is afforded 'freedom' and 'democracy' as the results are not as harmful

But yes City boy, there is a difference between Iran and the 'West', but this difference is – in my mind – to do with the ruling family or party's strength. The 'West' is afforded 'freedom' and 'democracy' as the results are not as harmful or at least comfortably undermined. In nations like Iran, the clamping down is a reflection of the weakness in dealing with it by other means.

But City boy, I don't much care for revolutions [he suggests we should conspire to one] nor think it would be wise, I might rather evolution - it's less bloody among other things. Regardless, optimist or pessimist, keep on writing and thinking, moving and progressing.

CROSS ROADS

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


 flickr  View my photo journal

"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.

SPEAK UP

My auntie/zanamoo/father's brother's wife - knowing her role.


 flickr  View my photo journal

"Pull your headscarf up", a friend finally points out to the lady on my right at the restaurant table. Relief washed over me, yet not due to the halting of impure thoughts that were obviously tunneling through my morality. I can liken the awkwardness in this dress-deviation to maybe that of seeing a dollop of mayo laughing on the unsuspecting lips of a guest at lunch. "You've got mayo on your lips, mayo-is-on-your-lips, there's mayo still on your lips and you haven't noticed but we all have". It should be added that as yet, mayo on the lips – regardless of whether you like the taste of it – is not punishable by death, even though my imagination runs wild at how I might help clean it off.

"I just can't do it", I remarked to our good samaritan, "Normally I can't either", he responds, "which is why I said it in a joking way", he adds while humorously reenacting the initial advice. "Any attempt to indirectly point out this deviation is still not comfortable", I continue, "'oh look, a respectable policeman' or 'are your ears cold?', it still equates to the same thing for me", I add in frustration. "Similarly, I will never buy a headscarf as a gift, it's like buying one's mother frying pan as a gift", I conclude.

"Actually, the man must rule the woman, in fact he has to!"

My difference in facial expression between headscarf-on and headscarf-off is maybe the same as before my uncle recently enlightened me of a woman's role in life and after – yet maybe my rigid stare in response was giving the man more respect than was deserved. "Actually, the man must rule the woman, in fact he has to!", I was helpfully informed. And in a way I help him do this – beginning with my aunt – simply by using her title to me, "Zanamoo", which translates as 'my father's brother's wife' (with Farsi different titles apply to paternal and maternal sisters and brothers and their respective in-laws). Even the language is helpfully structured to remind her of her position in the hierarchy.

Like with the mayo, it can be seen on my lips – they are silent in response but nevertheless heard.