July 26, 2004
Oh, make it all a nightmare!
The reformists are about to make their exits, irrevocably,
and Khatami with them, and the rest of us did, for all intents and
October 20, 2003
The end of constructive engagement
... and the challenges of the Iranian democracy movement
September 23, 2003
You'd think there would be a solid opposition against the
IRI by now. But no...
September 16, 2003
Look, we're just as poor
A brilliant solution to America-bashing!
Mayt 16, 2003
Will Washington make a deal with the IRI? It shouldn't.
Mayt 3, 2003
camel never forgets
Bush should press IRI for democratic reforms
December 4, 2001
... by putting forth grand questions about religion
May 7, 2001
Has Been Kicked Out of Me to Grow Up
Fiction: I was born on the very same day Prime Minister
Mossadegh was toppled by certain foreign entities: August 19, 1953.
But before I get to the circumstances surrounding my birth I must
make a confession. I am, really, quite very unsure of what my parents
thought they were doing when they were conspiring to beget me. Whatever
it may have been, the resulting seed that became yours truly was
conceived in an air of suspicion and doubt.
November 7, 2000
Fiction: Standing a head and shoulder above his peers
at six four, with a head full of wavy pitch-black hair, combed upwards
and away from his face, he was the sensation of the railroad organization.
Hopeful secretaries and other female employees of no particular
repute flocked to his office building on phony premises just to
take a peep at the dashing young man.
March 21, 2000
Fiction: Hakim Akhtar was known for his dexterity among
his patients. His practice was based on treatment of small afflictions
and minor lacerations, nothing life-threatening or remotely critical,
and all his prescriptions had proven effective at one time or another...
the crowning achievement of his life was his treatment of gonorrhea
September 6, 1999
was once an Iranian
Opinion: My Iranianness is relevant to me as far as it
helps me to get a grasp of what it means to be American. My vision
of who I am is formed by examining the idea that I was once an Iranian,
and the notion that I will never be an Iranian again, that I will
not be buried in the country of my ancestors.
April 16, 1999
Fiction: "As the evening wore on, I had the feeling
the broad was alerted to something. Despite not being able to see
my ghoul, she started to evade me, as if I were some kind of a weirdo.
My considerable experience of such ventures has made me super-sensitive
to the unspoken politics of dissing. However, her being there that
late in the night, and her flirtatious tone with the barkeep had
conveyed a certain availability to me, which made it impossible
to even think about not having her, let alone convincing myself
to go home alone."
November 11, 1998
Fiction: "It all began when she was in the twelfth
grade, you see," Batul Khanoum said, while fanning the embers.
"Their next door neighbor, Bijan, fell in love with her, you
know. It may have started even before that. Perhaps they had had
something going for some time already. Who knows? Anyway, he used
to send her love-letters."
May 14, 1998
front of the Embassy
Fiction: Mike is American. We met at an anti-Shah demonstration
in Washington DC, where it took me by surprise to hear him speak
Farsi. We soon became roommates, renting an apartment in Falls Church,
Virginia. Like all couples, we have our share of incompatibilities.
For one thing, he is a public person, where I am more private. He
doesn't understand why I don't want him to be open about our relationship;
I don't understand his constant need for approval.
about my hero
My Hero died saving the people of a small village: men,
women and small children. He gave his life, so that they could live
on. Easier said than done, you might say. Yet, there are lingering
questions in my mind, about the way my Hero laid down his life for
others, haunting me on sleepless nights.
of the swift arrow
Calm Caspian Sea glimmering under a full moon. The desert
baking in the sun. The proud Alborz chain with its snow-covered
summit. Dense, green forests of Gilan. Some snow, sheep in the prairie,
camels toughing out a bitter sandstorm.
are we and what do we speak?
We speak Persian. We speak Iranian. We speak Farsi. I
once saw it somewhere written that we speak Irani.
I should know a thing or two about "rootlessness"
for I've been in the business of migration for some time. You see,
I'm an emigrant from Iran and a newcomer in the States. I have a
theory that our nostalgia about Iran is a nostalgia for a place
which no longer exists.
Massud Alemi is an Information Technology Specialist interested
uses of IT to help underprivileged communities overcome the side-effects
of globalization. He works for a non-profit organization, serving
educational needs of disadvantaged youth in Washington, DC area.
Writing is his way to decompress, on his time off from the world
and ones. Top
goodbye to spam!