Waiting for our turn
The world has still not heard our stories
May 16, 2003
The Iranian
There is that image of a six-year-old boy holding unto his mother's
hand as she holds on to his 11-month-old sister as they step out
of the father's car and wave goodbye to face the long red iron door
with the marble doorknob. A house with 7 bedrooms for the 7 families
that take refugee there: once in the privacy of their lavishly furnished
homes that faced the pool, this was his aunt and uncle's last resort.
There is that image of a six-year-old boy weeping outside his grandmother's
room, as his usually indifferent aunt gently strokes his hair and
begs his calmness. Unlike all the springs of his lifetime, this
New Year his father is far away and his mother hasn't bothered to
set up the smallest hint of a haft-seen. The flowers, the
sabzeh, the pretty goldfish, the coins, ... nothing.
There is that image of a four-year-old girl excitedly anticipating
a trip to the outskirts of her native city where she is told the
family is gathered in a wonderful baagh. She is only four,
and outside, on the other side of those doors, the world could be
caught up in a glorious picnic, instead of the bloodiest of wars
between Iran and Iraq.
In her vocabulary, "war" is not defined. It's just a
word in her grandfather's beautifully woven stories. To her, the
sounds on TV that came almost every night like a police siren, only
meant having access to that big beautiful bowl overflowing with
aajil and chocolate. To her, rushing into the basement
was part of life -- not to protect it from bombs.
There is that image of that four-year-old stepping out of her
father's car excitedly waving goodbye, anticipating all the adventures
that await her on the other side of that long red iron door with
the marble doorknob. All the rooms will be occupied, and they will
have to share a room. That too, is reason for excitement... And
then there is that fear that all of these images will be no more.
***
Friends and family always criticize Iranians for holding so much
opinion and fervor. "Az bacheyeh fesgheli gherefteh taa piremard,
az siaasat gherefteh taa din, hameh khodeshoon ro saaheb nazar midoonan"
-- from child to adult, from politics to religion, they all see
themselves as an authority on any subject. I often hear them complaining,
while deeply indulged in a conversation about Bazargan's cabinet
after the revolution or Mossadegh.
But the reason I don't believe in such criticism is not their own
hypocrisy, but that in the end is it not true that we all have stories?
They are not in pages of The Times or on the BBC. We are
living and breathing them to a point where it seems as if each person
is a story, far more enthralling and vivacious than any of Robin
Wright's books could ever be.
Reading books like hers, reminds me of my uncles, grandfathers,
cousins, acquaintances, those whose experiences and first hand observations
can shock and awe people unlike any bomb. As I hear my father's
stories from his childhood growing up in a small town flustering
with Americans in the south of Iran, to his high school days, to
his days as a college student in a young society full of hope and
chaos and war, I see one example.
And yet, while full of fury and fire, we remain a silent bunch
in our parties. Perhaps it's because without a firm ground to stand
on, individual voices hardly ever go very far. After all, Arash's
bow is not an every day commodity. The current system does not encourage
that, unwilling to admit that such a process is vital to its own
existence. Books and movies are banned even before they are written
or shot.
Rasoul Mollagholipour, a war veteran turned filmmaker -- not exactly
a prodigy, in my opinion, but still, at least he's doing something
-- had to keep his film Hiva, locked in the hallways of
Ershad, the Culture Ministry, for years before he could show it
on the big screen because of it's "dishonesty" towards
the Basij militia.
What dishonesty? There are many, accordinng to the authorities,
but one is that in the movie, the man we see is not sure about going
to war. On one side, he believes he should defend his country, on
the other is his love for his wife. Where could this untruth possibly
be?
Well, according to the officials in Ershad, a Basiji's one and
only desire was to become a martyr for the love of God and his revolution;
love for another human was never an issue. They willingly went,
and their loved ones willingly wanted them to go. That is the truth.
Anything different is untruth and therefore forbidden.
But stories come to life with a generation and die with it, unless
they are passed on. Much of ours has already begun to wither away.
Tales of what Iranians endured two world wars; the villages, the
towns, the people who were caught in catastrophes while Iran remained
"neutral"... Much of these stories have all died with
the people who experienced them.
Unlike the second, Iran's first attempt at revolution did carry
voices with it: voices loud and strong enough to be heard, and yet
gentle enough to be welcomed. From Malek-o-Shoara to Aref Ghazvini
to Nasim Shomal, the Constitutional Revolution of 1906-11
bred some of the most prominent figures in contemporary Iranian
society.
Even if not acquainted with the event that was largely responsible
in shaping Iran in the 20th century, listening to Aref Ghazvini
recall his failed journey to Turkey, or the assassination of Colonel
Pessyan, unwillingly leads you to feel the pain, the promise and
the defeat that he and the likes of him suffered.
The tulip, one of the more prominent symbols of the Islamic Republic,
is taken from Ghazvini's famous poem, "az khooneh javaanaan-e
vatan laaleh mirooyad" -- "tulips grow with the blood
of homeland's youth". Ironically, the whimsical, early-20th-century
songwriter was also known for his strong anti-mullah feelings and
had quite a bit of poetry to prove it. But his tulip still reigns
in the Islamic Republic.
***
"Revolution", "war", "student riots",
"bloody political murders": words so foreign and odd to
so many in this part of the world, here in New Zealand. "It's
like you're telling a story from the French Revolution," I
often hear some friend tell me as I retell a story. But while it
is a story to her, for me, it's as real as the chair I am sitting
on, a reality that can be twisted and turned a million ways: the
ways of the Islamic Republic or CNN.
Where does the truth lie? Are there only two sides to this story?
Has even half of it been told? The world still waits to hear from
us. We impatiently wait to tell it knowing that the clock is ticking.
We sit, silently, impatiently, hoping for our turn.
May is...
Mamnoon Iranian.com Month
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