Shab Bekheir, Baba Joon
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Shab Bekheir, Baba Joon
01-Oct-2009
On Monday, September 28th, 2009, at 1:30 PM EDT, Siamak Nouraee passed away after a 9 month battle against cancer.
He was 69 years old.
He is my Dad.
And if I may, I would like to share a few memories of him.
He was born in Arak, Iran, on July 24, 1940, (2nd of Mordad, 1319) and raised in Tehran, one of eight children, and the only son. Exactly one month before his 24th birthday, on June 24, 1964, he arrived in the United States for the first time, at what was then called National Airport in Washington, DC. And aside from a brief time in Blythe, CA, and in Frankfort, KY to attend school, the Washington area is where he remained and where he raised a family, along with my Mom, who has been with him through it all, thick and thin, up and down, to heaven and hell and back again, for 45 years.
Dad's not an "athlete" in the traditional sense of the word, but very much the outdoorsman. If you were to look for him at a football pitch, for example, you'll sooner find half of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted. But go to a nature trail, out in the woods, or on a mountain, and there you will find Dad, sometimes with his binoculars, or his camera, or both. Me, I was into cars and rock music. He would see a mountain range and gush, "Look at that, Kav! Isn't that beautiful?" I wasn't even 5. At that time, it looked like dirt, rocks and trees to me. I was still drooling over the cool cars I saw on the road on the way to these wonders of nature.
Sometimes I found myself sitting next to him in his college classes. On one such an occasion I sat in on his zoology class, on a day they were studying craniofacial features on the skeletons of mammals. I knew what a maxilla was before first grade by sitting in with him that day. There were times when Dad would be in the living room dissecting a frog or an eel. And what am I doing? Watching Bugs Bunny or The Flintstones going, "Mom!? What's for dinner?" Just thinking about it, I can smell the formaldehyde.
Dad's not the type to lose his cool, even when I gave him reason. He wouldn't raise a hand or anything like that. His idea of "punishing" me was taking one of his belts and wrapping it around my waist, leaving a few inches of slack in the back. He would then lift me up and "hang" me on the door knob. There I would be, feet flailing, looking like a dork. I think he did it more for his own amusement than for anything else.
The last time we were in Iran was the summer of 1971. I didn't know I was even going. My parents and I went to JFK, and I'm thinking he's going by himself. Next thing I know, I'm going on the plane with him, and my mom isn't. I cried myself to sleep on the plane and woke up in London the next morning. By the time we arrived in Tehran, it was nighttime again, and I'm getting hugged and kissed by every relative, wondering where am I. While were back home, Dad took this old bicycle that was in the house and we walked a couple of blocks to a shop to get it fixed so I could ride it. There was also a boy named Babak who lived down the street from us who, for reasons I forget, got on my nerves, and I popped him. If you ever happen to read this, Babak, I'm sorry. In 1973, when my mother was about to give birth to my brother, no one under 16 was allowed above the lobby floor at the hospital. No one except me, I guess, because I sat in the waiting room watching pre-season NFL football in the maternity lounge with a bunch of nervous expectant fathers pacing about, including my own. Dad wasn't about to leave me alone in the lobby for who knows how many hours. So into th eelevator and upstairs I went.
No one complained about me though, because I was quiet, partly because my Mom wouldn't let me watch a football game on TV, so I wasn't about to squander this rare opportunity. It was the Redskins vs. the Colts, when they were still the Baltimore Colts. My brother arrived before the end of the game, so I don't know who won.
Dad and I would go on hunting trips. Well, not really hunting trips. More like, "let's go to the woods with rifles and if anyone asks, we’ll say we're on a hunting trip". Although I do recall one time where he actually put his hunting license to its intended use, most of the shooting was of photos. A hunting rifle in one hand and a camera in the other. The camera usually saw more action, but we always still carefully cleaned and oiled the rifles as though we had just returned from some tremendously successful African safari. The last "hunting trip" was in 1981. We went to a friend's farm in rural Virginia, where the deer must have known Iranians were coming because the only thing we really caught was cold.
On May 25, 2000, Dad and I set out on one more excursion. I was moving to California, and he was coming with me to help me move, but more importantly, get in some more one on one time like we used to, before work got in his way and before I, well, got in my own way. There we were, Me, Dad, and my cat, sitting in between us in the rental truck. At stops for gas or refreshments, my animal-loving Dad would take the cat for a walk on a leash, as though she were a dog. You truly had to see it to believe it. A grown man, walking a house cat at a gas station in Indiana. And in Missouri. And in Oklahoma. You get the idea. On Memorial Day, 2000, we crossed the state line from Arizona into California. And throughout that trip, he was still marvelling at things we encountered. The trees, the mountains, the valleys, the overall scenery. "Look at that, Kav!" Just like before.
I'm trying to sort this all out in my head, as well as my heart. One is spinning, and the other is shattered. Even though we knew this was coming, I tried to pretend that it wouldn't, hoping against hope that this miserable evil cancer that tortured him for nine months would go away and leave my dad alone. But no, it didn't.
It took away my mom's husband and as she sometimes affectionately said, "roommate". It took away my brother's dad, close friend and best man at his wedding. I mention that because out of the many weddings I have attended, only my Dad epitomized the meaning of the term and the role. reciting Rumi's poetry in a way that brought everyone to tears. Most couldn't understand what he was saying as he was reciting it in Persian, but it was in the way he spoke that evoked those feelings. Out of people he hadn't even met yet, no less.
It took away my daughter's Baba Joon, who she was just starting to get to know. She is his little "pedarsookhteh".
It took away the only brother of Shahin, Parvin, Simin, Sousan, Soonia and Fariba. To their children, and the children of his sister Hermin, who predeceased him, it took away their "Daayi Siamak".
It took away a dear friend, and a respected colleague to countless people. Many of them, with genuine affection and respect, addressed him as "Mr. Mack".
It took away someone who is both a gentleman and a gentle man.
It took away someone whom I adore and treasure. My Dad.
I Love You, Baba. Shab Bekheir.
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Ravaan Ishan Shaad
by Seagull (not verified) on Thu Oct 01, 2009 07:31 PM PDTva yaadeshan geraami.
My sincere condolences to you, and the Nuraee family and friends.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad
by Niki Tehranchi on Thu Oct 01, 2009 07:13 PM PDTThrough your words, I feel that I know him too and share in your pain but also in your pride at an amazing, rich life as a father, brother, husband, colleague and friend. And so brave of you to write this so soon after his passing. My deepest condolences to you and your family.
.
by Shepesh on Wed Nov 25, 2009 03:02 AM PST.
Ravaanash Shaad va Yaadash Hamisheh Zendeh!
by Khar on Thu Oct 01, 2009 06:51 PM PDTKaveh Jaan, please accept my deepest sympathy and condolences on passing of your beloved father. I wish you and your family all the best.
My Heart will go on.....
//www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHyJTpDFgc8
My Condolences
by NOT_AK69 on Thu Oct 01, 2009 06:37 PM PDT.
Mr.Nouraee,
by Mona 19 on Thu Oct 01, 2009 06:20 PM PDTHe'll always be remembered as you share the stories and the memories of how he lived his life and how very much he meant, may your special memories be a comfort to you at this difficult time. My condolences to you and your family on your loss. May he rest in peace.
Regards,Mona
Dear Kaveh
by Azadeh Azad on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:41 PM PDTPlease accept my deepest condolences.
Azadeh
Ps. Your description of your father makes me think of the poem
E.E. Cummings (1894 – 1962) wrote about his father:
My father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height.
His sorrow was as true as bread;
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing.
Dorrood bar Kaveh...
by KouroshS on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:20 PM PDTGod.
Just can not find the words to describe the shock when first saw this blog. I am so sorry my friend. Sadly, many of us take for granted those precious little moments that we have wit our parents, I am glad that you did not.
May god bless his soul and may he rest in peace.
To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.
by HollyUSA on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:19 PM PDTI am so sorry for your loss. Yet I have no doubt that the pain of the physical loss of as good a parent as your dad was, is short lived. A good parent becomes an inseparable part of you that you may not be aware of until after they are gone. At first you may wake up every morning and realize the loss all over again as if it were the first time you are facing it, and there are few waking moments if any, that you are not consumed with sorrow. But as time passes you get to know that part of you - the part that is your father. And you'll realize that he is, and will always be with you; a part of you.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that
in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."
Kahlil Gibran
Dedicated to your father
by Souri on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:18 PM PDTKaveh jan,
This sad song of Dariush always remind me of my late father. I dedicate it to your father now. May his soul rests in peace.
Kaveh jon: I'm so sorry you
by vildemose on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:07 PM PDTKaveh jon: I'm so sorry you have to go through this pain. You don't get over it, you just get through it. You don't get by it, because you can't get around it. It doesn't 'get better'; it just gets different. Everyday... Grief is a price we pay for being loved and loving those we cherish. I hope you find strength in what remains: his legacy, you and your little "pedarsookhteh".
Your father seemed to have loved life and took this gift seriously, and I'm certain that is what he wants you to do as well. Life is a big old party and sooner or later some of us have to leave this grand old party. I think your dad knew that very well.
I can picture your dad walking your cat on a leash as if he/she were a dog..so cute.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Kaveh jan
by Hajminator on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:01 PM PDTMy condolences for your great loss.
The many hardships of love
by Javad Yassari on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:57 PM PDTO beautiful wine-bearer, bring forth the cup and put it to my lips
Path of love seemed easy at first, what came was many hardships.
Hafez
My deepest sympathies and condolences, Kaveh.
My friend
by Bijan A M on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:48 PM PDTI don't know you in person, but I have always admired you for what you stand for. I never knew your soft side, but it is as genuine as your logical side.
I am sincerely sorry for your loss and have nothing to offer you but my prayers for your patience and the health of you and your family.
God bless you
Bijan
Kaveh jaan
by Anonymouse on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:41 PM PDTPlease accept my condolences. May your dad's good memories be always with you and your family.
I think our generation had the greatest dads and from what you've written I can sense what a loving man he was and how you all loved him in your own unique ways. They always gave us more than expected and on many occasions they gave us things we could only understand and relate to many years later down the road.
It is as if they knew us better than anyone else, including our own selves, and had a sixth sense on when and how we'd really appreciate what they told us. Like magic.
Everything is sacred.
Dear Kaveh
by SamSamIIII on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:37 PM PDTI am with you in spirit for your loss & wish you strength to carry on with life as that gentle man would have wanted it that way. My condolences to you & your family for the loss of such a man with loving deeds .
God speed
Path of Kiaan Resurrection of True Iran Hoisting Drafshe Kaviaan //iranianidentity.blogspot.com //www.youtube.com/user/samsamsia
I am so sorry for your loss...
by Azarin Sadegh on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:31 PM PDTDear Kaveh,
I know how hard it is to lose someone so dear to your heart, and I also know that right now, it should feel like a wound, impossible to heal.
It took me years to get over my father's death, but what helped me a lot was writing about him, recalling the good memories, and going through old pictures, over and over, so I could remember his full life and everything we shared.
Please accept my condolences and I wish you lots of strength..
Take care, Azarin
Please accept my condolences dear Kaveh
by Louie Louie on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:29 PM PDTYour Dad was a wonderful man. I truely understand your pain. Hang in there. If you need a shoulder to cry on, you know we are here for you.
Sincere condolences for your loss
by Souri on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:28 PM PDTAlthough it is little consolation at this sad time, it should be of some satisfaction to know that in his passing you can celebrate the end of a very long and productive life.
My condolences
by IRANdokht on Thu Oct 01, 2009 04:09 PM PDTI am sorry for your loss.
IRANdokht
Kaveh jaan...
by ebi amirhosseini on Thu Oct 01, 2009 05:20 PM PDTMy deepest sympathies.
Rooheshaan shaad va yaadeshaan geraami.
//www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q29YR5-t3gg&feature=related
When I die...
When I die
when my coffin
is being taken out
you must never think
I am missing this world
don't shed any tears
don't lament or
feel sorry
I'm not falling
into a monster's abyss
when you see
my corpse is being carried
don't cry for my leaving
I'm not leaving
I'm arriving at eternal love
when you leave me
in the grave
don't say goodbye
remember a grave is
only a curtain
for the paradise behind
you'll only see me
descending into a grave
now watch me rise
how can there be an end
when the sun sets or
the moon goes down
it looks like the end
it seems like a sunset
but in reality it is a dawn
when the grave locks you up
that is when your soul is freed
have you ever seen
a seed fallen to earth
not rise with a new life
why should you doubt the rise
of a seed named human
have you ever seen
a bucket lowered into a well
coming back empty
why lament for a soul
when it can come back
like Joseph from the well
when for the last time
you close your mouth
your words and soul
will belong to the world of
no place no time
~RUMI, ghazal number 911,
Ebi aka Haaji