حدیث هول قیامت

تمام محله را به نام باغش می شناسند، محله باغ گل. عطر گلهای نرگس و یاس و محمدی ، تمام محله را در طول سال پرمی کند. این باغ همیشه ودر تمام سال گل دارد. در وسط باغ جوی آبی روان است و درختهایی که انگار سرسبزی در دل آنها جاودانه خانه کرده است. باغبانی که به نقد جوانی زنده گی باغ را ضمانت کرده و رشته های موی سپید را به نصیب برده است، نگهدار دائمی این باغ است. ظهر بعد از نماز جمعه، در محله باغ گل – شیشه های خلوت مردم با کلوخ و سنگ پاره های الله اکبرخرد و خاکشیر می شود. اهالی محل، برخی بهت زده ، تعدادی از سر تفنن ، برخی از سر تعصب ، در کوتاه زمانی از خانه هایشان بیرون می آیند. جماعتی پر از جوش و خروش، الله اکبر و مرگ بر بابی می گویند و به طرف باغ می روند.>>>

T’was the Fight Before Christmas

The second year we were married, Francois decided to invite my parents for Christmas. “I want them to experience a French Christmas meal,” he said, displaying the enthusiasm he reserves for elaborate menus. My parents were more than happy. My father called the next day to give us their flight information. “We arrive at noon on Dec. 25,” he said, “at Oakland Airport.” “That’s the wrong airport!” I said. “The airport near you guys was too expensive,” he explained. “They’re arriving when?!? Francois asked, rather incredulously. “And why are they arriving at the wrong airport? Tell them to change their flight.“ >>>

From Misery Alley to Missouri Valley

The nameless alley in which our house was located was long and narrow. It was not too kids friendly because it was not suitable for any kind of fun and play. People who lived in our alley were all poor farmers with the exception of one family whose house was the very first one to your left when you enter the alley. The man of the house was a member of the clergy. For this reason we called him agha sar chooche-e as if there was no other agha in our alley. I remember when he came out of his house all the women who happen to be sitting and gossiping at the front of a house double checked their chador and made sure that they are covered properly. The tall and long muddy walls enclosed our alley on both sides.>>>

Killing Harriet

Fortunately, I had a brother in the U.S. who helped me get back on my feet again. He was living in the second floor of a house belonging to a lonely old lady by the name of Harriet Hass. She was in her eighties who had already begun to lose her mental faculty. Her house was in an affluent neighborhood and she was one of the oldest residences there. The house was on a half an acre lot that she had not maintained for many years due to her age. To keep my mind occupied; I get up very early every morning and worked all day cleaning up her property, repairing and maintaining whatever I could. Soon the garbage was all gone, trees were trimmed, and the grass began to grow again. >>>

Death

No, I don't want you to trot
with your polite confidence
back and forth
in my nightmare.
Saddle, gun and spur
and the tilted hat, black
as the blood you spilled,
through the dead calm >>>

Zinn in Jail

I first learned of Howard Zinn’s arrest by noticing his photo in Boston Globe’s front page, next to the headline: famed historian, activist jailed for punching a man -- and knowing Howard’s life-time credential as a non-violent civil rights leader, I was naturally curious, to say the least, actually down right skeptical, and then, when I read the news story and discovered that the “victim” was a "distinguished" member of right-wing Fox TV, I allowed my suspicion a couple of notches down yet sufficiently in gear to warrant a healthy doubt about the veracity of the story – that Zinn had “attacked” him after a heated, accidental, exchange over wars in the Middle East. >>>

I Cannot Forgive

No! I cannot forgive you. I was her husband and comrade, and now as an heir, I cannot shrug off this murder. Ask her to forgive you herself. Go to Infidel Cemetery and find her unmarked tomb by pacing eight steps from the gate and sixteen steps against the wall; call out her name; say that you regret killing her, and beg for her pardon. Perhaps after twenty-one years she will stand up again, rub her heavy eyelids, and look at you. You will notice the bullet wound in her chest, and remember that cold day in January, when the prisoners were brought forward, blindfolded. They were fifty-two individuals: two women and fifty men.>>>

Beneath the Olive Trees…

As the sliding doors of the airport opened, the steamy hot air hit me. The warm sun kissed my skin like a long lost friend. I had promised myself that I would try and visit a few countries I’d never been to before, rather than sticking to France, Italy and USA… and so I arrive in Cyprus. Larnaca airport to be exact. Our cocky cab driver was standing there, cigarette hanging from his lips… “Miss Ghayour?.. Ok, we go!” The 30 minute drive to the hotel was a journey filled with stories from the cab driver about his life, past trips to London and his Winter home in St Petersburg, Russia. Character and charm oozed from this new and strange place, but I had a good feeling about it and was excited to experience new things and new people>>>

ایرن

تا چشمم به او می افتد عقب عقب می روم و در جستجوی راه نجاتی هستم ولی فایده ای ندارد امروز با هم در یک طبقه و در یک محل هستیم و بایست کنار هم کار کنیم. یعنی خبر ندارد؟ خبر دارد؟ مگر می شود بی خبر باشد؟ ایرن مثل همیشه، مثل ملکه دانمارک پشت صندلی نشسته و مثل هر روز که روزنامه لوموند را از صفحه اول تا صفحه آخر می خواند، الان دارد کتابی را می خواند. یعنی او هنوز خبر ندارد که متعصبان مذهبی به خاطر چند تا کاریکاتور سفارت دانمارک در تهران را اشغال کرده اند؟ حالا من چکار کنم؟ بالاخره دل به دریا می زنم و بی خیال -انگار نه انگار - یک سلام می گویم و فوری پشت آن یکی میز می نشینم. همانطور که دارد کتاب می‌خواند با سر جوابم را می دهد. >>>

با زبان تو...

تا ظلم ِ رفته دیگر به یادم نیاید
به کشف زبانی نو
              در تو می­نگرم.
به جستجوی گرمایی ازلی
در شيارهای زمین
     بر تو دست می­سایم   
>>>

Ham fal o ham tamasha

When my friend Mohamad Tavakoli-Targhi asked me to write a piece about the Shahnameh Millennium Concert, I thought it might be best to interview the composer of “Persian Trilogy,” Behzad Ranjbaran. The name rang a bell. I knew Behzad from ages ago, when I had met him and his brothers in Washington. They had composed a song titled “sar oumad Zemestoun, shekofteh Baharoun”(Winter has passed, here comes the spring). The melody reminded me of old times when we were student activists. Behzad Ranjbaran has come a long way from being a lover of music at a young age to teaching at the Juilliard School of Music. He is also the recipient of the Rudolf Nissim Award for his violin concerto>>>

Truth behind the propaganda

Our country and people have sacrificed a lot, and I mean a lot, for IRI’s blind anti Israeli sentiments. Many countries, groups, parties and organizations..oppose Israeli actions, but none of them put a burden on their people as much as we have paid. We have become isolated, hated, we regressed, we paid human and material price, we have been threatened to be attacked, and we have been looked down upon by most of the world (with the exception of some fascist Islamist and lefty loonies), because of this stance. There is a different between opposing something, and “blindly”, opposing something. Some of the most outspoken Israeli critics are Israel’s friends, such as Turkey. So why is IRI acting like as it is? Below is some of the most common rhetoric used by the regime:>>>

تانگوی تنهایی

یک روز پاییزی بود. پاییز شیراز بود چی بگم قشنگ بود. به قشنگی بیستا پاییزی که دیدم و حسرت ندیدنش رو نه سال هست که دارم. روز نبود شب بود ولی خزان که شب و روز نمیشناسه . اون سالهای آخر بود, چه سالهای نحسی بود. چه قدر دلم پر از غصه بود. داشتم دل می کندم و دل کندن به همین راحتیها نبود. یک جورایی مثل جون کندن بود. می خواستم بمونم درد به در میگشتم دنبال یک دلیل محکم که بمونم. میدونستم اگه برم دیگه برگشتنی در کار نیست. یادته اون شب چه قدر خندو نیدیمون؟ وای بشر خدا خفه ات نکنه... اون شب بعد از مدتها دلم باز شد. نمیدونم چه طور بگم اما وسط اون همه نکبت و نکبت زده انگار یه همصدا پیدا شده بود. یکی که حرف دل من رو میزد ولی همه میفهمیدند. چه زود گذشت , انگار همون دیروز بود. می گم که دل کندن مثل جون کندن هست.>>>