Last month after a long 32 hour-flight from Denver and a layover in Frankfurt, I finally arrived at Mehrabad airport in Tehran at 1:30 in the morning. Omid, Mohamad , Hossein, Ahmad and Milad all members of my family, were waiting outside the arrival hall to welcome me.
I was surprised at the strength of the tradition that had brought so many young men to greet me at those early hours. After a short visit at the parking lot, I said goodbye to all except Omid as I was to ride with him to Karaj to see my brother who was ill after a major kidney surgery.
The ride was long, unfamiliar and it seemed a lot longer than I remembered. As we made dozens of turns to get to my niece's house, I realized that the town has changed so much in the past few decades that it almost seemed like a new place to me. When we got there, everyone was sleep except for my brother who was up and anxiously waiting for me — frail and happy at the same time he hugged me. We embraced and talked for a while and at four in the morning I managed to get to bed; little did I know that the excitement of the visit had stolen my desire to sleep.
Nevertheless, I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep, when I woke up it was about noon. Agha Nassi, my niece's husband, was getting ready to go out to his afternoon job to drive a school bus that he drives daily for a nearby school. He is a retired air force officer from the Shah's era who was forced into retirement as he allegedly was not trusted by the revolutionary government .
Upon a sudden impulse, I asked if I could go for the ride with him, he agreed. That day was the third day after Ashura — the day of Imam Hossien's martyrdom 1400 years ago, commemorated among Shiite Moslems throughout the world. The streets were full of processions of men carrying black and green banners and chanting lyrics mourning the occasion. Some men were carrying “Alaamat” which is a cross like ornate display which signified each neighborhood's (dasteh) or mourning club. Others were beating their chest or head as a sign of devotion to the Imam. The whole scene seemed very surrealistic and somber as everyone was dressed in black from head to toe. The chant by one of the group was:
Zad b-baghe Fatemeh Aghbat sharareha
Az jelo peeadeha, az aghab savarha
Finally the children of Fatima were set ablaze
Attacked by foot soldiers and chased by the cavalry.
These processions usually start in the morning and end after a long walk through the main streets at some wealthy person's house where people are fed as “Nazri” or charity. The school where we were heading to was across a narrow street from one of these houses where Nazri was given out. The proximity of the house was reason enough that each child leaving the school was given a plastic container of rice and ghaymeh (lamb stew with chick peas and fried potatoes, dusted with cinnamon). As the children were boarding the bus, one turned back and ran back to the house. He returned in a short while and handed Agha Nassi and me two containers of food.
In a short while I found myself in the company of about 40 freshman boys from a high school in Iran – a world apart from my day-to-day life. Nostalgia had kicked in and I was excited to see their faces, and their interactions. They reminded me of my freshman year in high school some forty-four years ago. I was deep in my thoughts when Agha Nassi made an announcement to the students:
“Gentlemen! Boys! My uncle has just arrived from America. He is an engineer and has four children in universities in America. Take this occasion and ask him anything you want about America and universities.”
All of a sudden everyone raised their hands to show that they all had questions, “Sir? Me, here, sir, sir.”
A boy wearing a blue ski jacket in the second row by the window was louder than the rest trying to get my attention. He asked, “Do you think America is going to attack us?”
Wow, what a wake up! I was thinking what should I say to this? Before I could answer him another boy asked:
“Do Americans bother you there?”
Well the answer to this one was easy.
“I am an American; and no, no one bothers me.”
Funny, how some of them looked at me like they didn't believe I am an American. I didn't fit their stereotype, and I sometimes get that look in America too.
“I should tell you that my children are all Americans too, and I am sure they are also concerned like you. However, I must admit at times the negative news gets overbearing and hard to watch.”
Another boy asked, “How do you feel about the US and Iran fighting?”
The answer came from the depth of my heart as a kind of revelation: “Oh, I hope they never fight, I tell you how I feel. I feel like a child whose parents are fighting and talking divorce and may be even making a threat to kill each other. It is very hard when you love your both parents, isn't it?”
Silence took over; everyone seemed to understand the analogy. I took the opportunity to tell the boys few things that they most likely don't hear in the Iranian news. I said: “American people are very kind and giving. There are American charity organizations that go out of their way to help people all over the world. The American contribution to science and medicine is number one in the world and everyone all over the globe benefits from the American discoveries. The American social system is so conducive to advancement that everyone benefits from it. Look there are examples of hundreds of Iranian-Americans who have become prominent in their fields in science and technology and some of them are billionaires and they have made it in America. Remember, in spite of all the differences when there was the disastrous earthquake in Bam, an American Air force flight was the one and the first mission to bring aide to the people of Iran. You must separate the propaganda of the governments from the people. I have participated and watched the funeral services of fallen American soldiers and I promise you, it was very sad, their loss to their mothers was very tragic and painful, just like the loss of my nephew who was lost in Iran-Iraq war. That was very painful to my sister. My sense is that no American wants war, so let's hope the politicians follow the will of the people. I will tell you the American people are peace loving, decent, nice and … .”
At this time the school bus came to the first stop, the boy in the blue was the first to leave before he left he turned at the bus step looked at me and said: “Please say hello to all the nice people of America, no war OK?”
I promised that I would say hello, and the bus rolled on … another boy raised his hand. “Please introduce yourself before asking a question,” I asked.
“My name is Koorosh, Have you met Jim Carrey? I think he is funny.”
“I agree he is very funny and no, I have not met him,” I said.
Someone else said, “Hey … Koorosh, I want to know about universities, don't waste time. Sir, what university do your children go to?”
“What is your name? “
“Mehdi … “
“Agha Mehdi my children attended the University of Colorado.”
“What makes that school good, what field is the school known for?”, a voice from the back asked.
“There are lots of good things about the school; a couple of the professors have won Nobel prizes in physics; there are excellent colleges of engineering, business, law, science, and medicine.”
The bus stopped again, Koorosh and two other boys were getting off, before they did one came to shake my hand and said, “Say hello to all Americans.” This is a manner of speech in Farsi.
“I can not possibly do that, there are too many,” I joked and they laughed. The other two boys said hello as well. We started to move again, a car cut in front of the bus and the hard break threw us all out of our seats. Soon we were back to normal. Everyone seemed to be accustomed to the traffic.
“Pride-e-Ghorazeh!”[junk Pride car], one boy said.
“Good thing Koreans make these cheep cars for people like him to crowd the streets.”
Another boy said, “Sir my name is Amin, have you seen the new Corvette in America? How many horse powers does the 2007 model have?”
“Yes I have seen the new Corvette. I don't know the horse power, but I tell you unlike Germany, we cannot drive that fast in America. So whatever horse power the Corvette has is enough for the speed which is allowed in America.”
“My cousins are in America. We like to go visit, but my baba [father] says we can't get a visa,” a boy in a Gap jacket said.
“What is your name agha (sir) ?” I asked
“Arash.”
“I hope you can get a visa soon and go see your cousins,” I said.
“May I have my dad call you? Maybe you can tell him how to get a visa.”
“Arash Jaan, I am sorry but I don't think I can help your dad; one of my brother-in-laws has been trying to get a US visa for years now.”
Another young man raised his hand. “Sir, My name is Javad.” Then in perfect English he said, “We love American people.”
“What do you know about America?” I asked.
“A lot, we watch TV programs from Los Angeles, and I read a lot on the Internet . When September [the September 11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center Towers] happened we were very sad my mom and dad took me to Maydan-e-Mohseni in Tehran and we held candles for the American's tragic loss. We were afraid that police will come and arrest us, but the police never came.”
The bus stopped again four boys asked Agha Nassi if they could keep riding and get off at the end of the route. He said “No I am not allowed to let you off elsewhere.” Now they were pleading, “Please, please we can take the city bus and go back.” He let them stay.
The Q&A went on for another half an hour; we talked about Britney Spears, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Leo DiCaprio … movies, cars, highways, boys, girls, dating and many other issues in America. Then the boys hungry to know more wanted to me to ride with them the next day. I told them I could not.
The last question was from a boy who looked at me and smiled:
“Do Americans know about our Norouz” he asked.
“Some of them … ” I replied.
“Please tell them Happy Norouz on my behalf. Tell them that in every Norouz we wish for love, peace and all the best for everyone on our planet.”
“I have tried, I have even written about Norouz that every year I share with all my American friends and Family,” I said.
What did you write? He asked.
“I try to remember,” I said. Here it is:
A 6000 thousand year old tradition!
Yet so newPut on the best suit you have,
as all Iranian do.
Stand proud and smileLet's hope for all the best!
Bring out the best in your fellow man.
Smile, smile! And meet life with all the enthusiasm you can musterStart anew!
Forgive those who have trespassed upon you, this is the tradition of NoRouz.Start anew
Hug your loved ones.
Like it is the last time you will ever see them.
Embrace your neighbor
Like it is the beginning of the greatest friendship ever.Dust off your house, your soul,
Long for life long for love and careWish the world happy NoRouz,
Be a Persian for a day!
Give someone a hug today!
For the world needs your hug more than ever.HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Our 6000 year old TRADITION!
The boys were clapping! The bus stoped for the last time before agha Nassi and I were alone again.
Every boy leaving wished America well and sent his “Hello to America!” one by one they jumped out of the bus waved at us and disappeared in the crowed.
Agha Nassi looked at me with spark in his eyes, but said nothing, he had approved of our ride.
When we got back home Agha Nassi couldn't wait to tell the family of my interaction with the students. Now everyone was in the conversation telling me how the people love America. In the evening other family members came to see me, every time someone came in Agha Nassi would bring out the subject telling them that he and I had great fun ridding his bus with the students.
Then Hossein said, “Why are you all surprised? Remember I was in Meydan-e-Mohseni too, participating in the candle vigil; there were thousands of people out there… “
Then he wanted to know if the American television stations had shown the event?
“If they did show it I didn't see it,” I said.
* For privacy the names are changed.
