Archive - 2007

Agreeing to sharply disagree

Mr. Imani seems to collapse his political hatred for the Iranian government with anti-Islamism, presuming that the two are not mutually exclusive. In his entire article Mr. Imani attacks Ahmadinejad for resembling Hitler. Ironically, in his distate for Ahmadinejad and Hitler, Mr. Imani has done nothing more than demonstrate that he is more similar to them than they could possibly be with each other. At least Ahmadinejad never called Judiasm an evil religion. It’s never a good thing when a dictator appears more tolerant than you are>>>

Hit machine

As I held the record in my hand that day in Gargantini and turned it around (yes, I’m the type that reads everything written on a record, you should too, you’d already know what I’m getting to here), I noticed something at a glimpse of an eye that I had not thought possible until that day: An Iranian name on the back cover! Oooh, interesting. “Elton” Farokh Ahi. Hmmm. Elton? No wait, there’s another one. Ardeshir Farah. Very interesting. Who IS that? And they’re the main ones, “Elton” Farokh Ahi made the record!>>>

Shouting match diplomacy

The bi-lateral meetings of mid-May and last Tuesday in Baghdad between U.S. ambassador to Iraq, Ryan Crocker, and Iran’s ambassador to that country, Hassan Kazemi-Qumi, were the sole talks at the ambassadorial level in more than two decades. This could be viewed as a change of attitude, however temporary, in the Bush Administration. If in the aftermath of the first meeting Crocker was cautiously upbeat about the outcome, in the press conference following the second he unleashed a salvo of unfounded claims that Iran is funding, arming, training and even planning the operations of the Iraqi militia against the U.S. and Iraqi troops>>>

The initial conditions

The most popular way to describe the Chaos Theory is that a butterfly's wings fluttering might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that ultimately cause a tornado to appear (or, for that matter, prevent a tornado from appearing). The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale phenomena. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the final outcome and its consequences would have been vastly different. Gently pressing the spot between side of his right foot and and top of his toes, I said: "Look son, if you want to get power and accuracy you simply have to shoot the ball with the front third side of your foot. Toe-poking it will give you zero control.">>>

Whisky and coke

It was late night in Tehran. I was sitting at my laptop thinking what I could do to entertain myself. Porn would be so out of the question. The lines are probably monitored. Imagining a police showing up at Mamani's door step with photos of Kirs hanging right out -- the thought gave me shivers. I thought of the late night parties we had in Melbourne. I missed getting smashed and rolling in the hallway of my student apartment. There was this time I had thrown a party at my flat and I remember being the best host I could be, however my friends had other interpretations of the night, they were too drunk so they said I was laying on the concrete door step while it was raining and apparently they had tried to pull me over the fence to avoid embarrassment>>>

A house I call Iran

I was surprised by the kind smiles I received from my hosts when they opened the door for me. This was hardly what I expected. They welcomed me with such warmth, kissing my cheeks and embracing me as I was lead to explore the dimly lit interior of their home. Richly decorated, it contradicted all that I saw from its exterior. Magnificent carpets of all colors and motifs, murals and frescoes on walls depicting historical scenes and daily life throughout the ages. The painted brown eyes of a turbaned man in one of these paintings stared at me firmly, as if attempting to converse with me about his time. The past was as active as the present in this mythical home. The architects had done a splendid job, as well as its decorators. Supposedly fashionable western elements did not exist here, for the residents stood firm to their beliefs and the flavor of originality in design that they were given from their forefathers.>>>

Mashad’s collage of life

In 2001, while on a business trip, I was invited to the home of a family in Mashad as their new family member. They were a devout Moslem family, who lived in an old traditional house in the older part of Mashad, near Imam Reza’s shrine. The house consisted of a very large living room, with two bedrooms and a kitchen to the side. There was another small living quarter off the backyard. The family of two daughters and three sons had all gathered to welcome us into their home, with the family’s patriarch sitting against pillows against a wall, turning his rosary in his hands, the women walking quickly and efficiently to move the plates and platters and cups and saucers of cookies, fruits, and tea. Other male members of the family were sitting on the floor near the father, and children played in a corner.>>>

The saga continues

Let us as football fanatics be just that: fanatics, and let the extremities of our emotions overwhelm our logic in dealing with the continuation of the same, old saga. But this saga does not consist of any heroic exploits; there is an abyss of notable achievements. It is the saga of Iranian football filled with the short-lived ups and the long-lasting downs, the flashes of brilliance and the enduring taste of misery and underachievement. This saga belongs to the post-revolution times, experienced by me and the likes of me especially since Team Melli's exit from the 1996 instalment of the Asian Cup of Nations. It may well be a matter of irony that the joy of a revitalized Iranian football, initiated and led by the golden generation of Daei et al, brought about hard falls of hopeful dreams>>>

Disowned

(Farhad steals a nervous glance at the cabinet, which Dad notices.)
Dad: What is in the cabinet?
(Farhad is mute. He looks helplessly at his mom. His mom returns a similar look. Dad opens the cabinet. Farhad shudders as the bottles drop out onto the kitchen floor. Dad’s face turns red.)
Dad: (yelling) How much did you drink?
Mom: (meekly) Mohsin, don’t yell.
Dad: (ignoring Mom’s pleas) Unbelievable! You piece of shit! You cover up from your parents! >>>

Screw

A screw, a defective one, that’s what I am. Pay attention! I’m not a nail. Nails are flat head with no character I say. They are straightforward. I’m not. They have no twists and turns, I do. They are easy going. I’m not. Just hit a nail on the head and it obediently does its job, I don’t. You can straighten a crooked nail with a hammer and it works as good as new and if you hit me, I get even more crooked. The first time I was put into a good use, I failed miserably. The carpenter, who picked me out randomly from the box full of screws, could not drive me through the wood because I was slightly crooked and my head was stripped. His hand slipped and I made him bleed. So he tossed me to the ground cursing me under his breath.>>>