Diaspora

Forgotten where we came from

I remember, those days life had its own built-in music. When we woke up in the morning there was the shouting of adasi salesman, what an aromatic essence and yummy taste. After that, the calling of others street vendors appearing one after another, vegetable seller, ice cream man, laboo (cooked beets) sellers, ab housi, knife and scissor sharpeners, china repair man (chini band zan). Even the squeaking noises of the horse-driven carts, Gaary, had their own soothing rhythmic sounds. At night, there were the irksome sounds of frogs, roaches, crickets, and other insects that, like the ministers of the Shah’s regime, could always be heard but never be seen. In his famous poem, Molana Rumi describes the pain of the past memories and the suffering of the divisive separations best through the tale of a reed>>>

Can I go? Can I come back?

I am sure that you believe in this massage and hope you consider my tragic situation. I know you receive tons of emails each day and you may be very busy at the moment to continue reading my email. But, I hope you take a few minutes and read this email to the end. Your time is greatly appreciated. I am an Iranian woman, perusing my Ph.D at Brown University. I came to this country 7 years a go hoping for a better education and future which was denied to me in my home country... Not long a go, my mother, whom I have not seen for 7 years was diagnosed with cancer. I was devastated hearing the news but again, did not go back to Iran hoping and praying that through chemotherapy she can overcome it>>>

Driving American

I first saw America from a silver Buick that called to my mother from a dealership along the New Jersey turnpike. We'd been in this country less than a week and were no more committed to America than to the rental car we'd picked up at the airport. Then she spied the Buick. I imagine something about its width and breadth and the regal redness of its plush interior put her in mind of "Charlie's Angels," a big hit back then and also the inspiration for the fringe she was sporting that year. It was ours that very day.In all the years since, I've wondered about that car and its role in all that happened afterward.>>>

The Reed flute

It was a summer day year 2000(I think it was 2000). I was in New York City to visit some relatives and enjoyed the stay. A cousin of mine who was interested in Sufism told me about a Rumi conference that was going to be held in the Columbia University. I have had read little about Rumi and remembered some famous lines of his poetry and his love for Shams Tabrizi, but I really did not know so much about him. Also, the only thing about sufism I knew was the paintings of old dervishes with their axe. Back at my parental home we used to have a very elegant copy of the Omar Khayyams Rubaiyat. I enjoyed reading its poems so much that I made my high school special assignment about Khayyam>>>

Our blended imagination

In my eighth year as a child growing up in Iran, I spontaneously composed a stanza, a poem, observing the falling of snow, when something took over and I knew it was poetry I was jotting down in a nylon-covered notebook. That notebook remained in the piles of things left behind. This was the country in which I recited over and over again “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep” for our fifth-grade English class. In the fourth grade, the entire class would stand up from our wooden benches and recite an homage poem to mothers. At home, it was Sohrab Sepehri, “Wherever I am, let me be / The sky is mine / … Our work is perhaps / To run after the song of truth/in the distance between the lotus and the century.”>>>

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

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Watching the West

While some of the most important topics of debate among the Iranian net addicts, and the blogsphere, seem to be about democracy (where it is not about treason and conspiracy) the real changes are taking place not among the Iranians, or in Iran, but in Turkey and in parts of the Arab world. Unfortunately, we as Iranians, did our bit a while ago, and Khomeini was just ready enough to decapitate whatever intelligentsia was truly, excitingly, capable of having any seriously positive effect on the Iranian community probably for more than a couple of generations. And Khomeini's acts are still shadowing the opportunities that the Iranian community can take>>>

In the comfort of New York strangers

The guy was Arnold Schwarzeneger look-alike, all muscles and towering over me, obviously a red neck who wasn’t used to dealing with a Spanish detective before. “Sit down, will you?” I ordered and he obeyed, casting a half-inquisitive, half-demeaning stare at me. I pulled a chair and sat across the table in the interrogation room staring back at him until he buckled. “So what’s your question?” ”Why did you have to kill him?” I asked. He laughed and said, “what the hell was I supposed to do, invite him to dinner, Mr. burglar?” >>>

Seasonal writers

Non-political writers seem to be more of a seasonal type for this matter, and most of them seem to disappear before reaching their true peak because they are usually too busy with their daily lives. Professional quality journalism and writing needs money, and the Internet has so far failed to come up with free truly quality material to match commercial publications (with mostly paid journalists). The job of the unpaid blogger becomes even more hazardous when he is constantly faced with the frustrated and untalented commentator whose best inspiration is at best a jackass, or other phrases in excusable 'French'. What a blogger had hoped to be a pleasant hobby turns out to be a choice between extreme politicisation at best, or too often simply an unpleasant encounter with the anonymous>>>