Walking through Navarinou Street in Central Athens yesterday, I stumbled upon a makeshift memorial: tied on a scaffolding with a white ribbon was a bunch of wilting flowers, with a short message: "Our beloved Dad, you left your last breath at this spot. We will never forget you, your daughters."
Around the spot, stylish coffee shops were just opening and expensive boutiques advertised their wares. Life carries on.
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Monday, 13 September 2010
Athens, and my old school
Last Saturday, the day after Eid, I flew to Athens to visit my parents. Since no airlines fly directly from Athens to Tehran, I flew via Bahrain. The flight from Tehran to Bahrain left at 5.30 am and got to Bahrain an hour and a half later. Then I had a stopover of over 3.5 hours and another 4-hour flight to Athens.
Athens is cool and pleasant this time of the year; schools opened today, so an unusual buzz of activity reigned in the neighbourhood this morning. I went to my nephew’s school for the school year opening ceremony, but nothing much happened afterwards, so the children were let out half an hour later, to start in earnest tomorrow.
The building housing this primary school used to house my old school. On this site the old building of my school used to be a two-storey aristocratic mansion with a double staircase. This was demolished in the late seventies and a modern building took its place in 1979, when I was in year 10. Despite the new building, my school only remained open for another two years. It closed down in 1981, and all its students were transferred to the state high school across the road.
Today was the first time I went inside the playground after almost thirty years. The two old palm trees I remember since I first crossed this threshold, six years old in sky-blue overalls and lunch box, still stand tall on either side of the school gate.
Athens is cool and pleasant this time of the year; schools opened today, so an unusual buzz of activity reigned in the neighbourhood this morning. I went to my nephew’s school for the school year opening ceremony, but nothing much happened afterwards, so the children were let out half an hour later, to start in earnest tomorrow.
The building housing this primary school used to house my old school. On this site the old building of my school used to be a two-storey aristocratic mansion with a double staircase. This was demolished in the late seventies and a modern building took its place in 1979, when I was in year 10. Despite the new building, my school only remained open for another two years. It closed down in 1981, and all its students were transferred to the state high school across the road.
Today was the first time I went inside the playground after almost thirty years. The two old palm trees I remember since I first crossed this threshold, six years old in sky-blue overalls and lunch box, still stand tall on either side of the school gate.
A Taxi driver with a difference
Last Friday was Eid Fitr, the feast celebrating the holy month of Ramadan. During this time the schedule of normal life was disrupted, hence my longer than usual absence from this blog.
I have written elsewhere about Tehran’s taxi drivers: some are polite, others grumpy, some talk a lot, others only exchange laconic words with their passengers, but most share a stoic attitude towards the city traffic, which can often drive you crazy.
But one particular taxi driver must stand out. His taxi follows a set itinerary (see Among the Iranians) between Haft Tir Square and Seyed Khandan Bridge, near my house. I stood by the kerb waiting for a taxi, when he pulled up in front of me and a young man in military uniform got out from the passenger seat. I thought he was getting off there, so I got in. As the soldier sat in the back seat and I settled in my seat, the driver thanked the soldier for moving to the back; it turned out that the driver had made that request.
I thanked them both
Then I recognised him: this was the second time I happened to board this taxi. He is an interesting character, evidently in love with his job (very rare!) and with people. As soon as I sat in the passenger seat, he gave me a folder to look at: it was full of newspaper and magazine clippings about him and his taxi, and comments by all sorts of people, Iranian and foreigners, who have boarded his taxi. When I got to my destination, he offered me a boiled sweet and wished me a nice afternoon. His name is Dehbashizadeh and keeps a blog (in Persian) at www.taxiran.blogfa.ir
I have written elsewhere about Tehran’s taxi drivers: some are polite, others grumpy, some talk a lot, others only exchange laconic words with their passengers, but most share a stoic attitude towards the city traffic, which can often drive you crazy.
But one particular taxi driver must stand out. His taxi follows a set itinerary (see Among the Iranians) between Haft Tir Square and Seyed Khandan Bridge, near my house. I stood by the kerb waiting for a taxi, when he pulled up in front of me and a young man in military uniform got out from the passenger seat. I thought he was getting off there, so I got in. As the soldier sat in the back seat and I settled in my seat, the driver thanked the soldier for moving to the back; it turned out that the driver had made that request.
I thanked them both
Then I recognised him: this was the second time I happened to board this taxi. He is an interesting character, evidently in love with his job (very rare!) and with people. As soon as I sat in the passenger seat, he gave me a folder to look at: it was full of newspaper and magazine clippings about him and his taxi, and comments by all sorts of people, Iranian and foreigners, who have boarded his taxi. When I got to my destination, he offered me a boiled sweet and wished me a nice afternoon. His name is Dehbashizadeh and keeps a blog (in Persian) at www.taxiran.blogfa.ir
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Ramadan
Apologies for the extra long absence this time but the last two weeks have been extremely busy.
With the beginning of the fasting month of Ramadan on Thursday 12 August, a number of bits and pieces that I needed to do beforehand but never got round to were squeezed in the last days. A couple of friends over from London would go back before Ramadan, so we had to have them over for dinner. One of the women of my class visited Mecca earlier this summer and held a reunion with the other students in her house. It was meant to be a morning, but she had prepared a buffet of food, and the conversation as so pleasant that some of us ended up staying until five o’clock in the afternoon. Then there was the preparation for our family reunion.
In a previous post I have mentioned that every month Hossein’s brothers and sisters and their families gather in one house for a family dinner. Our turn was on 5 August, but we decided to hold it on 12 August, on the first day of Ramadan, for iftar (the meal that breaks the fast).
Iftar is meant to be a simple meal but if the number of guests is large, it needs a lot of last minute work. The host needs to make sure that every guest has everything within reach: dates, sugar bowl, fresh bread, feta cheese and fresh herbs, sometimes butter and honey or jam, thick soup (ash reshteh – the recipe is given in Among the Iranians), and any other foods that can be eaten with bread, like aubergine dip (kashk-e bademjan) or fried meze. Also, enough tea should already be served in front of every guest by the moment the call to the evening prayer is made.
We were twenty-two people to our iftar, which made it a marathon of work, but fortunately my two sisters-in-law and their daughters came earlier and were a huge help.
Since that day, the routine of everyday life is different. The fast is broken at about 8.10 pm, and then preparations for the morning meal begin with meat stew or chicken being cooked and rice soaked and parboiled. At 3.30 am I make salad, lay the table, brew fresh tea, wash fruit and call everyone to eat at 4.00 am. The call to the morning prayer is made at a couple of minutes before 5 am, after which believers abstain from all food and drink. This routine will carry on untilthe last day of the Ramadan on Thursday 9 September.
Many believers also try to do a complete reading of the Holy Quran in this month. This is the first time that I have decided to complete the reading too, since this is the first year that I know how to read Quranic Arabic. The Holy Quran is about 600 pages long in most editions, and it is divided into 30 equally long sections (juz’), each of which takes about an hour and a half to read. Since today is the tenth of Ramadan, one third of it (200 pages) has now been read.
With the beginning of the fasting month of Ramadan on Thursday 12 August, a number of bits and pieces that I needed to do beforehand but never got round to were squeezed in the last days. A couple of friends over from London would go back before Ramadan, so we had to have them over for dinner. One of the women of my class visited Mecca earlier this summer and held a reunion with the other students in her house. It was meant to be a morning, but she had prepared a buffet of food, and the conversation as so pleasant that some of us ended up staying until five o’clock in the afternoon. Then there was the preparation for our family reunion.
In a previous post I have mentioned that every month Hossein’s brothers and sisters and their families gather in one house for a family dinner. Our turn was on 5 August, but we decided to hold it on 12 August, on the first day of Ramadan, for iftar (the meal that breaks the fast).
Iftar is meant to be a simple meal but if the number of guests is large, it needs a lot of last minute work. The host needs to make sure that every guest has everything within reach: dates, sugar bowl, fresh bread, feta cheese and fresh herbs, sometimes butter and honey or jam, thick soup (ash reshteh – the recipe is given in Among the Iranians), and any other foods that can be eaten with bread, like aubergine dip (kashk-e bademjan) or fried meze. Also, enough tea should already be served in front of every guest by the moment the call to the evening prayer is made.
We were twenty-two people to our iftar, which made it a marathon of work, but fortunately my two sisters-in-law and their daughters came earlier and were a huge help.
Since that day, the routine of everyday life is different. The fast is broken at about 8.10 pm, and then preparations for the morning meal begin with meat stew or chicken being cooked and rice soaked and parboiled. At 3.30 am I make salad, lay the table, brew fresh tea, wash fruit and call everyone to eat at 4.00 am. The call to the morning prayer is made at a couple of minutes before 5 am, after which believers abstain from all food and drink. This routine will carry on untilthe last day of the Ramadan on Thursday 9 September.
Many believers also try to do a complete reading of the Holy Quran in this month. This is the first time that I have decided to complete the reading too, since this is the first year that I know how to read Quranic Arabic. The Holy Quran is about 600 pages long in most editions, and it is divided into 30 equally long sections (juz’), each of which takes about an hour and a half to read. Since today is the tenth of Ramadan, one third of it (200 pages) has now been read.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Kermanshah
This is the last bit of my travelling impressions.
On the following day, 17 June 2010, we visited the bazaar of Kermanshah, where traditional shoes (geeveh) are woven. The ones that are still used by local men are usually woven in cream thread, but women’s and children’s slippers and shoes are woven in a variety of colours. I bought a tiny pair of shoes woven in turquoise and yellow, now displayed on our mantelpiece, and another similar one to take to my nephew in Athens. I also got a bag sewn of real kilim, not like tone ones sold in souvenir shops. The friendly shopkeeper suggested that we go round the bazaar to see the old gate that was brought back from Imam Ali’s shrine in Najaf, Iraq, when a new one was installed there. He didn’t have any more information on this, but the gate was worth seeing. I touched the old wood; my hands tingled with the vibrations of prayers that have been said over the centuries in Imam Ali’s shrine. For a moment, my eyes welled up wondering whether I would ever visit the holy shrines in Najaf, Karbala, Samarra and Kazemain, all in war-fraught Iraq.
As with gates in traditional houses, it has two different door knockers, one on each leaf. The heavier one which produces a heavier sound was meant to be used by men and the lighter one by women. Believers have tied small pieces of ribbon or fabric to the door knockers, a visual metaphor of the knotty problems of their everyday lives and a physical anchor of their prayers for a solution. On either side of the gate two candle niches carried small lit candles, and on their low railing, more ribbons and small padlocks are attached, with the same significance.
We returned to the Taq e Bustan for late lunch. It was late afternoon when we decided to sit in the grounds for tea before the long drive home. We left Kermanshah at 6.30 pm. At about 10 pm we stopped at a leisure park near the town of Razan. Local families had spread their picnics on the grass, while children played around on the swings. We had a supper of freshly baked barbari bread, white cheese, tomatoes and fruit and then set off again. We arrived home at 4 am, as the call to the morning prayer was heard.
On the following day, 17 June 2010, we visited the bazaar of Kermanshah, where traditional shoes (geeveh) are woven. The ones that are still used by local men are usually woven in cream thread, but women’s and children’s slippers and shoes are woven in a variety of colours. I bought a tiny pair of shoes woven in turquoise and yellow, now displayed on our mantelpiece, and another similar one to take to my nephew in Athens. I also got a bag sewn of real kilim, not like tone ones sold in souvenir shops. The friendly shopkeeper suggested that we go round the bazaar to see the old gate that was brought back from Imam Ali’s shrine in Najaf, Iraq, when a new one was installed there. He didn’t have any more information on this, but the gate was worth seeing. I touched the old wood; my hands tingled with the vibrations of prayers that have been said over the centuries in Imam Ali’s shrine. For a moment, my eyes welled up wondering whether I would ever visit the holy shrines in Najaf, Karbala, Samarra and Kazemain, all in war-fraught Iraq.
As with gates in traditional houses, it has two different door knockers, one on each leaf. The heavier one which produces a heavier sound was meant to be used by men and the lighter one by women. Believers have tied small pieces of ribbon or fabric to the door knockers, a visual metaphor of the knotty problems of their everyday lives and a physical anchor of their prayers for a solution. On either side of the gate two candle niches carried small lit candles, and on their low railing, more ribbons and small padlocks are attached, with the same significance.
We returned to the Taq e Bustan for late lunch. It was late afternoon when we decided to sit in the grounds for tea before the long drive home. We left Kermanshah at 6.30 pm. At about 10 pm we stopped at a leisure park near the town of Razan. Local families had spread their picnics on the grass, while children played around on the swings. We had a supper of freshly baked barbari bread, white cheese, tomatoes and fruit and then set off again. We arrived home at 4 am, as the call to the morning prayer was heard.
Bisotun
This is the next instalment of my travelling impressions from our trip to the west of Iran in June. One more to go!
On Wednesday 16 June after lunch we left Hamadan. About 95 km from Hamadan lie the remains of an ancient temple: sources are at a variance whether it was dedicated to the Greek goddess Artemis or to Anahita, the ancient Persian goddess of water. Investigations indicate that it dates from late Seleucid/early Parthian times.
Driving westwards, an immense rockface is visible through the wide plains from tens of kilometres away. The modern road follows the trail of the Achemenid Royal Road which ran from what is now western Turkey across the Zagros mountain range, Hamadan (or ancient Ecbatana) and then turned southwards to the imperial capital Susa. The Bisotun rockface is a UNESCO listed world heritage site and carries stone reliefs recording Darius’ victories. The almost perpendicular rockface must have functioned as a huge billboard, proclaiming the glory of the Achemenids to the world and, it is assumed, to Alexander the Great. I climbed up until the Hercules statue, carved in 148 BCE and carrying an inscription on Greek, until I sprained my foot and that was the end of my climbing ambitions. I had to satisfy myself with the descriptions of the carving provided by brave daughter and husband who climbed up to the relief.
We arrived at Kermanshah at about 8 pm, and visited the Taq Bustan complex, located in the old hunting grounds of Sassanid kings. In celebration of the glories of their reigns, two grottoes or arcades are carved on the rockface, depicting the Tree of Life, the goddess Anahita and a Sassanid king, whose identity is uncertain. The complex also contains a pool with paddling boats and is surrounded by traditional kebab cafes.
Time was getting on, so we left Taq Bustan at about 9.30 pm to look for a hotel room, and then, once again as in Hamadan, because we did not have any identification that showed we are related, we had to visit the branch of the local police responsible for public places. We stopped at a garage to ask for directions to this place. When the mechanic heard what our problem was, he invited us to stay in his house. “This is no empty formality,” he said, “like the Tehranis do. Really, by God, if you don’t find a room or you don’t get the document, you are more than welcome to stay the night.” We thanked him and went on our way.
After chatting with the two young officers on duty, we got the coveted document that would allow us to check into our hotel room.
On Wednesday 16 June after lunch we left Hamadan. About 95 km from Hamadan lie the remains of an ancient temple: sources are at a variance whether it was dedicated to the Greek goddess Artemis or to Anahita, the ancient Persian goddess of water. Investigations indicate that it dates from late Seleucid/early Parthian times.
Driving westwards, an immense rockface is visible through the wide plains from tens of kilometres away. The modern road follows the trail of the Achemenid Royal Road which ran from what is now western Turkey across the Zagros mountain range, Hamadan (or ancient Ecbatana) and then turned southwards to the imperial capital Susa. The Bisotun rockface is a UNESCO listed world heritage site and carries stone reliefs recording Darius’ victories. The almost perpendicular rockface must have functioned as a huge billboard, proclaiming the glory of the Achemenids to the world and, it is assumed, to Alexander the Great. I climbed up until the Hercules statue, carved in 148 BCE and carrying an inscription on Greek, until I sprained my foot and that was the end of my climbing ambitions. I had to satisfy myself with the descriptions of the carving provided by brave daughter and husband who climbed up to the relief.
We arrived at Kermanshah at about 8 pm, and visited the Taq Bustan complex, located in the old hunting grounds of Sassanid kings. In celebration of the glories of their reigns, two grottoes or arcades are carved on the rockface, depicting the Tree of Life, the goddess Anahita and a Sassanid king, whose identity is uncertain. The complex also contains a pool with paddling boats and is surrounded by traditional kebab cafes.
Time was getting on, so we left Taq Bustan at about 9.30 pm to look for a hotel room, and then, once again as in Hamadan, because we did not have any identification that showed we are related, we had to visit the branch of the local police responsible for public places. We stopped at a garage to ask for directions to this place. When the mechanic heard what our problem was, he invited us to stay in his house. “This is no empty formality,” he said, “like the Tehranis do. Really, by God, if you don’t find a room or you don’t get the document, you are more than welcome to stay the night.” We thanked him and went on our way.
After chatting with the two young officers on duty, we got the coveted document that would allow us to check into our hotel room.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Baba Taher
After a two-week break, I would like to get back to my impressions from our trip to Hamadan a month ago.
On the morning of 16 June we visited the mausoleum of Baba Taher, the writer of mystical poems that are often set to traditional Iranian music. Earlier this year during my lessons of traditional Iranian singing, I had to learn this quatrain set to the Tusi melody of the Mahoor mode.
Del-e asheq be peyqami besazad
Khomaralood be jami besazad
Mara keyfiyat-e chasm-e to kafist
Riazatkesh be badami besazad
Again, in an awkward translation for which I take full credit:
A heart in love lives on the Beloved’s message
A drunkard lives on a cup of wine
For me, a glance from your eyes is enough
Like an ascetic who lives on an almond a day
The last line is a reference to the Beloved’s almond-shaped eyes.
Within the same grounds the mausoleum of a grandson of Imam Hossein is also located. Just like other mausoleums, the internal walls are decorated with mirrorwork, an art that was developed in Iran, as I understand, as a result of the import of mirrors from Europe, mainly Venice, at a time when mirrors were very expensive. Inevitably, some breakages took place in transit, and the ingenious Iranians devised a way of transforming the broken pieces into an art form. Small pieces of mirror cover the interior walls in symmetrical patterns: for the fist-time viewer the effect is dazzling, like a palace out of the Thousand and One Nights, as the light is reflected on thousands of tiny mirrors.
The mirror and light are potent symbols in Iranian culture, so their arrangement can also be seen as a representation of the One true God as the source of Light being reflected in the multiplicity of the physical world.
On the morning of 16 June we visited the mausoleum of Baba Taher, the writer of mystical poems that are often set to traditional Iranian music. Earlier this year during my lessons of traditional Iranian singing, I had to learn this quatrain set to the Tusi melody of the Mahoor mode.
Del-e asheq be peyqami besazad
Khomaralood be jami besazad
Mara keyfiyat-e chasm-e to kafist
Riazatkesh be badami besazad
Again, in an awkward translation for which I take full credit:
A heart in love lives on the Beloved’s message
A drunkard lives on a cup of wine
For me, a glance from your eyes is enough
Like an ascetic who lives on an almond a day
The last line is a reference to the Beloved’s almond-shaped eyes.
Within the same grounds the mausoleum of a grandson of Imam Hossein is also located. Just like other mausoleums, the internal walls are decorated with mirrorwork, an art that was developed in Iran, as I understand, as a result of the import of mirrors from Europe, mainly Venice, at a time when mirrors were very expensive. Inevitably, some breakages took place in transit, and the ingenious Iranians devised a way of transforming the broken pieces into an art form. Small pieces of mirror cover the interior walls in symmetrical patterns: for the fist-time viewer the effect is dazzling, like a palace out of the Thousand and One Nights, as the light is reflected on thousands of tiny mirrors.
The mirror and light are potent symbols in Iranian culture, so their arrangement can also be seen as a representation of the One true God as the source of Light being reflected in the multiplicity of the physical world.
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