Yesterday was Eid Ghadir, a very important celebration for Shi’a Muslims. On this day the Holy Prophet returning from his last pilgrimage (‘the farewell pilgrimage’), he stopped the caravans of the pilgrims at a place named Ghadir Khomm. Then he told the Muslims that whoever loved him should love Ali, his cousin and son-in-law, and that whoever recognised him as his Master, should recognise Ali likewise.
For Shi’a Muslims this day marks the establishment of the Holy Prophet’s spiritual succession (Imamate), and it is a day on which the descendants of the Holy Prophet (seyeds) are especially honoured.
Hossein’s maternal grandmother was a seyed, so every year on Eid Ghadir all the family and acquaintances visited her and received a newly-minted banknote with her stamp on it. Since she passed away over two years ago, one of her sons carries on the tradition, so yesterday we were invited for lunch to the house of Hossein’s eldest uncle. He has four sons and four daughters, all married, twenty-one grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Most of these were there yesterday, plus his sister-in-law and her husband and son, and us four, so altogether about forty people sat down to lunch, which was brought from outside in two huge aluminium pots and served there: rice with fava beans (broad beans) and chives, and chicken in red sauce, served with fresh salad, drinking yogurt and jelly for desert.
I coudn’t help thinking that my father would go mad in such a gathering; he can’t stand the noise of as few as four people, so I kept worrying that this gathering would be too much for the uncle, who has been bedridden for the last seven years. I asked his wife.
“Oh, no,” she said, he absolutely loves having people around him. I just dread the evening when everybody will be gone and it’ll be just the two of us again.”
When Hossein sat on his bed to chat with him, the uncle mused, “Is there any joy greater than having one’s children and grandchildren around?”
Monday, 7 December 2009
Monday, 30 November 2009
Family gatherings
When my parents-in-law were still alive, their five married offspring would meet at their parents’ house if not every week, at least every other week. When we came back to Iran in July 2007, I realised that now that both parents-in-law have passed away, the children of the family did not see each other very often. Not that they didn’t like to; but other commitments got in the way, and despite everybody’s good intentions, visits were put off: this week their children had got too much schoolwork; the following week they’d got other guests coming over; the week after sister’s husband was late from work… and so on.
The middle brother-in-law has three lovely non-identical twin girls, now just five years old. It turned out that the aunts, my sisters-in-law, sometimes did not see these little girls for as long as three months, even though they all live in the same city. Well, this was getting serious, Hossein and I thought, so we devised a plan that other families also practise. After consulting with the others, we agreed that we would all hold a re-union dinner in one of the houses every four weeks on a rotating basis. I usually draw up a provisional list of dates at the beginning of the Iranian New Year in March and distribute it to everyone. The five offspring in the family host two re-unions a year each, roughly one every six months. We leave out the last month of the Iranian year (21 Feb-20 March) because then everybody is busy spring cleaning, and we also don’t have a planned re-union during the month of Ramadan, when we might be invited elsewhere, or we may have other guests. We have also arranged to celebrate the children’s birthdays on these occasions, so the parents of the birthday child bring the cake to wherever the gathering takes place.
Sometimes the dates need to be moved or someone needs to have their date swapped with somebody else’s, but the system usually works well. After two years of this system’s operation, everybody is looking forward to the next re-union.
The recent dinner took place on 20 November at the eldest sister-in-law’s house, when we celebrated the fourteenth birthday of the younger sister-in-law’s daughter. The next occasion will be on New Year’s day (1 January) at our house.
The middle brother-in-law has three lovely non-identical twin girls, now just five years old. It turned out that the aunts, my sisters-in-law, sometimes did not see these little girls for as long as three months, even though they all live in the same city. Well, this was getting serious, Hossein and I thought, so we devised a plan that other families also practise. After consulting with the others, we agreed that we would all hold a re-union dinner in one of the houses every four weeks on a rotating basis. I usually draw up a provisional list of dates at the beginning of the Iranian New Year in March and distribute it to everyone. The five offspring in the family host two re-unions a year each, roughly one every six months. We leave out the last month of the Iranian year (21 Feb-20 March) because then everybody is busy spring cleaning, and we also don’t have a planned re-union during the month of Ramadan, when we might be invited elsewhere, or we may have other guests. We have also arranged to celebrate the children’s birthdays on these occasions, so the parents of the birthday child bring the cake to wherever the gathering takes place.
Sometimes the dates need to be moved or someone needs to have their date swapped with somebody else’s, but the system usually works well. After two years of this system’s operation, everybody is looking forward to the next re-union.
The recent dinner took place on 20 November at the eldest sister-in-law’s house, when we celebrated the fourteenth birthday of the younger sister-in-law’s daughter. The next occasion will be on New Year’s day (1 January) at our house.
Monday, 16 November 2009
In Memoriam
The previous Friday, on the seventh anniversary since her death, the family gathered over her grave to offer their prayers.
Seven years ago Maman-jun came to London to look after the children so that I could go to Athens for an operation. She arrived on 28 September 2002 and I left for Athens on the following day. Five weeks later, on a Tuesday morning I got home, and on the following day Ramadan would start. On that evening, the Iranian satellite channel showed the pilgrims who went to Mecca for the Ramadan. Maman-jun had had the good fortune to be in Mecca during the previous Ramadan.
“Last year I was in Mecca,” she mused, looking at the TV images, “this year I am in London… who knows where I will be next year.”
“God Willing, you’ll be in Mashhad next year, “ I replied. (Mashhad, a city in north-west Iran is the burial place of Imam Reza, the eighth Imam, and a favourite pilgrimage site for Iranians.)
On Thursday morning she had a massive stroke, and in the early hours of Sunday 7 November 2002, she passed away at West Middlesex Hospital, Isleworth. Two days later Hossein escorted her body to Tehran for burial. She is now buried at the Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery, south of Tehran, in a two-storey grave which she now shares with Aqa-jun, her husband of more than fifty years, who passed away four and a half years after her. God rest their souls.
Seven years ago Maman-jun came to London to look after the children so that I could go to Athens for an operation. She arrived on 28 September 2002 and I left for Athens on the following day. Five weeks later, on a Tuesday morning I got home, and on the following day Ramadan would start. On that evening, the Iranian satellite channel showed the pilgrims who went to Mecca for the Ramadan. Maman-jun had had the good fortune to be in Mecca during the previous Ramadan.
“Last year I was in Mecca,” she mused, looking at the TV images, “this year I am in London… who knows where I will be next year.”
“God Willing, you’ll be in Mashhad next year, “ I replied. (Mashhad, a city in north-west Iran is the burial place of Imam Reza, the eighth Imam, and a favourite pilgrimage site for Iranians.)
On Thursday morning she had a massive stroke, and in the early hours of Sunday 7 November 2002, she passed away at West Middlesex Hospital, Isleworth. Two days later Hossein escorted her body to Tehran for burial. She is now buried at the Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery, south of Tehran, in a two-storey grave which she now shares with Aqa-jun, her husband of more than fifty years, who passed away four and a half years after her. God rest their souls.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
How Life Gets In The Way of Work
This week began with my birthday on Saturday 31 October. A university lecturer whose paper I had copy-edited for submission to an American journal came over to bring the payment, and invited me out to lunch. We went to an Iranian restaurant with traditional decoration not very far from my house. I was very pleased to get to know her better and I hope this will be the beginning of another good friendship.
After finishing the copy-editing of the paper, I went back to a travelogue of the Persian Gulf that I am also copy-editing. This should finish in another month, but I very much doubt that it will. I am having problems concentrating, but, to be fair, too many things are always going on. On Sunday evening I had to go to the orthopaedist with an inflamed ankle, on Monday morning a publisher rang me with a translation proposal for an illustrated book on Iranian painting, so I went to pick up the book. He wanted an answer there and then, but I needed time, so I borrowed the book and gave him an estimate on Wednesday.
On Wednesday morning I thought I’d try a Quran reading class at the same place where the traditional singing class takes place. This was the third session, but I was able to keep up. I think I’ll carry on; this has been something I’ve always wanted to do for many years, so now that I’ve got the chance, I’ll give it a go.
The traditional Persian singing class continues. Last Tuesday was the sixth session, so I have learned six “goosheh”, or melodies, to which any poem can be sung. As with my classical singing lessons two hundred years ago (in 1986-1987), I am holding my voice in, I don’t let it out free, for fear of…what? I thought that the years would have made a difference.
After finishing the copy-editing of the paper, I went back to a travelogue of the Persian Gulf that I am also copy-editing. This should finish in another month, but I very much doubt that it will. I am having problems concentrating, but, to be fair, too many things are always going on. On Sunday evening I had to go to the orthopaedist with an inflamed ankle, on Monday morning a publisher rang me with a translation proposal for an illustrated book on Iranian painting, so I went to pick up the book. He wanted an answer there and then, but I needed time, so I borrowed the book and gave him an estimate on Wednesday.
On Wednesday morning I thought I’d try a Quran reading class at the same place where the traditional singing class takes place. This was the third session, but I was able to keep up. I think I’ll carry on; this has been something I’ve always wanted to do for many years, so now that I’ve got the chance, I’ll give it a go.
The traditional Persian singing class continues. Last Tuesday was the sixth session, so I have learned six “goosheh”, or melodies, to which any poem can be sung. As with my classical singing lessons two hundred years ago (in 1986-1987), I am holding my voice in, I don’t let it out free, for fear of…what? I thought that the years would have made a difference.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Mission Accomplished
This entry should have been posted three days ago at the latest, but for the last two weeks I had to work flat out going over the copyeditor’s comments across the whole book. When I received the files over two weeks ago, I didn’t think it would take as long as it did. I have responded to every query, carried out corrections, added quite a few paragraphs and deleted a few others, re-arranged the endnotes and re-styled the references.
While going through the copyeditor’s comments I couldn’t help thinking how easy it is for a writer to take things she knows for granted and assume (without really thinking about it) that the reader will understand exactly what she means. For example, in Chapter 4, which is about religious beliefs and practices, in the section on the obligatory prayers that Muslims have to offer every day, the copyeditor asked whether men and women pray in the same way. It had not crossed my mind that a non-Muslim reader might wonder about this, but then I remembered how I wondered myself before I embraced Islam.
Well, the book is off for pagination. The next time I see it, it will be page-designed, ready to be indexed. As I was attaching the files, I felt as if I were packing the suitcase of a dear child, who is not a child any more, and is now leaving home, ready to face the world. God knows what lies ahead.
While going through the copyeditor’s comments I couldn’t help thinking how easy it is for a writer to take things she knows for granted and assume (without really thinking about it) that the reader will understand exactly what she means. For example, in Chapter 4, which is about religious beliefs and practices, in the section on the obligatory prayers that Muslims have to offer every day, the copyeditor asked whether men and women pray in the same way. It had not crossed my mind that a non-Muslim reader might wonder about this, but then I remembered how I wondered myself before I embraced Islam.
Well, the book is off for pagination. The next time I see it, it will be page-designed, ready to be indexed. As I was attaching the files, I felt as if I were packing the suitcase of a dear child, who is not a child any more, and is now leaving home, ready to face the world. God knows what lies ahead.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Musings
Last Saturday I received the copy-edited files of Among the Iranians. Every single correction and amendment has to be checked, queries raised by the copy-editor addressed, bits and pieces added or moved around. And all this has to be returned to the project editor by Tuesday 20 October.
One day last week I was walking home from the metro station. I had been shopping at the Central Bazaar of Tehran and was fairly exhausted. On the way home I passed a lovely small square with grass, trees and blue-and-orange benches, just like the one to the north of our block of flats. There are four such squares in our neighbourhood, where mothers and children, youngsters or elderly people often spend some time in. That day the square was unusually quiet; maybe it was still too early. A middle-aged man brought an elderly man in his wheelchair and helped him settle on a bench nearby. He asked him if he would be all right on his own for a bit, until he went to run some errands. The old man nodded.
He sat quietly and looked around the park, at the trees, at the little sparrow that came to perch on his bench. He smiled to himself and whispered, “Khoda-ra shokr” (Thank you, God.). I thought of my father in Athens. His dementia is progressing in such a way that every time I return to Athens, he remembers less and speaks less, but he still smiles the lovely smile I have always known. Since the previous winter he has given up his usual afternoon walk round the block, because he can only shuffle his feet along and Athenian pavements don’t cater for such needs. So in the afternoons he takes the lift up to the roof and goes round a couple of times.
While I was there in the summer, we often went up to the roof together. The view is interesting from here: beyond the television aerials and the satellite dishes one can see the Lycabettus hill with the white church of Saint George perched on its top, the Sina Observatory, and the other hills around Athens against the famous clear blue Attic sky. On the evening before I left, we went up again.
Dad kept commenting on how lovely the sky was, and admired the buildings. He exclaimed how tall they were, and wondered how people managed to build them so tall and how come they don’t fall. I envied him then, for a moment, for being able to admire the beauty of nature and human ingenuity as if for the first time, just like a little child. He may have lost a part of himself –his memories- but has got back something perhaps as valuable: the pure, childish pleasure at looking at an animal or a baby or a beautiful flower. And he can’t miss me anymore now, because as soon as I leave, he’s forgotten me until I speak to him on the phone or go back to Athens. That spares one a lot of pain.
One day last week I was walking home from the metro station. I had been shopping at the Central Bazaar of Tehran and was fairly exhausted. On the way home I passed a lovely small square with grass, trees and blue-and-orange benches, just like the one to the north of our block of flats. There are four such squares in our neighbourhood, where mothers and children, youngsters or elderly people often spend some time in. That day the square was unusually quiet; maybe it was still too early. A middle-aged man brought an elderly man in his wheelchair and helped him settle on a bench nearby. He asked him if he would be all right on his own for a bit, until he went to run some errands. The old man nodded.
He sat quietly and looked around the park, at the trees, at the little sparrow that came to perch on his bench. He smiled to himself and whispered, “Khoda-ra shokr” (Thank you, God.). I thought of my father in Athens. His dementia is progressing in such a way that every time I return to Athens, he remembers less and speaks less, but he still smiles the lovely smile I have always known. Since the previous winter he has given up his usual afternoon walk round the block, because he can only shuffle his feet along and Athenian pavements don’t cater for such needs. So in the afternoons he takes the lift up to the roof and goes round a couple of times.
While I was there in the summer, we often went up to the roof together. The view is interesting from here: beyond the television aerials and the satellite dishes one can see the Lycabettus hill with the white church of Saint George perched on its top, the Sina Observatory, and the other hills around Athens against the famous clear blue Attic sky. On the evening before I left, we went up again.
Dad kept commenting on how lovely the sky was, and admired the buildings. He exclaimed how tall they were, and wondered how people managed to build them so tall and how come they don’t fall. I envied him then, for a moment, for being able to admire the beauty of nature and human ingenuity as if for the first time, just like a little child. He may have lost a part of himself –his memories- but has got back something perhaps as valuable: the pure, childish pleasure at looking at an animal or a baby or a beautiful flower. And he can’t miss me anymore now, because as soon as I leave, he’s forgotten me until I speak to him on the phone or go back to Athens. That spares one a lot of pain.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Traditional Iranian Singing
Just up the road from our house, Park-e Neshat, now renamed Mothers’ Paradise is a women-only park in which biking and other sport activities take place. Near the main entrance, the local cultural centre organises classes on handicrafts, traditional music, cookery and office skills, as well as classes for mother and children, and teenagers.
This park was designated as women-only about a year ago, but I had not visited it until last Tuesday. With the beginning of the school year I felt like trying something new from among the ‘regrets’ I carry in my mind about things I would like to do but haven’t had the time or the chance yet. Not that I have much time now, but as I’m getting old(er), I gradually realise how little time there is left in one’s life to do all the things one would like to do. I will never forget what my good friend Alex in London told me once: “When trying to decide whether you should do something, visualise the moment when you are about to leave this world. What will your regrets be?” This question always points towards true north.
Anyway, the cultural centre offers classes in traditional Iranian singing (avaz-e sonnati). I was told that I needed to get to the class and be tested before I enrol, so last Tuesday I went along. There were only another three students who started three months ago. The teacher asked me to sing something traditional. Not knowing any Persian traditional song, I sang a Greek one. She asked me a few questions about my previous experience (three years Greek church music, one year classical singing) and also whether I like Persian traditional music. I said I liked it, but haven’t tried singing it yet. Anyway, she said that I could join the class and see how it goes.
Apparently a set sequence of tunes is meant to be followed, so the other students have learned between eight and twelve tunes already, one a week. The teacher assigns a tune to every student individually, sings it for the student to record it and then gets her to write down the lyrics. Practising the tune at home is the weekly homework.
Iranian traditional music is mainly vocal, but the teacher accompanies the practice with a setar, a long-stemmed, three-stringed instrument similar to a lute, but with a longer stem and a smaller body. The sound of the setar is nostalgic, tinged with sadness, complemented by the lyrics that are usually taken from the body of classical Persian poetry: Hafez, Sa’adi, Attar, Rumi, and others.
Here follows my clumsy translation of my next week’s homework:
I have tried very hard to hide the secret of my love
But how could I be sitting on fire and not burn?
I was careful not to give my heart away to anyone
But when I saw your Face, all care and logic left me.
You sold me for nothing, but I am determined
Never to exchange one single hair of yours for the whole world.
Next Tuesday morning I will try a class on Rumi’s Mathnawi.
This park was designated as women-only about a year ago, but I had not visited it until last Tuesday. With the beginning of the school year I felt like trying something new from among the ‘regrets’ I carry in my mind about things I would like to do but haven’t had the time or the chance yet. Not that I have much time now, but as I’m getting old(er), I gradually realise how little time there is left in one’s life to do all the things one would like to do. I will never forget what my good friend Alex in London told me once: “When trying to decide whether you should do something, visualise the moment when you are about to leave this world. What will your regrets be?” This question always points towards true north.
Anyway, the cultural centre offers classes in traditional Iranian singing (avaz-e sonnati). I was told that I needed to get to the class and be tested before I enrol, so last Tuesday I went along. There were only another three students who started three months ago. The teacher asked me to sing something traditional. Not knowing any Persian traditional song, I sang a Greek one. She asked me a few questions about my previous experience (three years Greek church music, one year classical singing) and also whether I like Persian traditional music. I said I liked it, but haven’t tried singing it yet. Anyway, she said that I could join the class and see how it goes.
Apparently a set sequence of tunes is meant to be followed, so the other students have learned between eight and twelve tunes already, one a week. The teacher assigns a tune to every student individually, sings it for the student to record it and then gets her to write down the lyrics. Practising the tune at home is the weekly homework.
Iranian traditional music is mainly vocal, but the teacher accompanies the practice with a setar, a long-stemmed, three-stringed instrument similar to a lute, but with a longer stem and a smaller body. The sound of the setar is nostalgic, tinged with sadness, complemented by the lyrics that are usually taken from the body of classical Persian poetry: Hafez, Sa’adi, Attar, Rumi, and others.
Here follows my clumsy translation of my next week’s homework:
I have tried very hard to hide the secret of my love
But how could I be sitting on fire and not burn?
I was careful not to give my heart away to anyone
But when I saw your Face, all care and logic left me.
You sold me for nothing, but I am determined
Never to exchange one single hair of yours for the whole world.
Next Tuesday morning I will try a class on Rumi’s Mathnawi.
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