Taking advantage of the few days between the end of the children’s exams and the beginning of summer school for my daughter, we went on a mini-break westwards to Hamadan and Kermanshah.
We left on Monday 14 June at 7 am.
According to the inscription, the Ali Sadr Cave is the world’s largest underwater cave and dates back to the Second Geological Period (Jurassic, 136 – 190 million years ago). Parts of it remain unexplored and may stretch for hundreds of kilometres; the locals think that a cave near Zanjan, hundreds of kilometres to the north of Hamadan, is actually the same cave.
We arrived at the cave complex at 2.30 pm and had lunch at a traditional restaurant, sitting on a wooden platform covered in carpets. A brief walk during the hottest part of the day led to the entrance lobby to the cave. As soon as we stepped inside the specially formed corridor, the temperature dropped markedly, and during our visit it dropped as low as 16C, while outside the temperature was in the high thirties.
Visitors can proceed on foot until a certain depth, after which they need to board a boat tugged by a pedalo boat operated by two employees of the cave organisation. The passage is so tight in places that the sides of the boat scrape against the rocks. The water is Ph neutral, colourless and odourless, and has a natural taste. Because the water is crystal-clear, the underwater rocks and stalagmites are visible even to a depth of 14 meters.
Stalactite formations are stunning: white bunches hanging down from the roof as giant cauliflower; reddish and glistening patches spread along the sides in the shape of octopus tentacles and body parts of aliens (“They make me sick!”, daughter exclaimed); near the end of the tour, in a wide space named Talar-e Niayesh (Prayer Hall), an overhead stalactite forms the name of Allah in Arabic.
As we stepped out into the daylight again, the weather was slightly cooler. We drove for another hour and a half to Hamadan to look for a place to stay, but when we went to check-in, we realised that since Hossein hadn’t brought his ID booklet (shenas-nameh) to prove that we are related, we needed ID documents for all of us, which we didn’t have. The hotel receptionist directed us to a branch of the local police responsible for public places. The young officer on duty asked us a few questions and eventually issued a document allowing the hotel to give us a room.
More to follow in the next post.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Learning
“Seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave,” the Commander of the Faithful Imam Ali said. So I thought I’d put this advice to practice and have started to learn some Arabic, a wish I have had for a very long time. I have found a class that started a year ago and meets once a week, but has only progressed to the beginning of the second book. If (and this is a very big IF) I can work through until the end of the first book by the end of August, I might be able to join them from the beginning of the school year at the end of September.
I should get enough time in the summer: the last session of the class I teach is on 25 June, my daughter will attend summer school between 19 June and 11 August in preparation of next year’s university admission exams, and my son will also be at summer school between 3 July and 5 August. By the looks of it, plenty of fun to be had this summer.
I should get enough time in the summer: the last session of the class I teach is on 25 June, my daughter will attend summer school between 19 June and 11 August in preparation of next year’s university admission exams, and my son will also be at summer school between 3 July and 5 August. By the looks of it, plenty of fun to be had this summer.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Comment
A few days ago I received an email from an American PhD student who is spending the summer in Shiraz for her research and in order to improve her spoken Persian. She picked up the book on her way to Iran and read it during the flight, and expressed her appreciation for the information in Among the Iranians, which she found useful. She now refers to it often and, what I found most gratifying, is this comment:
I think if it wasn't for your book, I would be going crazy by now and would be very confused, but because of your book, I can take everything in with the knowledge of what is going on and am able to have more patience when dealing with new situations. I am slowly learning how to navigate through ta'roof and the sometimes overly zealous protection and hospitality, while I am just so grateful for their kindness and generosity.
While I was working on the book and sometimes found the writing hard going, I kept telling myself that even if one person’s experience of Iran is enhanced in a small way through reading this book, I would consider myself well rewarded. I have now found my reward.
I think if it wasn't for your book, I would be going crazy by now and would be very confused, but because of your book, I can take everything in with the knowledge of what is going on and am able to have more patience when dealing with new situations. I am slowly learning how to navigate through ta'roof and the sometimes overly zealous protection and hospitality, while I am just so grateful for their kindness and generosity.
While I was working on the book and sometimes found the writing hard going, I kept telling myself that even if one person’s experience of Iran is enhanced in a small way through reading this book, I would consider myself well rewarded. I have now found my reward.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Thursday evening
On the way from my flat to the main street there is a small square planted with grass, benches, a drinking fountain and a wooden hut for children to play in.
This square is a favourite haunt of retired men, who gather around the small stone tables and seats to observe a game of backgammon, just like old men do in coffee shops in Greece.
Last Thursday I was walking down our road to the main street. As usual, men were sitting around chatting and playing backgammon. A woman went round with a paper box offering biscuits in exchange for a prayer for her deceased. It is believed that on Thursday evenings the souls of the dead can roam free, so they can see if their relatives remember them.
The usual prayer for the dead is called Fatiha, and usually includes these two Quranic suras.
Sura 1 Fatiha (The Opening)
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Praise be to Allah, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds;
Gracious, Most Merciful;
Master of the Day of Judgment.
Thee do we worship and Thine aid we seek.
Show us the straight way,
The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace,
those whose (portion) is not wrath, and who go not astray.
Sura 112 Ikhlas (The Purity of Faith)
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Say: He is Allah, the One and Only;
Allah, the Eternal, Absolute;
He begetteth not, nor is He begotten;
And there is none like unto Him.
This square is a favourite haunt of retired men, who gather around the small stone tables and seats to observe a game of backgammon, just like old men do in coffee shops in Greece.
Last Thursday I was walking down our road to the main street. As usual, men were sitting around chatting and playing backgammon. A woman went round with a paper box offering biscuits in exchange for a prayer for her deceased. It is believed that on Thursday evenings the souls of the dead can roam free, so they can see if their relatives remember them.
The usual prayer for the dead is called Fatiha, and usually includes these two Quranic suras.
Sura 1 Fatiha (The Opening)
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Praise be to Allah, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds;
Gracious, Most Merciful;
Master of the Day of Judgment.
Thee do we worship and Thine aid we seek.
Show us the straight way,
The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace,
those whose (portion) is not wrath, and who go not astray.
Sura 112 Ikhlas (The Purity of Faith)
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Say: He is Allah, the One and Only;
Allah, the Eternal, Absolute;
He begetteth not, nor is He begotten;
And there is none like unto Him.
Monday, 10 May 2010
Teacher's Day
Just like every year, last Sunday 2 May was the anniversary of Morteza Motahari’s martyrdom. He was one of the intellectual architects of the Islamic Revolution, if not the main one, and his memory is celebrated every year by celebrating every teacher across the country.
The whole week that contains the anniversary is designated as “Teacher’s Week”. In schools, universities, adult education classes, everywhere where people teach and learn, students organise celebrations and buy their teachers presents and flowers. In my Quran class, one of the students collected money from all the students and bought our teacher a golden coin on behalf of the class and a box of pastry, which we al shared around the class after the lesson.
In my daughter’s school, where I am the deputy of the PTA (Parents’ – Teachers’ Association), a celebration was organised last Thursday. At one o’clock students and teachers were assembled in the hall, where the headteacher spoke briefly on the status of the teacher. She said that according to a prophetic tradition (hadith), whenever a person teaches, everything alive in the world prays for him/her. Then she handed out honorary certificates to every teacher to the cheers and applause of the students.
At quarter to two, the students had a picnic lunch in the school yard and were then dismissed. In the meantime, the school’s caretakers were preparing lunch for the teachers and the members of the PTA. Lunch was laid out in the school library in true Iranian style: chicken in ground walnut and pomegranate paste sauce (fesenjan), chicken with fried aubergines in red sauce, fragrant Iranian rice decorated with saffron, green salad, Mexican salad, drinking yogurt, and tea and Danish pastries afterwards.
When lunch was cleared out, the teachers offered a collective present to the headteacher (a gold coin), the school’s founder presented her with a white gold bracelet, the PTA gave her a complete set of non-stick cookware. She also got a complete commentary of the Holy Quran. Then, in her turn, she gave a non-stick cooking pot to every teacher and member of staff, saying that although the custom is to give personal items as presents, because she believes in strong family relations, she chose to buy them something they can use to cook for their family. She also wished that those teachers who are still single be married by the time of the next teachers’ celebration.
All this exchange of presents was accompanied by lots of jokes and compliments and asides. Although I only knew a couple of those present, I felt quite at home in the school’s friendly atmosphere; it reminded me of my teaching days in Southall, Middlesex back in the nineties. They felt so far away.
The whole week that contains the anniversary is designated as “Teacher’s Week”. In schools, universities, adult education classes, everywhere where people teach and learn, students organise celebrations and buy their teachers presents and flowers. In my Quran class, one of the students collected money from all the students and bought our teacher a golden coin on behalf of the class and a box of pastry, which we al shared around the class after the lesson.
In my daughter’s school, where I am the deputy of the PTA (Parents’ – Teachers’ Association), a celebration was organised last Thursday. At one o’clock students and teachers were assembled in the hall, where the headteacher spoke briefly on the status of the teacher. She said that according to a prophetic tradition (hadith), whenever a person teaches, everything alive in the world prays for him/her. Then she handed out honorary certificates to every teacher to the cheers and applause of the students.
At quarter to two, the students had a picnic lunch in the school yard and were then dismissed. In the meantime, the school’s caretakers were preparing lunch for the teachers and the members of the PTA. Lunch was laid out in the school library in true Iranian style: chicken in ground walnut and pomegranate paste sauce (fesenjan), chicken with fried aubergines in red sauce, fragrant Iranian rice decorated with saffron, green salad, Mexican salad, drinking yogurt, and tea and Danish pastries afterwards.
When lunch was cleared out, the teachers offered a collective present to the headteacher (a gold coin), the school’s founder presented her with a white gold bracelet, the PTA gave her a complete set of non-stick cookware. She also got a complete commentary of the Holy Quran. Then, in her turn, she gave a non-stick cooking pot to every teacher and member of staff, saying that although the custom is to give personal items as presents, because she believes in strong family relations, she chose to buy them something they can use to cook for their family. She also wished that those teachers who are still single be married by the time of the next teachers’ celebration.
All this exchange of presents was accompanied by lots of jokes and compliments and asides. Although I only knew a couple of those present, I felt quite at home in the school’s friendly atmosphere; it reminded me of my teaching days in Southall, Middlesex back in the nineties. They felt so far away.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Another farewell
Talking of farewells, Thia Marika passed away last Sunday 18 April. She was 92 years old and passed away peacefully at home, without having been ill, so I suppose one should be grateful for this. May God rest her soul and lead her to eternal bliss.
My mother only let me know this morning. I know that I should be thankful for her long life and its peaceful end, I am nevertheless sad at her loss. My mother doesn’t have any sisters, so her aunts, aunt Marika and aunt Varvara, who passed away three years ago, have always been like my maternal aunts. My sister Eleni and I grew up with them and this Marika’s daughter Irini: they used to visit us every Saturday evening and we learned a lot from their conversations.
Thia Marika had been especially kind to me in recent years. When we began to visit Kassos again with Hossein and the children, she kindly let us stay in her house, which is only a five-minute walk from my mother’s house that could not accommodate us all. In my and the children’s minds, thia Marika’s name will always be linked with the four summers of their childhood we spent in Kassos. May God repay her kindness.
Looking through my bits and pieces of writing, I dug out this piece which I wrote in 2002, describing her house.
Through the kindness of my mother’s aunt, I was allowed the use of her house throughout my stay in Kassos. The house is in some need of repair: doorhandles, hinges and bolts are rusted in the humid air and after long years of neglect, paint is peeling off doors and windows. The putty holding the window panes in place has flaked off, making the windows rattle menacingly at the smallest gust of air. The only cooking facility is a three-stove table top gas cooker connected to a gas cylinder. When not in use, the neighbour Bebis tells me it is advisable to secure the valve at the top of the cylinder.
Despite the lack of comforts, the house commands a superb view. Perched on a high spot just off the dry river bed of the river Skyllas, it faces west. Its front gate made of wood and featuring elegant wooden railing is painted in royal blue. This is now flaking in places, revealing its previous history: turquoise, cinnamon brown, pistachio green. Two raised flower beds run along the sides of the small yard, left and right. On the right, an old grapevine, its trunk old, gnarled and peeling has heaved itself up supported by three intersecting metal tubes forming a roughly shaped pergola. Its leaves are moth-eaten and unkempt, revealing some irregular, diseased bunches of grapes. On the left, a two-trunk lemon tree raises its limbs in a gesture of silent despair and rises to meet the vine over the middle of the yard, its skin dark grey, smooth and clear. The old companions’ permanent embrace casts a welcome shade on the faded, Victorian tiles of the yard.
Looking over to the north, one can see Fry, the port and the town, arranged eyebrow shape along the smooth coast. Moving westwards, my eyes greet the cemetery and the white form of Ai-Yiannis church fenced in by a white wall on a gently rising slope that leads on to the village of Ayia Marina. Then I follow the undulating rise like the profile of a sleeping giant, that reaches Profitis Elias, the minute church on top of the mountain.
I am elated to be here. This house is steeped in family history: my great-great grandmother Sofilla spent the last years of her life in this house when the Italian commandant requisitioned her own house and the olive grove next to it for his headquarters. She died in the room where I will sleep. Old photos on the wall signal some details of her life. A photograph of her daughter Barbara, who emigrated newly wed to America never to return; a fifties wedding photograph of Barbara’s daughter Sofia from America, with six maids of honour; a convent school photo of the 1920s of seven year old aunt Marika, in pinafore and hair in a short bob parted on the side.
My mother only let me know this morning. I know that I should be thankful for her long life and its peaceful end, I am nevertheless sad at her loss. My mother doesn’t have any sisters, so her aunts, aunt Marika and aunt Varvara, who passed away three years ago, have always been like my maternal aunts. My sister Eleni and I grew up with them and this Marika’s daughter Irini: they used to visit us every Saturday evening and we learned a lot from their conversations.
Thia Marika had been especially kind to me in recent years. When we began to visit Kassos again with Hossein and the children, she kindly let us stay in her house, which is only a five-minute walk from my mother’s house that could not accommodate us all. In my and the children’s minds, thia Marika’s name will always be linked with the four summers of their childhood we spent in Kassos. May God repay her kindness.
Looking through my bits and pieces of writing, I dug out this piece which I wrote in 2002, describing her house.
Through the kindness of my mother’s aunt, I was allowed the use of her house throughout my stay in Kassos. The house is in some need of repair: doorhandles, hinges and bolts are rusted in the humid air and after long years of neglect, paint is peeling off doors and windows. The putty holding the window panes in place has flaked off, making the windows rattle menacingly at the smallest gust of air. The only cooking facility is a three-stove table top gas cooker connected to a gas cylinder. When not in use, the neighbour Bebis tells me it is advisable to secure the valve at the top of the cylinder.
Despite the lack of comforts, the house commands a superb view. Perched on a high spot just off the dry river bed of the river Skyllas, it faces west. Its front gate made of wood and featuring elegant wooden railing is painted in royal blue. This is now flaking in places, revealing its previous history: turquoise, cinnamon brown, pistachio green. Two raised flower beds run along the sides of the small yard, left and right. On the right, an old grapevine, its trunk old, gnarled and peeling has heaved itself up supported by three intersecting metal tubes forming a roughly shaped pergola. Its leaves are moth-eaten and unkempt, revealing some irregular, diseased bunches of grapes. On the left, a two-trunk lemon tree raises its limbs in a gesture of silent despair and rises to meet the vine over the middle of the yard, its skin dark grey, smooth and clear. The old companions’ permanent embrace casts a welcome shade on the faded, Victorian tiles of the yard.
Looking over to the north, one can see Fry, the port and the town, arranged eyebrow shape along the smooth coast. Moving westwards, my eyes greet the cemetery and the white form of Ai-Yiannis church fenced in by a white wall on a gently rising slope that leads on to the village of Ayia Marina. Then I follow the undulating rise like the profile of a sleeping giant, that reaches Profitis Elias, the minute church on top of the mountain.
I am elated to be here. This house is steeped in family history: my great-great grandmother Sofilla spent the last years of her life in this house when the Italian commandant requisitioned her own house and the olive grove next to it for his headquarters. She died in the room where I will sleep. Old photos on the wall signal some details of her life. A photograph of her daughter Barbara, who emigrated newly wed to America never to return; a fifties wedding photograph of Barbara’s daughter Sofia from America, with six maids of honour; a convent school photo of the 1920s of seven year old aunt Marika, in pinafore and hair in a short bob parted on the side.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Back Home
The conclusion of the New Year feast (Nowruz) comes to an end on the thirteenth day of the new year (sizdeh be dar), wehn Iranians go on a picnic and cast away the sprouted wheat (sabzeh) in running water, casting away the evil along with the sabzeh. On the following day, life goes back to normal again.
This year sizdeh be dar fell on Good Friday, which was lucky for Iranians living outside Iran, like our friends in London, who insisted that we postpone our departure so that we could join them on their picnic. However, schools in Iran reopened last Saturday (and I doubt that any picnic took place in rainy London), so we left as planned on Thursday evening and arrived in Tehran on Friday 2 April at 2.30 am.
Being back in London initially felt strange, but after a day I felt as if I hadn't been away at all. To me this is a familiar sensation: I experience it every time I return to Athens, where I grew up; to Kassos, where my parents were born and where I spent my childhood summers; to London, where I spent most of my adult, married life, and now to Tehran, where home now is.
As we boarded the cab for Heathrow , under the pathetic fallacy of hail, I remembered Aqa jun, Hossein's father, and the last glimpse I had of himin this life. He was in the cab then leaving for Heathrow, and I stood in the doorway waving goodbye. He spent two months with us in the spring of 2006, and exactly a year later he passed away.
What is life, except a series of hellos and goodbyes.
This year sizdeh be dar fell on Good Friday, which was lucky for Iranians living outside Iran, like our friends in London, who insisted that we postpone our departure so that we could join them on their picnic. However, schools in Iran reopened last Saturday (and I doubt that any picnic took place in rainy London), so we left as planned on Thursday evening and arrived in Tehran on Friday 2 April at 2.30 am.
Being back in London initially felt strange, but after a day I felt as if I hadn't been away at all. To me this is a familiar sensation: I experience it every time I return to Athens, where I grew up; to Kassos, where my parents were born and where I spent my childhood summers; to London, where I spent most of my adult, married life, and now to Tehran, where home now is.
As we boarded the cab for Heathrow , under the pathetic fallacy of hail, I remembered Aqa jun, Hossein's father, and the last glimpse I had of himin this life. He was in the cab then leaving for Heathrow, and I stood in the doorway waving goodbye. He spent two months with us in the spring of 2006, and exactly a year later he passed away.
What is life, except a series of hellos and goodbyes.
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