Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Summer
I pull the shades and open the window with anticipation. My eyes gaze on the beauty of the summer, the blue sky, the green leaves of the trees, the lush grass. The sun shines on my cold body with its loving warmth. I close my eyes and bathe in the warmth while the gentle breeze caresses my skin and fills my being with the sweet smell of the honeysuckles. I take it all in and hold on to these beautiful moments. I am loved by the universe. I am filled with joy. I am grateful for this generosity and bestowal of the nature. There is no sorrow, there is no pain, there is no regret, there is no past, there is no future. There is only the present. There is only love and joy. I say, “thank you”.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Malihe
I was not yet born when Malihe came to live with my family in the 1960s. She was about 13 years old at the time. In those days in Iran, it was very common and inexpensive for middle class families to have a maid. There was so much poverty that a lot of very young girls from low-income families would offer their services as maids.
Malihe was slightly retarded, able to understand conversations and respond appropriately, but unable to perform the simplest tasks without a lot of supervision. Having been neglected and abused since birth, she was ignorant of the most basic things such as how to use a bathroom properly, how to bathe and how to dress herself. It was going to be my mother’s task to teach her everything.
When my mom was looking for a maid, someone told her about Malihe, but they didn’t tell her about all of her limitations. When she came to live with us, my mom and the rest of the family were, totally, surprised about her state of being. After a few days, when my mother realized that Malihe needed a lot of care, training and attention and that was not what my mom had expected, she decided to take her back to her family. Mom remembers that Malihe, who was somewhat homesick, knew the way to her mother and stepfather’s house. My mother followed her on a 40-minute walk to a rundown house in a very poor neighborhood in my hometown. She saw Malihe’s mother in the yard working. When the mother saw Malihe, the first thing she said to her was, “What are you doing here Mali? You shouldn’t be here. Go back.” Mali is short for Malihe. When Malihe said that she had come to stay, the mother insisted that she should go back with my mom. At the same time, the stepfather came out to the yard with a large kitchen knife and told her that he would cut her head off if she didn’t go back. Terrified and in tears Malihe followed my mother back to our house and stayed with us. After that, she refused to see her mother and sister when they would come to our house to collect the money that my parents would give them for Malihe’s services. Her mother and sister always wanted to talk to her and see how she was doing, but she would disappear and hide in some corner of the house until they would leave. So, finally, after many years they stopped coming to see her. Malihe never referred to her mother as mom or mother. She always called her by her first name, Farang. I remember her running upstairs after opening the front door and seeing that her mother had come to see her saying, “Farang is here, I don’t want to see her.” She had come to adopt my family as hers, and she, also, had bad memories from her childhood with her family. She no longer felt a bond between herself and them. When my mom told me the story of Malihe’s parents not wanting her, I asked her how could they not want her. My mom said, “They were very poor and had too many challenges in life. They didn’t know how to deal with her.”
Malihe had a very small and slender frame, thick hair and big beautiful eyes. She was the most energetic person that I have ever known. She was up at 6:00 AM before every body else and loved to be busy. She loved having company. She was the happiest when we had guests. She loved to listen to the radio all the time. She had a portable radio that she carried with her everywhere she went. She fell asleep listening to it and woke up listening to it. She, also, loved jewelry. My mom had bought her long gold earrings and several bracelets. You could hear her jewelry when she entered a room. Since I was born after she came to live with us, her feelings toward me were maternal. She was a kind soul. I remember her playing with me all the time when I was little. I remember being in her arms going to our backyard feeding my dad’s chickens. She shared her food with me all the time. I even remember one day when I was about three years or so, she was working in the kitchen. I noticed that she was chewing gum. I told her that I wanted some gum, since she didn’t have any; she took out the gum out of her mouth and put it in mine. I was too young to know better. But she gave me everything she had if I asked for it. She was my friend and I loved her.
One day when I was about five and Malihe about nineteen, Malihe and I joined my mom and my sister, Zhaleh, in the family room. Apparently, someone had just died and they were talking about death. I asked my mom and my sister, “Is everybody going to die?” They said, “Yes, everyone will die someday.” I got all upset and while crying said, “But I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” At the same time, Malihe got upset too and said, “I don’t want to die either.” My sister said, “Everyone dies, it’s not a bad thing.” Both Malihe and I said, “But we don’t want to die.” When my mom and sister saw us both so upset, they said, “OK, OK, you guys won’t die.” I asked, “Are you sure?” They repeated over and over, “We are sure, you two won’t die. Don’t worry.” After that Malihe and I relaxed feeling assured that everyone will die except for us. Happily, we went our way. Mentally, we were both about five years old, OK maybe Malihe was a little bit older than that, but not much.
When I went to first grade, I decided whatever I would learn at school, I would teach Malihe. I decided to spend a little bit of time with her every afternoon after school teaching her what I had learned that day. This way we would both learn to read and write together. I tried for several days, but it was too hard for Malihe, and she wasn’t that interested. I didn’t know how to explain things to her. Sadly, I gave up after a few days. I really thought I could teach her and how great it would be if we could read and write together. When I was in the middle school the first school for the mentally challenged was opened in my hometown. I remember thinking that was the place that Malihe should have gone. By then, Malihe was in her late twenties. The school was for children.
Malihe loved to work, clean and tidy things up. But her way of doing it made no sense. When she wanted to put things away, my clothes would end up in my dad’s closet, my sister’s in mine and so on. If we couldn’t find something, we knew that Malihe had probably done one of her infamous cleanups where things could be lost for days or weeks. Something that should be in the kitchen would end up in the basement or some other unusual place. We always had to ask her to find things that she had moved. No one could think of all the odd places she would put things. I remember, everyday when I would go to school, I would ask Malihe to stay away from my room, closet and things. When she would tell me your room is messy, I knew that meant that she was dying to go and clean it up in her own way of course, which terrified me. When I was a teenager and would sleep in until 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning during the summer, Malihe would get upset. Every day I was awakened by Malihe walking by my bedroom door and shouting, “Get up you lazy girl, it’s almost noon. Shame on you for sleeping so long.” Everyday I would say, “It’s my summer vacation, and I want to sleep in, don’t wake me up.” But the same exact thing would happen the next day. When I would get frustrated with her, my mom would say, “Malihe is like a mother to you. She washed your diapers when you were a baby.” meaning that I should be respectful to her. In reality, her picking on me was her way of mothering me and trying to discipline me.
When one of my cousins got pregnant, Malihe would ask me what do you think she is going to have? I would say, “I don’t know.” She would say, “I think, she’ll either have a boy or a girl.”
I always felt sorry for Malihe, because of her limitations in life. Her world consisted of helping my mother at home, cooking, cleaning, watering the plants, taking care of the garden, going to the bakery or other stores near my house to buy things for my mom, going to my sister’s house or friends’ house with us. It was a very simple life with no long-term goals. She was happy to be around people and the kids in the family. She was gentle, kind, giving and child like. Her vulnerability and simplicity was painful for me to see. I often felt like I needed to protect her. When she was upset about something, I made sure I talked to her and comforted her. As I grew older it was me who felt maternal toward her and protective of her. I knew that she would always need protection in life. She was no more than a child no matter how old she was.
The day I left home, when I was coming to the US, I said goodbye to her, hugged her and told her that I loved her. And I wondered if she really understood how much I loved her. Throughout the years I have thought about her often. I have talked to her many times on the phone. I have seen pictures of her. I have sent her presents. I will see her again someday. Throughout all the years that we have lived outside of Iran, Malihe has lived in my sister Azi’s household. Azi is a kind and gentle lady, and it makes me glad to know that Malihe is with her. Malihe has lived with my family for more than 40 years. She has seen three generations of my family be born. When I was at my family reunion in Dubai, over a month ago, I asked the youngest child who had come from Iran who she missed the most at home. She said, “I miss Malihe.” Malihe showers her love and affection on this child the same way she did on me.
A number of times in my life, I have had dreams that were significant to me. Some foretold future events that have come to pass. A couple of them have been about being close to a loved one. A little over a year ago, in a dream, I saw that Malihe was walking towards me. She looked about twenty years old and as beautiful as she used to look at that age. She was wearing a beautiful and clean red dress with white flowers. I was so happy to see her. When she got close to me, I asked her to sit next to me. I wanted to sit as close as possible to her. I kissed her face over and over and held her hands in my hands pressing them against my cheeks. She kissed my face and held my hands in hers. It felt so good to be near her. There was a glow around her body. In my dream, a veil had been removed, and I could feel the essence of her soul. Her essence was pure innocence. I could feel it. She was as pure and as innocent as a newborn child. I wanted to sit next to her beautiful being forever and bathe in the beauty of her loving soul. I was very attracted to the innocence that emanated from her. I didn’t want to be away from it. When I woke up, I started to cry, talking to Malihe, I kept telling her, “Don’t leave me yet, I need to be near you. I need you. I need you.” I wanted to hold on to what I was feeling in my dream. I didn’t want her to go away.
As I awoke, Malihe got further and further away from me. But I knew that through my dream I had seen and felt a glimpse of her innocent soul. In my dream, she had no limitations. She was whole and perfect. I knew that her mental retardation was just a veil and once removed there was a perfect and strong being underneath.
Malihe was slightly retarded, able to understand conversations and respond appropriately, but unable to perform the simplest tasks without a lot of supervision. Having been neglected and abused since birth, she was ignorant of the most basic things such as how to use a bathroom properly, how to bathe and how to dress herself. It was going to be my mother’s task to teach her everything.
When my mom was looking for a maid, someone told her about Malihe, but they didn’t tell her about all of her limitations. When she came to live with us, my mom and the rest of the family were, totally, surprised about her state of being. After a few days, when my mother realized that Malihe needed a lot of care, training and attention and that was not what my mom had expected, she decided to take her back to her family. Mom remembers that Malihe, who was somewhat homesick, knew the way to her mother and stepfather’s house. My mother followed her on a 40-minute walk to a rundown house in a very poor neighborhood in my hometown. She saw Malihe’s mother in the yard working. When the mother saw Malihe, the first thing she said to her was, “What are you doing here Mali? You shouldn’t be here. Go back.” Mali is short for Malihe. When Malihe said that she had come to stay, the mother insisted that she should go back with my mom. At the same time, the stepfather came out to the yard with a large kitchen knife and told her that he would cut her head off if she didn’t go back. Terrified and in tears Malihe followed my mother back to our house and stayed with us. After that, she refused to see her mother and sister when they would come to our house to collect the money that my parents would give them for Malihe’s services. Her mother and sister always wanted to talk to her and see how she was doing, but she would disappear and hide in some corner of the house until they would leave. So, finally, after many years they stopped coming to see her. Malihe never referred to her mother as mom or mother. She always called her by her first name, Farang. I remember her running upstairs after opening the front door and seeing that her mother had come to see her saying, “Farang is here, I don’t want to see her.” She had come to adopt my family as hers, and she, also, had bad memories from her childhood with her family. She no longer felt a bond between herself and them. When my mom told me the story of Malihe’s parents not wanting her, I asked her how could they not want her. My mom said, “They were very poor and had too many challenges in life. They didn’t know how to deal with her.”
Malihe had a very small and slender frame, thick hair and big beautiful eyes. She was the most energetic person that I have ever known. She was up at 6:00 AM before every body else and loved to be busy. She loved having company. She was the happiest when we had guests. She loved to listen to the radio all the time. She had a portable radio that she carried with her everywhere she went. She fell asleep listening to it and woke up listening to it. She, also, loved jewelry. My mom had bought her long gold earrings and several bracelets. You could hear her jewelry when she entered a room. Since I was born after she came to live with us, her feelings toward me were maternal. She was a kind soul. I remember her playing with me all the time when I was little. I remember being in her arms going to our backyard feeding my dad’s chickens. She shared her food with me all the time. I even remember one day when I was about three years or so, she was working in the kitchen. I noticed that she was chewing gum. I told her that I wanted some gum, since she didn’t have any; she took out the gum out of her mouth and put it in mine. I was too young to know better. But she gave me everything she had if I asked for it. She was my friend and I loved her.
One day when I was about five and Malihe about nineteen, Malihe and I joined my mom and my sister, Zhaleh, in the family room. Apparently, someone had just died and they were talking about death. I asked my mom and my sister, “Is everybody going to die?” They said, “Yes, everyone will die someday.” I got all upset and while crying said, “But I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” At the same time, Malihe got upset too and said, “I don’t want to die either.” My sister said, “Everyone dies, it’s not a bad thing.” Both Malihe and I said, “But we don’t want to die.” When my mom and sister saw us both so upset, they said, “OK, OK, you guys won’t die.” I asked, “Are you sure?” They repeated over and over, “We are sure, you two won’t die. Don’t worry.” After that Malihe and I relaxed feeling assured that everyone will die except for us. Happily, we went our way. Mentally, we were both about five years old, OK maybe Malihe was a little bit older than that, but not much.
When I went to first grade, I decided whatever I would learn at school, I would teach Malihe. I decided to spend a little bit of time with her every afternoon after school teaching her what I had learned that day. This way we would both learn to read and write together. I tried for several days, but it was too hard for Malihe, and she wasn’t that interested. I didn’t know how to explain things to her. Sadly, I gave up after a few days. I really thought I could teach her and how great it would be if we could read and write together. When I was in the middle school the first school for the mentally challenged was opened in my hometown. I remember thinking that was the place that Malihe should have gone. By then, Malihe was in her late twenties. The school was for children.
Malihe loved to work, clean and tidy things up. But her way of doing it made no sense. When she wanted to put things away, my clothes would end up in my dad’s closet, my sister’s in mine and so on. If we couldn’t find something, we knew that Malihe had probably done one of her infamous cleanups where things could be lost for days or weeks. Something that should be in the kitchen would end up in the basement or some other unusual place. We always had to ask her to find things that she had moved. No one could think of all the odd places she would put things. I remember, everyday when I would go to school, I would ask Malihe to stay away from my room, closet and things. When she would tell me your room is messy, I knew that meant that she was dying to go and clean it up in her own way of course, which terrified me. When I was a teenager and would sleep in until 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning during the summer, Malihe would get upset. Every day I was awakened by Malihe walking by my bedroom door and shouting, “Get up you lazy girl, it’s almost noon. Shame on you for sleeping so long.” Everyday I would say, “It’s my summer vacation, and I want to sleep in, don’t wake me up.” But the same exact thing would happen the next day. When I would get frustrated with her, my mom would say, “Malihe is like a mother to you. She washed your diapers when you were a baby.” meaning that I should be respectful to her. In reality, her picking on me was her way of mothering me and trying to discipline me.
When one of my cousins got pregnant, Malihe would ask me what do you think she is going to have? I would say, “I don’t know.” She would say, “I think, she’ll either have a boy or a girl.”
I always felt sorry for Malihe, because of her limitations in life. Her world consisted of helping my mother at home, cooking, cleaning, watering the plants, taking care of the garden, going to the bakery or other stores near my house to buy things for my mom, going to my sister’s house or friends’ house with us. It was a very simple life with no long-term goals. She was happy to be around people and the kids in the family. She was gentle, kind, giving and child like. Her vulnerability and simplicity was painful for me to see. I often felt like I needed to protect her. When she was upset about something, I made sure I talked to her and comforted her. As I grew older it was me who felt maternal toward her and protective of her. I knew that she would always need protection in life. She was no more than a child no matter how old she was.
The day I left home, when I was coming to the US, I said goodbye to her, hugged her and told her that I loved her. And I wondered if she really understood how much I loved her. Throughout the years I have thought about her often. I have talked to her many times on the phone. I have seen pictures of her. I have sent her presents. I will see her again someday. Throughout all the years that we have lived outside of Iran, Malihe has lived in my sister Azi’s household. Azi is a kind and gentle lady, and it makes me glad to know that Malihe is with her. Malihe has lived with my family for more than 40 years. She has seen three generations of my family be born. When I was at my family reunion in Dubai, over a month ago, I asked the youngest child who had come from Iran who she missed the most at home. She said, “I miss Malihe.” Malihe showers her love and affection on this child the same way she did on me.
A number of times in my life, I have had dreams that were significant to me. Some foretold future events that have come to pass. A couple of them have been about being close to a loved one. A little over a year ago, in a dream, I saw that Malihe was walking towards me. She looked about twenty years old and as beautiful as she used to look at that age. She was wearing a beautiful and clean red dress with white flowers. I was so happy to see her. When she got close to me, I asked her to sit next to me. I wanted to sit as close as possible to her. I kissed her face over and over and held her hands in my hands pressing them against my cheeks. She kissed my face and held my hands in hers. It felt so good to be near her. There was a glow around her body. In my dream, a veil had been removed, and I could feel the essence of her soul. Her essence was pure innocence. I could feel it. She was as pure and as innocent as a newborn child. I wanted to sit next to her beautiful being forever and bathe in the beauty of her loving soul. I was very attracted to the innocence that emanated from her. I didn’t want to be away from it. When I woke up, I started to cry, talking to Malihe, I kept telling her, “Don’t leave me yet, I need to be near you. I need you. I need you.” I wanted to hold on to what I was feeling in my dream. I didn’t want her to go away.
As I awoke, Malihe got further and further away from me. But I knew that through my dream I had seen and felt a glimpse of her innocent soul. In my dream, she had no limitations. She was whole and perfect. I knew that her mental retardation was just a veil and once removed there was a perfect and strong being underneath.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Seven Iranian Baha'i Prisoners
There are many Baha'is in prison in Iran solely because of their religious beliefs. Among them are the seven leaders of the Baha'i Faith in Iran. Below is an excerpt from the Baha'i World News Service website:
"NEW YORK — As seven Baha'i leaders in Iran enter their third year of imprisonment, new details about the harsh conditions of their incarceration have emerged, prompting renewed calls for their immediate release.
The prisoners are Mrs. Fariba Kamalabadi, Mr. Jamaloddin Khanjani, Mr. Afif Naeimi, Mr. Saeid Rezaie, Mrs. Mahvash Sabet, Mr. Behrouz Tavakkoli, and Mr. Vahid Tizfahm.
"These innocent Baha'is have now been locked up for two full years in Tehran's notorious Evin prison, under conditions which clearly violate international standards," said Bani Dugal, the principal representative of the Baha'i International Community to the United Nations. "We call on the Iranian authorities to release them now, and ask the international community to join us in this plea. The dictates of justice demand no less."
The prisoners, former members of an informal group known as the Yaran, or "Friends," used to attend to the spiritual and social needs of the several hundred thousand Baha'is of Iran. They have been held in Evin prison since they were arrested in 2008 – six of them on 14 May and one of them two months earlier.
No court hearing was held until 12 January this year when they appeared in Branch 28 of the Revolutionary Court. Charges including espionage, propaganda activities and "corruption on earth" were all denied. Further appearances took place on 7 February and 12 April.
"In the three trial sessions that have so far taken place, no evidence has been provided whatsoever of wrongdoing – making it all the more obvious that the prisoners are being held only because of their religious belief," said Ms. Dugal."
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Reunion (Part 2)
Continuation of the previous blog entry:
A few minutes later, we see two young women
coming towards us excitedly. They are Azi’s daughters. The last time I saw them
one was eight and the other was one and a half years old. We hug each other
several times and cry. I am in disbelief trying to register who they are. They
are both familiar and unfamiliar. I am at a loss for words not sure, what is
the right thing to say. Azi is waiting in front of the apartment building. I
see Azi in the dark. She is crying. I walk towards her. I’m all chocked up
barely able to speak with a weak voice I say, “It’s Soheila.” knowing that it
is difficult to see in the dark. She says, “Oh, Soheila” and we embrace each
other tightly both sobbing. I am unable to talk. In the midst of her cries Azi,
occasionally, says, “Thank God, thank God…” We hold each other and sob for ten
minutes while her daughters watch. I cry with so much pain. It is the pain of
all that I have suffered alone in life. Her loving embrace has a healing effect
on me. For ten minutes, I only feel love. There is no other feeling. There is
no fear. I have no other concerns. That night and every night after that we all
stay up late and talk. That night and the next day, we find ourselves crying
and emotional at the immensity of what we are experiencing. Sometime the next
day, Azi, while talking, refers to me by my childhood nickname. I feel a knot
in my throat and start to cry again. I have not heard her call me by my
nickname since I was a child. I spend the entire next day with Azi talking and
bonding with her. I want to get to know her. I want to know what she is like.
She is soft-spoken, very calm and mild mannered. She is a highly principled
lady with an unshakable faith. She is a person who lives her life according to
what she believes is pleasing to God. Every action and decision is based on
that principle. Unlike me, she seems very much at peace with her life. I am
often dissatisfied with myself and my life, a life which most of the time has
made no sense to me. It is difficult for me to see God’s hand in my life. But,
what do I know, maybe, God has had a hand in my crazy and totally out of order
life too. At times, I notice that Azi looks at me looking baffled as though she
is trying to figure me out. We are both trying to figure each other out. She
has never known me as an adult and one thing is very obvious, we are very
different. At times, I wonder if she and her daughters find my, sometimes,
irreverent sense of humor and uninhibited words, laughter, mannerism and
silliness too forward or odd.
Over the next several days, I get to know Azi and her daughters more. What is obvious are the cultural differences. I have lived most of my life in the US and my approach to things, perceptions and viewpoints are much less conservative than theirs. I am not as proper as they are. They find me more assertive than they are, and they attribute that to my living in the States for so long where women are not expected to take a backseat in society. I do appreciate the differences. We spend seven days together, talking, bonding and sightseeing.
Dubai is a very modern city. It is a city that has been, basically, built in the last twenty years. Everything is new. It is the city of skyscrapers. The highways are nice and wide. There are a lot of flashy buildings and structures that remind me of Las Vegas. Dubai looks like a small, new and clean version of the US. There are numerous malls. The tallest building in the world is in Dubai. There are man-made islands of sand in the Persian Gulf that house luxurious buildings. The place is full of American and European chains. If you don’t see the Arab men and women around, you would think you are either in Europe or the US. In the more touristy areas you see non-Arab women in revealing clothes. Most of the people in Dubai are foreigners. They are either visitors or workers. Practically, all the workers at shops, hotels and restaurants are foreigners from other Asian countries.
One of my dreams was realized when I was in the waters of the Persian Gulf. The first time on the beach, I closed my eyes and tried to remember how warm and gentle the water felt on my body. I kept telling myself, “I’m in the waters of the Persian Gulf, remember this, remember this…” The water was clear, warm and gentle with very small waves.
Over the next several days, I get to know Azi and her daughters more. What is obvious are the cultural differences. I have lived most of my life in the US and my approach to things, perceptions and viewpoints are much less conservative than theirs. I am not as proper as they are. They find me more assertive than they are, and they attribute that to my living in the States for so long where women are not expected to take a backseat in society. I do appreciate the differences. We spend seven days together, talking, bonding and sightseeing.
Dubai is a very modern city. It is a city that has been, basically, built in the last twenty years. Everything is new. It is the city of skyscrapers. The highways are nice and wide. There are a lot of flashy buildings and structures that remind me of Las Vegas. Dubai looks like a small, new and clean version of the US. There are numerous malls. The tallest building in the world is in Dubai. There are man-made islands of sand in the Persian Gulf that house luxurious buildings. The place is full of American and European chains. If you don’t see the Arab men and women around, you would think you are either in Europe or the US. In the more touristy areas you see non-Arab women in revealing clothes. Most of the people in Dubai are foreigners. They are either visitors or workers. Practically, all the workers at shops, hotels and restaurants are foreigners from other Asian countries.
One of my dreams was realized when I was in the waters of the Persian Gulf. The first time on the beach, I closed my eyes and tried to remember how warm and gentle the water felt on my body. I kept telling myself, “I’m in the waters of the Persian Gulf, remember this, remember this…” The water was clear, warm and gentle with very small waves.
The most fascinating thing to me was
the co-existence of the conservative Islamic culture and the western culture In
Dubai. In malls, on the streets, on the beach, in the restaurants you see Arab
women with their long black coverings not even showing their faces walking,
shopping and eating. Next to them, you can see foreign women wearing short
skirts and low cut tops. I wonder what the Arabs think about the non-Muslim
women showing flesh. Do they find it offensive? Do they find it shameless and
vulgar? In the Islamic cultures modesty for women is a necessity, and it is
enforced by law in certain countries.
One day, while shopping, I see an Arab woman who is covered from head to toe in black with only her eyes showing. She is window-shopping. I start to talk to her. She can speak a little bit of English. I ask her, “Isn’t she hot wearing all that black?” She says, “No” and she puts her hand on mine and says, “See”. Yes, her hand is cold, but we are in an air-conditioned mall. I ask her what she thinks about wearing all that covering. She says, “She doesn’t mind it, and it is the law of Mohammed that Muslim women should cover up.” She says she is from Saudi Arabia and all women there have to be covered up totally with only their eyes showing. I knew that, imagining all women being covered from head to toe in black walking on the street with only the eyes showing is a depressing image. She says that she feels that non-Muslims are afraid of her when they see her in all black. She asks me if that is the case. I tell her, "I think it is just something very different and unusual for them to see." Personally, I find it jarring to see women like that, but I don’t say that to her. I have always seen the covering of women as a symbol of oppression of women by men. In the heat of Arabia, man walk around in white cotton gowns and women are covered in layers of black. It seems so unfair, but it is obvious that she is at peace with it. To her, it means that she obeys her religion, and it is a symbol of her piety. I ask her if her husband has more than one wife since Muslim men can have up to four wives. She is slightly embarrassed by the question and says, “No, my husband only has me, and he is a very good husband.” She says that a man having more than one wife is an uncommon occurrence. She is very sweet and friendly. She invites me to go and visit Saudi Arabia. She says that people are nice and friendly there. She is 27, mother of four children and has been married since she was seventeen. She might have a high school diploma. I’m impressed by her English and the extent that she is able to communicate with me.
I find it fascinating that Arab men and women with their traditional clothes sit at Starbucks, drink coffee and have cheesecake while Lady Gaga’s music with its very irreverent lyrics is being played. I, also, find it fascinating to see women covered in black at expensive stores such as Versace and Dior buying $500.00 purses. There is western influence everywhere. I thought it might be frustrating for their youth to be near people who are so uninhibited in the way they live, dress and behave while they are so restricted.
Another thing that is interesting to me is that all the young Arabs from Dubai speak fluent English. A young man tells me that their curriculum in school is both in English and Arabic. I’m also surprised at the number of people with Iranian ancestry living in Dubai. I am shocked the first time I see a man in Arabian clothes and headdress speaking, our language, Persian in a mall. Iranians are one of the largest minorities in Dubai and owners of many businesses. I come across several men of Iranian ancestry when getting information about different things. They all wear Arabian clothes. When they would find out that I’m from Iran, they would all insist on speaking Persian with me wanting to practice their Persian. Most of them are born in Dubai. Their identity is mostly Arab.
The only activity that I participate in that is different is going on a desert safari. I go with a small group of tourists and a guide. We drive over the sand dunes in the desert for a while. I pay a bunch of money to ride a camel for three minutes. I have my hands painted with Henna in the tradition of Middle Eastern and Indian women.
During the desert safari, after we drive about 30 minutes in the desert, we stop to take pictures. Because my sandals get filled with sand with every step, I take them off and start to walk barefoot in the sand. I am surprised at how soft and smooth the sand is. The sand is like powder, so much easier to walk on without shoes. It is the softest surface I have ever walked on. I absolutely love it. For the rest of the night, I walk barefoot in the sand. Arabs conquered Iran over a thousand years ago and brought Islam to Iran. Iranians had always been the more civilized nation with grand buildings, libraries, universities and art. Throughout my childhood, I remember people referring to the conquering of Iran by the Arabs as conquering of Iran by the “barefoot Arabs”, which was a derogatory term. Not wearing shoes was a sign of incivility. Walking on the sand, I thought if this were the surface you walked on, why would you ever want to wear shoes. This sand is a gentle and loving surface to walk on, so much softer and nicer than walking on grass or any beach that I have ever walked on. I enjoy my feet going deep into the powder-like and warm sand while walking. It feels tender like a loving touch.
I look around me in the desert. All I can see is brown sand and sand dunes. There are no plants or vegetation. Sand is all you can see until it meets the sky in the horizon. After looking at this view for a few minutes where every direction I look I only see brown sand, I feel terrified. I need to see something, anything, instead of what seems like vast nothingness. I turn around and look at the SUV and the people in my tour, and I feel better. It is like being in a room where all the walls, doors and door nubs are white and there are no windows. I think I would go insane if I had to live in the desert. How do the Bedouins do it? Yet, I hear a number of times from the locals how they enjoy the desert. It is their nature. It is where they go to escape the city. It is like going to the mountains for those of us who live in Colorado.
During the trip I have a couple of interesting conversations with the local men who approach me. The most interesting is with a young Arab shopkeeper who owns a store that is full of beautiful hand-made pottery, art and fabric. I am drawn to this shop. Everything in it is so beautiful. I go in and start to look. The young shopkeeper starts to follow me offering to show me some things. I’m trying not to look interested. I can tell everything in this shop is out of my price range. He is very friendly and insists on talking while I’m trying not to make eye contact with him. I don’t want him to waste his time thinking that he has a buyer. I, politely, try to tell him that I’m just looking but he, clearly, wants to talk. He asks me if I’m from Iran. I say, “Yes”. Our conversation is in a mixture of English and some Arabic words. My Persian pronunciation of Arabic words leads him to guess that I’m Iranian. While trying to get me interested in looking at different things, he pays me a number of compliments. I look at him. He is a man in his twenties wearing the traditional clothes of Arab men. He asks me if I’m married. I tell him that I’m divorced; knowing that in the Middle Eastern culture a divorced woman is not as desirable as an unmarried woman. He says, "Would you like to be married?" I am shocked. I look at him and say, “No, I never want to marry again.” He says, “But you are beautiful, you should marry.” I ask him how old he is. He says that he is twenty-five. I tell him that I’m way older than he is, and he should be talking to the young and beautiful women who live in Dubai. He says, “I don’t care about age. I was immediately attracted to you when you walked into my shop.” He keeps asking me if I would be interested in marriage. For the fourth time I say, “No”. In order to get him to quit asking me, I tell him that I’m not a Muslim. He says, “No problem”. I don’t know what else to say. I’m divorced, I’m older, I’m not a Muslim, all the things that would make me undesirable in an Islamic culture, and he is still interested. I want to leave, but he insists on talking. He keeps telling me that he is interested in marriage. I keep telling myself that there has to be a catch here. I wonder what else I can tell him to get him to lose interest. He is so OK with everything I say. Maybe I should tell him how old I am, but I don’t disclose that information just to anybody. He, clearly, thinks that I’m a lot younger than I am. Finally, I leave his shop as he puts one of his cards in my hand and says, “I’m serious. You would love living in Dubai. Think about it, and I hope you’ll change your mind.” I say Goodbye. I leave the shop totally confused. I ask myself, “Was he for real?”
Finally, the day of our departure arrives. I am the first to have to leave. It has been a great visit. It was needed for all of us. When I left Iran, I never thought that the situation in Iran would remain so hostile and dangerous for such a long time. I thought that I would be able to see my family often. But that wasn’t the case. For years, I lived as though there was unfinished business in my life when it came to my family who lives in Iran. I needed some kind of closure. This trip gave me that. I feel fine about saying goodbye. I know what I need to know about my family. What needed to be said has been said. What needed to be felt has been felt. What needed to be experienced for me to fill the hole in my heart has been experienced. I know that I belong to my life, and they belong to theirs. It is time to go. We say goodbye and plan on another reunion in a few years if not in Iran in some other country. I kiss and hug everyone numerous times and tell them that I love them. As I say goodbye, I look at everyone’s face deeply, trying to remember smiles and expressions. I look at Azi’s face. For an instant, I remember Azi’s face when I said goodbye to her over 20 years ago. It is the same face, smile and expression just older. Azi’s face is the face I’m looking at when the elevator door closes. I take a deep breath. I am satisfied. I have found that piece of my heart that had been missing for so many years. It is now in its proper place. Things are as they should be.
Two things I will miss about Dubai, walking in the loving desert sand and being in the waters of the Persian Gulf, the body of water named after my heritage.
One day, while shopping, I see an Arab woman who is covered from head to toe in black with only her eyes showing. She is window-shopping. I start to talk to her. She can speak a little bit of English. I ask her, “Isn’t she hot wearing all that black?” She says, “No” and she puts her hand on mine and says, “See”. Yes, her hand is cold, but we are in an air-conditioned mall. I ask her what she thinks about wearing all that covering. She says, “She doesn’t mind it, and it is the law of Mohammed that Muslim women should cover up.” She says she is from Saudi Arabia and all women there have to be covered up totally with only their eyes showing. I knew that, imagining all women being covered from head to toe in black walking on the street with only the eyes showing is a depressing image. She says that she feels that non-Muslims are afraid of her when they see her in all black. She asks me if that is the case. I tell her, "I think it is just something very different and unusual for them to see." Personally, I find it jarring to see women like that, but I don’t say that to her. I have always seen the covering of women as a symbol of oppression of women by men. In the heat of Arabia, man walk around in white cotton gowns and women are covered in layers of black. It seems so unfair, but it is obvious that she is at peace with it. To her, it means that she obeys her religion, and it is a symbol of her piety. I ask her if her husband has more than one wife since Muslim men can have up to four wives. She is slightly embarrassed by the question and says, “No, my husband only has me, and he is a very good husband.” She says that a man having more than one wife is an uncommon occurrence. She is very sweet and friendly. She invites me to go and visit Saudi Arabia. She says that people are nice and friendly there. She is 27, mother of four children and has been married since she was seventeen. She might have a high school diploma. I’m impressed by her English and the extent that she is able to communicate with me.
I find it fascinating that Arab men and women with their traditional clothes sit at Starbucks, drink coffee and have cheesecake while Lady Gaga’s music with its very irreverent lyrics is being played. I, also, find it fascinating to see women covered in black at expensive stores such as Versace and Dior buying $500.00 purses. There is western influence everywhere. I thought it might be frustrating for their youth to be near people who are so uninhibited in the way they live, dress and behave while they are so restricted.
Another thing that is interesting to me is that all the young Arabs from Dubai speak fluent English. A young man tells me that their curriculum in school is both in English and Arabic. I’m also surprised at the number of people with Iranian ancestry living in Dubai. I am shocked the first time I see a man in Arabian clothes and headdress speaking, our language, Persian in a mall. Iranians are one of the largest minorities in Dubai and owners of many businesses. I come across several men of Iranian ancestry when getting information about different things. They all wear Arabian clothes. When they would find out that I’m from Iran, they would all insist on speaking Persian with me wanting to practice their Persian. Most of them are born in Dubai. Their identity is mostly Arab.
The only activity that I participate in that is different is going on a desert safari. I go with a small group of tourists and a guide. We drive over the sand dunes in the desert for a while. I pay a bunch of money to ride a camel for three minutes. I have my hands painted with Henna in the tradition of Middle Eastern and Indian women.
During the desert safari, after we drive about 30 minutes in the desert, we stop to take pictures. Because my sandals get filled with sand with every step, I take them off and start to walk barefoot in the sand. I am surprised at how soft and smooth the sand is. The sand is like powder, so much easier to walk on without shoes. It is the softest surface I have ever walked on. I absolutely love it. For the rest of the night, I walk barefoot in the sand. Arabs conquered Iran over a thousand years ago and brought Islam to Iran. Iranians had always been the more civilized nation with grand buildings, libraries, universities and art. Throughout my childhood, I remember people referring to the conquering of Iran by the Arabs as conquering of Iran by the “barefoot Arabs”, which was a derogatory term. Not wearing shoes was a sign of incivility. Walking on the sand, I thought if this were the surface you walked on, why would you ever want to wear shoes. This sand is a gentle and loving surface to walk on, so much softer and nicer than walking on grass or any beach that I have ever walked on. I enjoy my feet going deep into the powder-like and warm sand while walking. It feels tender like a loving touch.
I look around me in the desert. All I can see is brown sand and sand dunes. There are no plants or vegetation. Sand is all you can see until it meets the sky in the horizon. After looking at this view for a few minutes where every direction I look I only see brown sand, I feel terrified. I need to see something, anything, instead of what seems like vast nothingness. I turn around and look at the SUV and the people in my tour, and I feel better. It is like being in a room where all the walls, doors and door nubs are white and there are no windows. I think I would go insane if I had to live in the desert. How do the Bedouins do it? Yet, I hear a number of times from the locals how they enjoy the desert. It is their nature. It is where they go to escape the city. It is like going to the mountains for those of us who live in Colorado.
During the trip I have a couple of interesting conversations with the local men who approach me. The most interesting is with a young Arab shopkeeper who owns a store that is full of beautiful hand-made pottery, art and fabric. I am drawn to this shop. Everything in it is so beautiful. I go in and start to look. The young shopkeeper starts to follow me offering to show me some things. I’m trying not to look interested. I can tell everything in this shop is out of my price range. He is very friendly and insists on talking while I’m trying not to make eye contact with him. I don’t want him to waste his time thinking that he has a buyer. I, politely, try to tell him that I’m just looking but he, clearly, wants to talk. He asks me if I’m from Iran. I say, “Yes”. Our conversation is in a mixture of English and some Arabic words. My Persian pronunciation of Arabic words leads him to guess that I’m Iranian. While trying to get me interested in looking at different things, he pays me a number of compliments. I look at him. He is a man in his twenties wearing the traditional clothes of Arab men. He asks me if I’m married. I tell him that I’m divorced; knowing that in the Middle Eastern culture a divorced woman is not as desirable as an unmarried woman. He says, "Would you like to be married?" I am shocked. I look at him and say, “No, I never want to marry again.” He says, “But you are beautiful, you should marry.” I ask him how old he is. He says that he is twenty-five. I tell him that I’m way older than he is, and he should be talking to the young and beautiful women who live in Dubai. He says, “I don’t care about age. I was immediately attracted to you when you walked into my shop.” He keeps asking me if I would be interested in marriage. For the fourth time I say, “No”. In order to get him to quit asking me, I tell him that I’m not a Muslim. He says, “No problem”. I don’t know what else to say. I’m divorced, I’m older, I’m not a Muslim, all the things that would make me undesirable in an Islamic culture, and he is still interested. I want to leave, but he insists on talking. He keeps telling me that he is interested in marriage. I keep telling myself that there has to be a catch here. I wonder what else I can tell him to get him to lose interest. He is so OK with everything I say. Maybe I should tell him how old I am, but I don’t disclose that information just to anybody. He, clearly, thinks that I’m a lot younger than I am. Finally, I leave his shop as he puts one of his cards in my hand and says, “I’m serious. You would love living in Dubai. Think about it, and I hope you’ll change your mind.” I say Goodbye. I leave the shop totally confused. I ask myself, “Was he for real?”
Finally, the day of our departure arrives. I am the first to have to leave. It has been a great visit. It was needed for all of us. When I left Iran, I never thought that the situation in Iran would remain so hostile and dangerous for such a long time. I thought that I would be able to see my family often. But that wasn’t the case. For years, I lived as though there was unfinished business in my life when it came to my family who lives in Iran. I needed some kind of closure. This trip gave me that. I feel fine about saying goodbye. I know what I need to know about my family. What needed to be said has been said. What needed to be felt has been felt. What needed to be experienced for me to fill the hole in my heart has been experienced. I know that I belong to my life, and they belong to theirs. It is time to go. We say goodbye and plan on another reunion in a few years if not in Iran in some other country. I kiss and hug everyone numerous times and tell them that I love them. As I say goodbye, I look at everyone’s face deeply, trying to remember smiles and expressions. I look at Azi’s face. For an instant, I remember Azi’s face when I said goodbye to her over 20 years ago. It is the same face, smile and expression just older. Azi’s face is the face I’m looking at when the elevator door closes. I take a deep breath. I am satisfied. I have found that piece of my heart that had been missing for so many years. It is now in its proper place. Things are as they should be.
Two things I will miss about Dubai, walking in the loving desert sand and being in the waters of the Persian Gulf, the body of water named after my heritage.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Reunion (Part 1)
April 2nd 2010
I’m on a plane on my way to Dubai. I have been
traveling for the last 18 hours. We will land in Dubai in about two hours. For
some reason, as the time of my departure grew near, I felt more and more numb.
I haven’t been emotional at all. I have been wondering about meeting Azi, my
sister whom I have not seen in over twenty years, and her two daughters. After all these years, we are meeting in
Dubai for a family reunion. Iran is the
country of my birth. I left Iran when I
was 17 years old and have not been back since due to the political situation in
Iran. I keep asking myself, “What if I
don’t feel anything when I see Azi and her daughters?” So many years have
passed. We have been separated by time and a culture that is so different from
my own. I have changed so much. What if we have nothing in common?
The young American man sitting next to me is so polite and courteous. He is going to Dubai to see his parents who work there. About half of the people on the plane seem to be from India, Middle East and other Asian countries. The announcements made by the flight attendants are in English and Arabic.
During the flight, I, periodically, look at the map of our journey on the TV monitor in front of me. We are flying by Iran. How I wish I were going to Iran instead of Dubai. That was my original plan, but the political situation in Iran has gotten worse and those of my family who don’t live in Iran decided not to take any chances by traveling to Iran for this family reunion. For a moment, I think about all the pain and oppression inflicted on the people of Iran by the Islamic Republic of Iran. So many young people are in prisons enduring unimaginable cruelty. So many people are suffering at the hands of the unjust Muslim clergy. This government has persecuted the Baha’is, people of my religion, since it came to power over 30 years ago. My heart goes out to all of them, and I say a prayer for Iran. In my mind, I visualize the map of Iran in flames. That is how I see Iran. The calamity endured by the Iranians during the reign of the Islamic regime has been great. People’s freedoms and human rights have been taken away so violently and in so many different ways.
The plane is descending. We are flying over the Persian Gulf. I remember when I lived in Iran, every spring during the Persian New Year holiday of Norooz, we would travel to the southern part of Iran by the Persian Gulf where my sister Azi and her family used to live. Iran or Persia has the longest border of any country with the Persian Gulf and hence the name. About fifteen minutes before landing, I see an island with four huge fires burning. It is the untamed gas that is burning continuously. The flames starch out to the sky for hundreds or thousands of feet. As a child, I saw similar fires in the oil rich areas of Iran. As we descend, I can see the city of Dubai. It is obvious that it is a new city. There are many roads and highways. The roads are straight and they, sometimes, form perfect squares when they cross. There is symmetry in a lot of what I see. There are very large highways with six or seven lanes going one way.
We land. The Dubai airport is new and beautiful. There are palm trees in the main area. I see Arab men dressed in long white gowns that are very clean and ironed. They have their traditional headdress on and all are wearing sandals. I see women wearing long black covering. Some show their faces, which are perfectly made up. Some only show their eyes. Some show nothing and are covered entirely with a black cloth over their faces. Some are wearing pants and long sleeve shirts with shawls over their hair. I feel almost naked with my hair and some skin showing. I didn’t expect to see women that were covered entirely in black not showing an inch of skin in Dubai. I thought because there is such an influx of foreigners in Dubai Arab women would be less conservative. The airport workers are all foreigners, people from the Philippines, India, Pakistan and other Asian nations. All are fluent in English. The foreign women are dressed like westerners. The only Arabs that I see working are the men at the customs, again, all dressed in white long gowns with their headdresses. I pick up my luggage, exchange dollars to Dirham and head out to catch a cab. I ask myself, “Is it safe for me to take a cab alone?” It is 8:00 PM. The temperature is in the 80’s and it is very humid. I catch a cab. The friendly disposition of the driver makes me feel at ease. He is from India. During the thirty minutes that takes me to get to my hotel, I look at my surroundings. Buildings are all new and western in style. The only thing that reminds one that she or he is in an Arab country is that all the signs for stores, banks and businesses are both in English and Arabic. Because there are so many Arabic words incorporated into the Persian language and vise versa, I can read a lot of the signs. As I look at my surroundings, I see Starbucks, Chilies, KFC, Ace Hardware, Baskin Robins, and other American chains.
April 3rd
This is the day that my family who has come from four different counties for this reunion will meet. With the exception of Azi and her daughters, I have seen everybody recently. I am nervous about meeting Azi and her family. At 6:00 o’clock, my sister Zhaleh, and one of my relatives Simon with her 2 kids and her husband Polo arrive. Simon and her husband have rented a minivan for the duration of our stay. On the way to meet Azi, Simon’s husband, Polo and their two kids are going to be dropped off at SKI Dubai, a large building where fake snow and ski slopes are made, and people who have never seen snow can actually ski in the midst of the Arabian Desert. The minivan is equipped with a GPS, which Simon refers to as “Lola”.
Finally, at 7:00 PM we start on the path to our reunion. Every few minutes, I remember that the long awaited moment of reunion is finally arriving. I am filled with excitement and fear, fear of not being able to connect to the people that I have not seen in so many years, fear of being total strangers.
We get in the minivan. Polo is driving and Lola, the GPS, is guiding us. The car is low on gas, and we need to find a gas station before going too far. There are so many new constructions and roads that Lola, the GPS, gets us lost. Lola doesn't have the latest information and is totally confused. After about 20 minutes of driving we end up in front of our hotel back where we started. We all get a good laugh out of this. At that point, Polo goes to a cab driver and asks him about the nearest gas station, which apparently is not easy to find. Polo gives him some money and asks him to lead us to a gas station. We get in the car trying to follow the cab driver that zooms through the traffic very quickly. Polo follows him making quick moves trying not to lose him. At one point, we’re not sure if we’re following the right cab. Polo is driving fast and Simon is trying to keep track of the cab saying things like “He turned here. He went to the left. He went to the right….” While behind a red light, Polo gets out of the car and goes to the cab driver and says, “Don’t make me drive all over the city. I’m almost out of gas.” Twenty minutes later, we are at a gas station. After Polo puts gas in the car, he and the kids take the same cab that we were following to go to Ski Dubai. Meanwhile, Zhaleh, Simon and I will go to meet Azi. Polo leaves. Simon gets behind the steering wheel and says, “I can’t put the car in gear.” I tell her, “You have to turn on the engine first!” We both look at the starter and there is no key. Frantically, Simon looks in her purse and all over the car to find the key, but there is no key to be found. We are parked in front of a gas pump at a gas station. The three of us burst into laughter. Once we stop laughing, we start panicking. We talk to the gas station attendant. We tell him what has happened. He says, “But you have to move your car.” We keep repeating that there is no key. He tells Simon to call her husband. She says, “We don’t have cell phone coverage here. I can’t contact him.” Simon and I take a cab, go to Ski Dubai while Zhaleh stays in the car. We get to Ski Dubai and try to find Polo and the kids. As we are looking, Simon realizes that she has a message on her cell phone. It seems that she has coverage after all. The message is from Polo saying that he has the car keys, and he is going back to the gas station. We go back to the gas station and get in the car and drive toward our destination. So, finally, at 9:30 we get to our meeting place. We make a final call telling Azi that we are parked at the designated place by the apartment building where they are staying.
The young American man sitting next to me is so polite and courteous. He is going to Dubai to see his parents who work there. About half of the people on the plane seem to be from India, Middle East and other Asian countries. The announcements made by the flight attendants are in English and Arabic.
During the flight, I, periodically, look at the map of our journey on the TV monitor in front of me. We are flying by Iran. How I wish I were going to Iran instead of Dubai. That was my original plan, but the political situation in Iran has gotten worse and those of my family who don’t live in Iran decided not to take any chances by traveling to Iran for this family reunion. For a moment, I think about all the pain and oppression inflicted on the people of Iran by the Islamic Republic of Iran. So many young people are in prisons enduring unimaginable cruelty. So many people are suffering at the hands of the unjust Muslim clergy. This government has persecuted the Baha’is, people of my religion, since it came to power over 30 years ago. My heart goes out to all of them, and I say a prayer for Iran. In my mind, I visualize the map of Iran in flames. That is how I see Iran. The calamity endured by the Iranians during the reign of the Islamic regime has been great. People’s freedoms and human rights have been taken away so violently and in so many different ways.
The plane is descending. We are flying over the Persian Gulf. I remember when I lived in Iran, every spring during the Persian New Year holiday of Norooz, we would travel to the southern part of Iran by the Persian Gulf where my sister Azi and her family used to live. Iran or Persia has the longest border of any country with the Persian Gulf and hence the name. About fifteen minutes before landing, I see an island with four huge fires burning. It is the untamed gas that is burning continuously. The flames starch out to the sky for hundreds or thousands of feet. As a child, I saw similar fires in the oil rich areas of Iran. As we descend, I can see the city of Dubai. It is obvious that it is a new city. There are many roads and highways. The roads are straight and they, sometimes, form perfect squares when they cross. There is symmetry in a lot of what I see. There are very large highways with six or seven lanes going one way.
We land. The Dubai airport is new and beautiful. There are palm trees in the main area. I see Arab men dressed in long white gowns that are very clean and ironed. They have their traditional headdress on and all are wearing sandals. I see women wearing long black covering. Some show their faces, which are perfectly made up. Some only show their eyes. Some show nothing and are covered entirely with a black cloth over their faces. Some are wearing pants and long sleeve shirts with shawls over their hair. I feel almost naked with my hair and some skin showing. I didn’t expect to see women that were covered entirely in black not showing an inch of skin in Dubai. I thought because there is such an influx of foreigners in Dubai Arab women would be less conservative. The airport workers are all foreigners, people from the Philippines, India, Pakistan and other Asian nations. All are fluent in English. The foreign women are dressed like westerners. The only Arabs that I see working are the men at the customs, again, all dressed in white long gowns with their headdresses. I pick up my luggage, exchange dollars to Dirham and head out to catch a cab. I ask myself, “Is it safe for me to take a cab alone?” It is 8:00 PM. The temperature is in the 80’s and it is very humid. I catch a cab. The friendly disposition of the driver makes me feel at ease. He is from India. During the thirty minutes that takes me to get to my hotel, I look at my surroundings. Buildings are all new and western in style. The only thing that reminds one that she or he is in an Arab country is that all the signs for stores, banks and businesses are both in English and Arabic. Because there are so many Arabic words incorporated into the Persian language and vise versa, I can read a lot of the signs. As I look at my surroundings, I see Starbucks, Chilies, KFC, Ace Hardware, Baskin Robins, and other American chains.
April 3rd
This is the day that my family who has come from four different counties for this reunion will meet. With the exception of Azi and her daughters, I have seen everybody recently. I am nervous about meeting Azi and her family. At 6:00 o’clock, my sister Zhaleh, and one of my relatives Simon with her 2 kids and her husband Polo arrive. Simon and her husband have rented a minivan for the duration of our stay. On the way to meet Azi, Simon’s husband, Polo and their two kids are going to be dropped off at SKI Dubai, a large building where fake snow and ski slopes are made, and people who have never seen snow can actually ski in the midst of the Arabian Desert. The minivan is equipped with a GPS, which Simon refers to as “Lola”.
Finally, at 7:00 PM we start on the path to our reunion. Every few minutes, I remember that the long awaited moment of reunion is finally arriving. I am filled with excitement and fear, fear of not being able to connect to the people that I have not seen in so many years, fear of being total strangers.
We get in the minivan. Polo is driving and Lola, the GPS, is guiding us. The car is low on gas, and we need to find a gas station before going too far. There are so many new constructions and roads that Lola, the GPS, gets us lost. Lola doesn't have the latest information and is totally confused. After about 20 minutes of driving we end up in front of our hotel back where we started. We all get a good laugh out of this. At that point, Polo goes to a cab driver and asks him about the nearest gas station, which apparently is not easy to find. Polo gives him some money and asks him to lead us to a gas station. We get in the car trying to follow the cab driver that zooms through the traffic very quickly. Polo follows him making quick moves trying not to lose him. At one point, we’re not sure if we’re following the right cab. Polo is driving fast and Simon is trying to keep track of the cab saying things like “He turned here. He went to the left. He went to the right….” While behind a red light, Polo gets out of the car and goes to the cab driver and says, “Don’t make me drive all over the city. I’m almost out of gas.” Twenty minutes later, we are at a gas station. After Polo puts gas in the car, he and the kids take the same cab that we were following to go to Ski Dubai. Meanwhile, Zhaleh, Simon and I will go to meet Azi. Polo leaves. Simon gets behind the steering wheel and says, “I can’t put the car in gear.” I tell her, “You have to turn on the engine first!” We both look at the starter and there is no key. Frantically, Simon looks in her purse and all over the car to find the key, but there is no key to be found. We are parked in front of a gas pump at a gas station. The three of us burst into laughter. Once we stop laughing, we start panicking. We talk to the gas station attendant. We tell him what has happened. He says, “But you have to move your car.” We keep repeating that there is no key. He tells Simon to call her husband. She says, “We don’t have cell phone coverage here. I can’t contact him.” Simon and I take a cab, go to Ski Dubai while Zhaleh stays in the car. We get to Ski Dubai and try to find Polo and the kids. As we are looking, Simon realizes that she has a message on her cell phone. It seems that she has coverage after all. The message is from Polo saying that he has the car keys, and he is going back to the gas station. We go back to the gas station and get in the car and drive toward our destination. So, finally, at 9:30 we get to our meeting place. We make a final call telling Azi that we are parked at the designated place by the apartment building where they are staying.
To be continued...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Going to see Azi
The trip that I have been waiting for so many years to take is, finally, going to take place, my family reunion and more importantly my reunion with, my sister, Azi that I have not seen since I was seventeen years old. The sister that I thought was my mother for the first five years of my life and have always loved so much. I have dreamed about the moment that I will see her and embrace her for many years. I have never been able to think about that moment and visualize it without crying. I cannot believe that I will, finally, see her in two weeks.
The family reunion is going to be in Dubai. I will leave on April 1st and will be back eleven days later. Different members of my family are coming to Dubai from four different countries. Six of them are coming from Iran. It took nearly two years to organize this trip and find the location that worked the best for everyone. Some countries don’t issue visas to Iranian citizens, so we had to find a place where everyone could go. We had to take into consideration everyone’s school and work schedule. So finally everything is coming together. I so hope that nothing will go wrong in the next two weeks. My heart could not take it.
I have been so emotional about this visit. I cry every time I remember that I will see Azi and my family in just a few weeks. I know there will be a lot of tears and hugs. We will share our joys and pains and shower each other with the love that has been bundled up for so many years. I will be around people who love me and I, also, love so much. My heart and soul need this.
My blog entry of Sunday, May 10, 2009 is titled, “My sister Azi”. It will explain the reason for my deep attachment to her.
The family reunion is going to be in Dubai. I will leave on April 1st and will be back eleven days later. Different members of my family are coming to Dubai from four different countries. Six of them are coming from Iran. It took nearly two years to organize this trip and find the location that worked the best for everyone. Some countries don’t issue visas to Iranian citizens, so we had to find a place where everyone could go. We had to take into consideration everyone’s school and work schedule. So finally everything is coming together. I so hope that nothing will go wrong in the next two weeks. My heart could not take it.
I have been so emotional about this visit. I cry every time I remember that I will see Azi and my family in just a few weeks. I know there will be a lot of tears and hugs. We will share our joys and pains and shower each other with the love that has been bundled up for so many years. I will be around people who love me and I, also, love so much. My heart and soul need this.
My blog entry of Sunday, May 10, 2009 is titled, “My sister Azi”. It will explain the reason for my deep attachment to her.
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