Mummy dearest

My mother recently came to visit me in Iran, her first visit in 3 years. Making the thoroughly un-original observation that Tehran is both a huge building site and parking lot, she proceeded to take a zillion photos to prove this point. She is a keen photographer anyway, but somehow Iran made her even more snap-happy. Trekking around Tehran, she found even more subject matter- giggling school kids, nuts, street signs, gas pipes, supermarket shelves, cooked beetroot, her lunch... Tiring as it might have been, wandering around the city, waiting for her to get the perfect shot through a gap in the traffic, when we really did need to be somewhere, she did manage to take many good pics. It also provided another moment when I realised how much I had got used to this place, that with fresh eyes I might want to take similar photos, but that a lot of things had now blended into the background for me. With the new year upon us, and my mother no longer acting as my lens, I’ve resolved to take more pictures of my own. But for now, thanks to Khanoum Tiz-Bin for some of these:


Jolly school girls

Nuts etc, from the mirrored ceiling of a Khoshk Bar (dry goods) shop

Terrafik (traffic) and Borjha ( sky-scrapers) from Modarres Highway, North Tehran

Public Art? A sculpture outside Khane-ye Honarmandan (House of Artists)

A friend and I looking at second-hand watches, Jomeh Bazaar

Nose job? (apparently 1/3 women and 1/5 men in Iran have had them)

Young street-sellers, there are a lot of children and women involved in organised street trade, where little of the money gets back to them

An old chevrolet (can be seen cruising down Vali-e Asr)

Tehran as building site
(although economics has led to a slow-down in the besaz o befrush (build and sell) business)

Leave/ Return/ Leave/ Return

When I was in Isfahan, to pass the time, and to spend time with my cousins who work ridiculous hours, I occasionally joined them at the internet café they run at the top of a small shopping centre near my house. I was struck by the fact that a large amount of their customers are using their services to apply for Visas. As passports are scanned and forms filled, I noticed Canada and Australia are currently the most popular,. Both countries have more relaxed immigration laws, plus require lower TOEFL or IELTs grades. A visa to the USA is still the most coveted, but very hard to come by. The UK isn’t so popular, partly given the worries about how expensive it is once living there. The only people I’ve met going to Britain are doing so as students. Many people I have met, have at some time or another considered emigrating, or are currently in the process of doing so. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever met an Iranian who didn’t have family abroad somewhere. The most successful are those who are going to continue their education, although many still rely on scholarships as international tuition fees are impossible for the average Iranian.

Iranian Armenians are lucky enough to be awarded visas easier than the rest. Most end up in Gelndale, California. Once awarded a visa, they have to spend 2 months in Austria on the way to the USA. Holed up in temporary accommodation, isolated, lonely and broke, many turn home. I had a private English student, and Armenian boy from Isfahan, who was leaving his mother, brother and successful computer business behind and heading for Glendale, via Vienna. His English is fairly atrocious but he is incredibly charming and sweet so I feel fairly confident he will be a success. I asked him why he wanted to leave, and he didn’t seem to sure, but just felt that it made sense, that he’ll be successful and that life will be better for him. I’m worried it won’t. He looked to me for reassurance of the good life he will stumble upon in the Sates. I tried to be positive, but say the same I say to anyone who asks me about emigrating, you’ll have to work 10 times harder than you do here in Iran. Without the support of friends, family and the extended community you’ll feel quite how different life is. Its hard to give a truthful answer, what do I really now? Luck of birth meant I was born in England, the product of immigrants, but not one myself.

Now living in Tehran I have found myself entangled in a Diaspora community of my own. I promised myself to make sure I have ‘Tehrani’ friends, but have inevitably ended up spending a lot of time with an extensive network of people just like me. I guess it is the comfort of speaking my mother tongue, sharing our experiences of Iran, and just being around people in a similar position. In that way I guess I’ve mirrored my father’s circles of Iranian friends in London.

The majority are American, here for different reasons and having different relationships with Iran. Some have come and gone many times, some have lived half their lives here and half their lives there, some have never been here before, some with all their family here and some with none at all. One joked he’s here seeking political asylum from Bush’s America. Interestingly, out of the Brits I have come across, four of us are do rageh’s all via Iranian fathers. I find when I’m amongst them I want to remind everyone of my half-ness, perhaps as explanation for my Farsi (although much improved, can’t help feeling ashamed and bitter in front of those who speak it as fluently). I wonder if it was my first time here would I like it more? Would I be struck with the same awe that I see in some of the people around me? There is still so much that is new for me, but I also find comfort in the familiarity of its strangeness too.

It fascinates me in contrast to so many people wanting to leave, we have all arrived- many for Farsi, many for business, many to be big fish in small ponds. Interesting that we have chosen to live here, with all its immense problems. But allof us enjoy the luxury of 2 passports and having a foreign currency in our bank accounts. Some talk of staying here permanently, others definitely have an expiration date. As expats opportunity is at our feet. As one reminds me ‘I’ve had diplomats round for dinner, and the woman’s national basketball team playing at the courts behind my house, do you think this would ever happen in California?’. The same can be said for my recent presence at a variety of embassy parties… did I ever find myself being served Ferrero Rochers at the French Ambassadors in Kensington? No, never. I haven’t been served ferrero rocher here either, but I have drunk champagne and danced salsa behind heavy doors and the diplomatic guard.

Amongst this group conversations often turn to politics, continually returning to the threat of attack from the West. Popular belief is it won’t happen, Iran is in too strong a position for various reasons. The USA is not. Gathering to watch the US elections, everyone on the same side, the chat turns to what will happen in an Obamam world. Listening to the constant to and fro, who has what weapons, who has what resources, who has what allies, I’m struck by how different this is to other political conversations I’ve been involved in. The day to day chat, in taxis, with family, is nearly always about inflation and the constant rise in prices. Each day is worse, the price of rice, cooking oil, petrol. I imagine the same conversations being repeated in taxis, streets, cities across the country. The contrast of these conversations has really struck me. The returned diaspora focusing on the outside threat, what that would mean for global politics and how Iran would respond. Econmics and social issues, barely get a look in, as we almost somehow float above many of those daily struggles. Economics is not really an issue for most, human rights, a dark side I think no one in this group wants to look to closely at, indeed all are ready to cite numerous violations by so and so and so and so, in defense and almost justification of Iran.

While in Iran people continually and regularly ask why I am here, tell me I am crazy and should leave. Many have said Iran aiandeh nadare– Iran has no future. It’s hard being in a nation that so many people feel unhopeful and frustrated about. It doesn’t have a positive effect on the national psyche as the high statistics on depression and other psychological ills demonstrate. I can’t imagine how it would affect me if I felt this was ‘my country’. However within the expat community I have found myself in this doesn’t seem to be the consensus. Iran is looked at with an often endless, although shaky, positivity. With skills and funds from outside, Iran has potential to be tapped. I do question how much of that potential is for the benefit of Iran though, and how much is for the benefit of individuals?

Returning...again

I’m back in Iran.

In Tehran.

It’s weird.

Same, same, but different.

The weather is amazing, not as unbearably hot as it was when I left in July, but still so beautifully sunny with a lovely cool breeze at night. I now get out of breath when I walk up the huge hill near my house to get a taxi; I guess I’ll get used to it again. The pollution is heavy on my lungs and making my nose run but I’m again tortured by the fact I can’t blow it. I blew it happily on the Iran Air flight over, figuring that although I was on an Iranian plane surrounded by Iranians, I was technically in international airspace so it was ok.



A pretty gate

I don’t get the same thrill about being out and about and doing things on my own...that went awhile ago. So I’ll have to find new challenges, like driving! I have had a very brief run around twice since I’ve been back, but only on very quiet streets with no traffic, which sort of defeats the point as the whole challenge about driving in Tehran IS the traffic. We shall see if I ever manage it, or if it is inherently a bad idea. Anyone who has been here knows what I mean, and for anyone else, well, last March nine hundred people died in car accidents over one day across the country. Reminds me of how when I first got here I kept a mental count of how many accidents, big or small, I saw. It averaged two per day, although actually Isfahan was worse than Tehran. Realising it was a morbid and depressing hobby I gave it up.

My Farsi is coming back to me. It never left, it’s just the words don’t come out of my mouth as easily. Already I’m back in to my English/ Farsi ghati (mixed) way of talking with friends, which is better than it just being English I guess. I went with my Dad to visit an old friend of his at his house in the mountains; ironically I did the same thing the first week I got here last year. The conversation flows around where to get the best contrabands, name checking of various prominent Iranians that the other might know, what’s wrong with the young generation in Iran, and then the inevitable children, grand-children and marriages. I sit fairly mute, partly because I was tired from my first night back on the Tehran party scene the previous night, and partly because depressingly my Farsi still doesn’t allow me to fully participate in the conversation which jumps so quickly from one subject to another. Being limited linguistically means I appear much younger than I am, as if I’m too frightened to speak in an adult conversation, and when I do speak, I still tend to use fairly simple language, that again makes me seem that I am either a child, or am a little uneducated. I still have a very long way until I can fully communicate while completely being me.

I went to two parties the previous night. When the Iranian pop was blasted and I was dragged out of my seat to dance I immediately felt I had returned. Some of the songs I know and I make up my own lyrics when I can’t understand them properly; like ‘Ey ghashangtar az Pariya, bea berim to the darya’, but I learnt it’s actually ‘Ey ghashantar az Pariya, tanha to kuche nariya’. Then there is the ever popular ‘Khoshgela bayad beraghsan, khoshgela bayad beraghsan’, I don’t know the rest. I kind of like the Iranian pop, Iran or LA made. There is something comforting in the cheesy simplicity of it, plus I can’ help but move when I hear music, and this works on me as much as anything else.



A pretty tea-pot chandelier

The second party left me cold. The people count was much lower, all listening to excessively loud house music, a girl in teeny shorts dancing incessantly to the incessant, repetitive beat, and all manner of contrabands being shared out. I felt empty and disconnected. I know there are a zillion other parties just like this one around town, and I woke up the next day panicked. Panicked that maybe this time round I wouldn’t like Iran, or at least not as much. Maybe I’d had my fill, had my fun, and that now, without the thrill of the adventure I had before, I would end up finding it depressing and stifling, as so many of the natives do. I put this feeling down to a bad party with a bad atmosphere; I’d feel just as cold after such an event in London. The panic has subsided, but there is still a slight niggle........

So the search for work begins. Its a minefield. You need to know people, and I now know people, that know people. That doesn’t mean they have work though. It’s basically now a matter of cold-calling people who know people to see if someone might know someone who might have some work to offer me. I’m not specific about what I want to do, which probably doesn’t help, and the best skill I have to offer is English. If anyone reading this has any suggestion of how to approach people or where to start my search, let me know!

Returning...

Bye Tehran!


Coming back to London is odd. The strange familiarity, the feeling I may have changed, although I don’t know how yet, but that everything around me most definitely has not. I thought that I would find London very shiny, after living in khaki covered Iran, but to the contrary it has been incredibly grey. Rain has punctuated nearly all of the days I’ve been back. The streets feel grittier and dirtier than I remember and I feel even more aware of the number of alcoholics and beggars around my tube station. Shouts of ‘fucking wanker’ penetrate nearly every journey I take on public transport, someone or other annoyed by something or other, and making sure all around them know it. In Iran you have to be aware of your behavior in public, you’re not necessarily free to act however you want, wherever you want, not only because of law, but because of etiquette. I’m not sure that this is a bad thing, witnessing the aggression and coarse way my compatriots expressed themselves on the streets of the capitol. There is a certain code of behavior most people follow in Iran, most of the time. In Farsi there is a magical way of being extremely rude, while being incredibly polite. Transport and traffic also brings out the crudest of language, but that’s usually expressed in the confines of one’s own car, not at the bus stop.

Back in England I also feel confronted with flesh…breasts and legs are everywhere. It isn’t even hot, its 18 degrees, and raining, but the fact that it is August means people will dress in summer clothes. Is this the stoic Brit I see before me, in thigh-hugging denim shorts, uncomfortable looking sandals and a vest top, refusing to acknowledge that it IS freezing because it IS summer? Again, forced Islamic covered up-ness didn’t seem so bad, in the midst of orange peel thighs, ill-fitting bras and beer bellies.

Salaam London!

I have tried desperately not to convert everything back in to toman, and accept that being broke in London is horrible. Filling up the car at the petrol station with my mum I laugh as it come to £46, reminding her that in Iran it comes to £1.50. Oil is heavily subsidised, but still everyone complains about the prices.

I go to the local beauty salon, but don’t entrust my eyebrows to any of the girls there, even though they insist. Never have I seen an eyebrow shaped with as much skill and dexterity as I have in Iran and I’m unwilling to let jus anyone have a go on them!

But then, window shopping on my local high street I finally had my first I love London moment. Yes, most people in Wood Green do look like they think they are on MTV Base, but the busy-ness, the ease of everything, the shouts from market sellers offering flowers and fish, even the friendly chat of the God squad outside the local church, there was something enticing in the chaos around me. Baffled by all the choices available, I couldn’t deny it was pleasing to have them. We are all creatures of habit (aren’t we?), and by nature end up living fairly routine lives (don’t we?), but knowing my choices here are infinite is still a good feeling, and admittedly one I did not have in Iran.

Since then I’ve had many more of these moments. At the Notting Hill Carnival dancing in the streets feels good, as does smiling at anyone who catches my eye. I’m entertained by the thought of not seeing more than a fore-arm on the streets for the past 9 months, and now seeing the majority of the people around me letting it all hang out. It’s a funny old world isn’t it?

It's carnival time, gonna have a good whine...

I have bumped into Iranians everywhere I’ve been. They were always everywhere, but now I feel more eager to chat, to show off my Farsi and share news from Iran. On my first day back I went to my local pizzeria, where just like in Iran, I managed to get a taghvif (discount), simply because I was a dokhtare gol (a nice girl, just like a flower). A few days later the washing machine needs to be fixed, and in roll two more Iranians, I direct them upstairs in Farsi and they seem pleased, if a little surprised- ‘We thought you were South American!’, ‘But look at our carpets’ I joked, ‘they’re a good clue.’

Speaking to my mortgage advisor I was reminded about how little most people know about Iran ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but in the Western world we’re experiencing a credit crunch’. No, no, I hadn’t heard. A friend also told me when she’d told her mother that I was in Iran, she turned to her with a worried expression- ‘Well I hope she’s safe’. And finally, someone asks if my Arabic is better since I’ve been living in Iran. No, oddly enough it hasn’t really improved (in some ways not strictly true, in learning more Farsi I have learnt some Arabic, in learning Farsi words that have Arabic roots, but I don’t think that was what he was implying). It is of course not that surprising that most people have no clue about what Iran is actually like, only popping into the news when nuclear warfare is discussed, although there are now numerous attempts to show that Iran isn’t like THAT, but I guess you’d have to be interested to even find them (If you are interested: http://www.documentiran.com/ http://www.picturesofyouiran.com/ http://www.lifegoesonintehran.com/ or look at some of the blogs to the right). I also remember my own concerns before visiting; having heard about crackdowns I emailed Iranians in Iran asking how bad it really was, I worried about exactly what to pack and what might be confiscated at customs- all legitimate worries, but now that I’ve lived comfortably in Iran for nine months, I realize again how little I knew about how daily life is lived.

In returning to London I remember what I like about Iran and why I want to return, again. I don’t have to think everything there is better, or that everything here is worse, but that right now, it is where I want to be. Interestingly a lot of my friends live abroad, and seems even more are deciding to go. What has become so unsatisfying about Britain that we’ve all felt like leaving?

Hi, my name is.................

I’ve experienced my entire life as someone with an unusal and somewhat long name. Ordering things over the phone is always a time-consuming ordeal as I have to spell out all three parts. Introductions can also take time, especially in a loud environment:

What’s your name?
Leili.
What, Hailey?
No, Leili.
Huh? Leila.
No Leili, like Hailey with an L.
But it already has an L.
No, an L at the beginning.
Huh?
Leili.
Did you say Lady?
No, Leili
Leili ?
Yes, Leili
Ah, Leili. How do you spell that?
L-E-I-L-I.
What?
…. And so on.

Being in Iran my experience is completely different. My double barreled surname- the first part Polish and coming from my mother, the second part Iranian, and coming from my father, is reduced to just the Iranian name in Iran. Being called Mohammadi is like being called Smith. It is so very common There aren’t so many Leili’s these days, but they can still be found. Leili is like the Persian Juliet, the main character in a famous love story by Nizami called Leili and Majnoon. It means that everyone has heard of the name. Its an old fashioned name, sort of, but not in the way that Gertrude is, its just been around for a long time, but still considered a pretty name. Blending in is cool. Being able to introduce myself simply, not having to spell my name, it’s a weird kind of luxury.

Modern day Leili & Majnoun- a new film

In my nine months of life in Iran I’ve only met another Leili. It was odd, as up until now I have only ever met one once before, we both worked at the same Iranian instituition, but in different departments so rarely were we in the same room together. It meant I never had the experience of someone calling my name butn not actually calling me, until now. The second Leili I met was at the house of a mutual friend. After being introduced, I had that moment most other people do when people say your name but they are talking to someone else and you turn around. Then an awkward laugh spreads contagiously around the room. Then someone suggests we are called by our last names to stop any confusion. This pleased the host, as he is named Mohammad, so he liked the idea of calling me Mohammadi.

At the salon I waited to be called in for my manicure. When my name was finally announced , three Miss. Mohammadi’s stood up. I’ve turned round when a mother called her child in an ice cream shop, and a friend shouted to her companion in the swimming pool. In taxis I hear songs about Leili, mainly about Leili and Majnoun. On the TV I see music videos too- a new song called 'Laili Jaan' (I couldn't find the clip to upload here.) There are Leili alleys, Mohammadi alleys, but I’ve yet to find a Leili Mohammadi alley. I’ve always wondered what you need to do to get an airport or a park named after you but maybe I should aim smaller and go for a small alley in Isfahan? Hearing and seeing my name everywhere sort of makes up for when I was little and wanted Leili stickers, or pencils or anything with my name on it, but of course could never find it. Now I am everywhere!

Leili Alley

I guess my way of experiencing my name in Iran mirrors a lot of my experience here in general. Just as my name fits right in, so does my face. I can pass by completely anonymously, can now get through most daily transactions without a raised eyebrow or a barrage of questioning about who I am and where I have come from. In Iran I experience a variety of different identities at any one time. In Isfahan, I would put on my maghneh and walk to work, feeling as if I was just another ordinary Iranian girl, with the same worries and woes. Invitiations to the houses of my father’s friends would come flying in, and he’d regularly respond with ‘She grew up in the West. She does what she wants, I can’t force her to go’. My status once again returning to selfish foreigner. In Tehran I once spent the day with three English boys from my Farsi school. We spent the day in a coffee shop and walking around Northern Tehran. Two grils passed us and we heard them say ‘Look at that girl, pesar baz' . From the outside I appeared to be a pesar baz, a flirty Iranian girl sticking to these foreign boys, and not a jolly foreigner like them. Taking them to restaurants and tea houses I would be encouraged by waiters to order traditional food for them and would then be asked the same series of nosey questions. But for once the focus wouldn’t be on me.

Leili 'Joon' graffitti

My Iranianess is constantly being tested or questioned or accepted. Amongst the hypehanted Iranian crowd I spend most of my time with in Tehran I can move up and down the scale of Iranianess instantly: my use of different slippers for different areas of my house makes me very Iranian, my inability in the kitchen makes me un-Iranian, my good grasp of Farsi lets me in, but then we’ll stumble across a phrase that pushes me out again. I am compared, and compare myself to the others, especially the half ones - Whose Farsi is the best? Who ta’arof’s the most? My American-Iranian friends claim I am very Eastern, which I like, but I wonder how my Easterness is being quantified? In a discussion about public displays of affection with American Iranians, English Iranians, an English boy and myself, it was unanimously claimed that I was very Iranian with my displays of my affection, and my English friends ended up shouting that I wasn't even English! Ok, back over the line I guess.

At Farsi school we had a variety of discussions about bohran-e hoviat or identity crisis. My class was 90% Farsi zaban, farsi speakers as my teacher called it. She wouldn’t call us Iranians, as she said we weren’t quite that. The majority were full Iranian, brought up in the States, and one from Sweden, there were three of us who were do rageh (meaning two veined, the farsi term for mixed), then two nice Korean ladies and an increibibly strange Syrian girl. The topic would come up at least bi-weekly, as we’d talk about funny childhood stories, or odd phrases we learnt when we were younger. One day our teacher finally layed down the verdict; two of the class members were very Iranian, the rest of us were failry Iranian, and Jesse, a half- American, Half Iranian, who was in Iran for the first time and spoke Farsi with a strange, mixed up Turkish- American accent which meant the whole class strained to understand him when he spoke, was branded with not Iranian at all. I realised how pleased I was to have gotten into the 'fairly Iranian' box, as if my whole time here, getting to know Iran and my Iranianess, was validated by my sweet Farsi teacher who really barely new me. Relief.

How many arches are there in Iran?

A friend from England just visited. We hung out in coffee shops in Tehran, bargained our way around Isfahan, and were awestruck in Shiraz. She studied art history and archeology and has a penchant for an Islamic arch or two. It made me wonder, how many arches are there in Iran? I doubt I will ever know the answer to my question, but here are some of the ones we saw....

White Palace, Sa'ad Abad, Tehran

Regent's Mosque, Shiraz

Jameh Mosque, Naghseh Jahan, Isfahan

Si o Se Pol, Isfahan

Sa'adi Mausoleum, Shiraz

Jolfaa, Isfahan

Restaurant Sonati, Naghsheh Jahan, Isfahan

Show me Shomal!

I have just returned from 3 days in Shomal, the north of Iran. Shomal means North and is a generic term, pretty much describing all of the regions around the Caspian sea, north of Tehran. To be more precise I went to Mazandaran province, to a house in the mountains between Chaalous and Ramsar. We drove through a constantly changing landscape of desert peaks, lush forests, emerald coloured lakes, the biggest dam and longest tunnel in the country, and finally along the sandy shoreline of the Caspian. I often ask people what colour they associate with Iran. I always pick khaki, an obvious choice, as the scenery I have seen here is always that colour, desert sands or dusty alleys. Khak (dust) that gets everywhere. Somehow the colours in Iran always seems faded, the green leaves on trees not quite vibrant enough, the blue lines painted along curbs washed out and drab, as if a layer of khak has covered the whole country and dulled everything down. But in Shomal the colours are alive. Green leaves of walnut, orange and mulberry trees. The turquoise blue of a salty sea I finally dipped my toes in. Deep purple blackberries picked at midnight from trees over our heads.



I had been told I would like Shomal because the scenery and weather is just like England- green and rainy. The ruggedness of my surroundings seemed far from British though, and indeed along the journey from Tehran and through the Alborz mountains various comments of where we could be were made; this is like Western Canada, or Northern California. Oh, that hill looks like it's covered in heather, just like Scotland. Oh and that stream and those rocks, it looks like the peak district. The fisherman over there in his baggy waders, hanging on to his net, for a minute I thought we were in the Caribbean. We stopped for ashe reshte against a foreboding backdrop, where the people selling soup wore cowboy hats and their skin was the same colour as the rocky mountains behind them. Ah, now it felt we had reached the frontier, of what, we were no quite sure.



Caribbean?

Canada?

California?

A frontiersman and his soup

I had also been told that Shomali's are the biggest wasters in all of Iran- something about the sea air means people are always drunk or high on something or other. I was in for a big weekend, so I thought. On arrival at the villa the fridge was opened only to discover that the 3 litres of aragh sagi (homemade alcohol) were not there. A few manic calls home and we discovered the maid, thinking it was water, had poured it away. A weekend in Shomal without booze? Unheard of. Two of our party went on a mission down the mountain and into town to find some. There are people who can find you a villa, girls and contraband so I was assured that it wouldn't be a problem. An hour later they returned with nothing more mind-altering than sausages, crisps and cake. We would look at this weekend as de-tox, away from the almost nightly whisky drinking I'd been indulging in Tehran (more on that later). Breathing in the sea air, waking up to an incredible view, hearing the moos of cows nearby...I didn't need an altered state to feel that life was all around me, and here it didn't seem covered in khakh, or dirt or the thick layer of pollution weighing down on Tehran. I could get used to shomali life, if lived there maybe I would where chador and tie it round my waist like the local women, maybe I would make mulberry jam, catch fish and every now and then send someone down the mountain to get me something that would make the colours around me even more alive.


A colourful shomali sky

Merry Noruz

It has been the new year in Iran for over a month, but I have been distracted and haven't posted for awhile. Here is my slighlty out of date story of my first proper Noruz (from start end) in Iran.

It is the new year. The past few weeks have involved a huge amount of preparations for this moment. It is now the 14th day, which means the13 days of national holiday are over. Today life resumes as normal. The Noruz break is one of those national holidays when you are never sure if things are open or not, if people are at work or not, like the 2 weeks of Christmas and New Year we have in England. Preparations for Noruz ususally take longer than the 13 days of holidays. In my household started in earnest 3 weeks ago. First, 2 days were spent doing khune tekooni, or spring cleaning. All the furniture was moved, all the walls were washed, everywhere was dusted and in the end the house sparkled. A few days later was the big samanu cooking event (see previous post) which meant we now had the first of our seveb things needed for the haft sin. My grandmother then spent two days ordering me to wash various china, move furniture around, and generally make the house ready for the fifty something family members who would drop in on us for eid didani (the first 13 days of the new year are spent visiting family and friends, starting with the oldest person first).

For Noruz a haft sin is made. Haft Sin means seven sin's (a letter from the alphabet) although more than seven objects (each with symbolic meaning) are put out on a table, and not all of them start with sin. Haft sin’s take on many shapes and sizes nowadays. Ours would be fairly simple, but there is a new art to haft sin making, and you can even go to classes to learn how to decorate the dishes or where to tie ribbons around your table. Over Noruz haft sin's are everywhere, not just in homes, but in offices, shops, schools....so I could compare the different styles at my chemist, cake shop etc. At a gallery in Tehran I saw a very arty haft sin, that meant you really had to search to see the seven sin's. We pushed a table intop the corner of the room, covered it with a table cloth, pulled a mirror of the wall and leant it on the corner of the table. I was then sent in search of candlesticks whil my grandmother pulled out seer (garlic), senjed, serke (vinegar) and sekkeh (coins). We added an apple and then she boiled eggs with red onions so that they became an off purple colour. My Ameh was making sabzeh (wheatgrass) for us and would bring it round just before the new year, so all that was left was the goldfish and sonbol (hyacinth). There is a risk they will both die, so I had been advised not to buy them until the last minute. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. My dad and I proudly spoke of the fact our goldfish has lasted 2 whole Noruz’s. Everyone had warned me that the shops get ridiculously busy over eid, and so I saw the popluar shopping street near our house was five deep in people traffic. For the new year you are supposed to wear new clothes, so an excuse to get a new outfit, plus with all the mehmouni’s (parties) to go to, most women head out to buy a new roosari or two. So the house was pretty much ready as was the haft sin, I would buy a goldfish and sonbol on new years eve.

Traditional Haft Sin



Arty Haft Sin



Salon Haft Sin (with ribbons)


Chemist Haft Sin

The last Wednesday before new years is chahar shanbe suri, which is usually spent at a big garden jumping through fires on the previous evening. I went to a friends garden with my Ameh and her family. There was indeed a fire, but a pretty small one and logs around for everyone to sit on. I was scared about jumping through fire, I’ve neved done it, although I understand why you don’t burn, but still, it seemed dangerous. First there was a round of firecracking throwing, the small kind that make a loud bang, a puff of light and a lot of smoke. Then it was time for sandwiches, then car stereos were turned up and it was time for dancing round the fire, and running and jumping through it. Everyone started jumping without warning. My cousin grabbed my and and we jumped, really not a big deal, actually quite invigorating and warming. Jumping through the fire is supposed to be a form of cleansing, getting rid of the bad things of the past year, and getting ready to the good things in the year ahead. Driving home that night there was the smell of smoke in the air, and remnants of fires all over the streets. Shops were open and people were busy buying last minute shireeni and goldfish. It did sort of have a new years eve feel, people seemed excited and there was a sense that people had had fun that evening, something that is some times hard to find here.

On new years eve I dutifully went out and chose a healthy looking goldfish and a full hyacinth. Different family members dropped nuts and shireeny over during the day. My grandmother spent a long time mixing all the nuts together and filling up the huge bowl that would dominate the mehmun khune (drawing room) for the next 2 weeks. In the evening six cousins, one aunty and her husband came over and together with my dad and grandmother, we ate the traditional mahi va sabzi polo (fish filled with herbs and nuts and rice with fresh herbs), drank vodka and danced around the living room.

It became the new year at 9:15am the following morning. We didn't count it down, and we weren't even in the same room together, instead all of us occupied with normal morning activities like breakfast and washing. We then put on our finest and... waited. During Noruz it is traditional to visit the oldest family member first, which meant today, new years day, would see the whole family drop in at some point or another. So we waited. At 11am my cousin came over with his wife and two children. The chai (tea) had been brewing for awhile and I immediately jumped to attention, as the only able bodied female in the house, pouring tea, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. After about 40 minutes they left, I cleaned up and then.. we waited. We had lunch, we waited some more, we had naps, we waited some more. Finally at 5pm the doorbell rang again and would continue to ring relentlessly throughout the evening. From that point on 30 or more family members poured in at different points throughout the night. After all the waiting I had forgot about prepartion, and ran around pouring more chai, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. I am not very experienced at Iranian style hosting, so I recruited young female cousins to carry round trays of chai, re-stock a depleting fruit bowl, and help me wash all the tea cups in time for the next thirsty guests. By the end of the night I was completely knackered, I hadn't really sat down, or actually spoken to most of the guests. But my grandmother had been telling all of my aunties how hard I had been working, what a lovely girl I was and so forth. It was as if I had passed some sort of initiation, I may still be a khareji (foreigner) but I can host and ta'arof as good as the locals!

Knotting the sabzeh

Over the next week the eid didani would start in earnest, each day spent at a different family member or friends house. I was escaping to Tehran which means I would miss most of it, although the day after new years we visited my oldest aunty for lunch and my oldest uncle for tea in the afternoon. I returned to Isfahan in time for Sizdah be dar (13th day out) which is traditionally spent outside in a park or private garden. Nearly every year the family pile over to my aunties house and garden outside of the city, and this year was no exception. The ususal eating and dancing enused, both inside and outside the house. By late afternoon, storm clouds were looming, so my cousin came round with the basket of sabzeh before it rained. Using only one hand each girl has to try to tie a knot in the stem of one of the buds. This will bring her good luck in the coming year, and of course, hopefully a husband too. I was allowed two go's and managed to do it the second time, but then protested I really didn't want a husband in the next year to which I got the response 'Ok, well if not this year, then next year'.