Sunshine

Tadjrish, Iran
Summer 1971

I watched my grandmother, squatting before a huge bowl of greens, picking through them with her delicate fingers. Preparation for dinner began just after breakfast, and could last throughout the day.

“Poffak Namakee?” I asked my grandfather. Most often he would oblige, pulling himself out of his chair with his cane and disappearing in the house to get this coat and hat. I ran behind my grandfather in to the house, calling out “Sissy! Ganpapa’s taking us fo’ Poffak Namakee!” skipping through doorways to find her. “Sissy!”

She emerged in the doorway. “He’s gedding his coat right now!” I said excitedly.

She pulled the door closed behind her and we both found our shoes by the kitchen door.

With my grandfather and my sister steadily making their way up the side alley alongside our tall garden walls, I danced, I skipped, and I made quick tottering circles around both of them. My mouth watered and I hummed to myself, and ran ahead to be the first to reach the doorway of the tiny shop. “Com’on!” I shouted back to them, hopping impatiently. The shopkeeper was there and he smiled down at me with his funny crooked smile, dark gaps where teeth should have been.

“Salom koochooloo,” he said - he always said - and I always gave him a “salom” back which always made him chuckle. There was not enough room to step in this shop, for it was only big enough for this man and his bright packages, small boxes and the big metal vat that held the Poffak Namakee. 

I loved to watch as he made me a white paper cone and scooped the cheesy puffs in to it until the orange peeked out the top of the paper. I always got mine first and could barely wait until that cone rested in my hand before I reached in to put the first one in my mouth. Closing my eyes, I let the warm, salty powder dissolve on my tongue, turning my tongue orange, and I sucked on the puff before I let my baby teeth grind it down. When I opened my eyes again, my sister was being handed her paper cone and my grandfather was placing two coins in the shopkeeper’s big palm. Our walk back down the alley was slower and my grandfather’s pace, as he leaned in to his cane, suited me fine as I stopped every second step to bathe my mouth once again in sunshine.

Flashback

January 1971
Tadjrish, Iran

It is winter and we are going to a party at Uncle Hussein’s house. My father arrived from the U.S. only a few days ago and is snapping his camera as we climb the hill behind Grandmama’s house to the busy street blocks away. The streets are wet from a recent rain and the concrete and grey clothes of passing strangers contrast with the bright red of my winter coat . My mother is in chador and its black billowing folds dance behind her as I skip to keep up with her step. I am really excited to be going to a party because I love them so much – the chaotic crowds of strangers that gravitate to my mother as I hold close to her leg, the music that erupts, the loud voices, the children that move in groups unnoticed. My sister and I will dance in this crowd and fill our bellies and minds with more than warm stews and rice, we will be one with the craziness and will feel we belong in it.

We arrive at the main street and my father points to it, the bus that will take us to Uncle Hussein’s house. We will ride this bus? I ask. It is taller than any bus I have ever seen, and it is red like me. We board and pay our fare and I see the curly stairs behind the driver. We must climb the stairs and Daddy, you must hold my hand as I climb them. These steep stairs shake and jolt as the bus pulls away from the curb. My father steadies me as we climb the last step and emerge at the top, sitting at the first empty seat we can find. My sister, my mother, and my Uncle Firooz join us, and I kneel on the seat so I can place two flat palms on the cold windows. The world flies by below us and the red bus and I are like birds swerving and diving past trees, buildings and cars. We are birds flying to a party at Uncle Hussein’s house.

My mother taps my father’s shoulder to let him know it is time to climb down the stairs and off the bus. I don’t want to go but I obey and my father lifts me into his arms so we can climb off quickly before the driver sweeps away from the curb again. At the curb we follow my mother’s black shape up a narrow street to a tall concrete building. She rings the bell and we wait feeling the icy air penetrate our clothes. My sister stamps her feet and blows in to her fists. I see a cloud of steam escape her mouth. Finally the door is opened with a loud buzzz and we enter the building’s entryway. We’re riding the elevator to the 3rd floor and my sister is allowed to push the lit up 3 button that will take us there. It looks like a clown’s nose that 3. I don’t like the clowns at the Barnum and Bailey with their scary faces that don’t look regular. I usually hide from them but I don’t now because it is only a button and anyway, we are in a tiny elevator and there is no where to hide.

Uncle Hussein’s house is not so big, not like Grandmama’s house. There are so many people already there that our entrance is hardly noticed at first. We remove our coats and remove our shoes. I move a little closer to my sissy because I know she is braver than me and will talk for me when I can’t find my words. My parents are busy kissing all the people, both cheeks for each, and they make a circuit around the entire living room as guests rise from the pillows on the floor in their stockinged feet. I’m called over to have my cheeks pinched, hard (ouch!), and they feel hot. They look down at me and smile and I smile back because I don’t mind so much. The sing song of Farsi is like a lullaby, one that embraces me. It is the language of my mother so when the words pour out they speak of her and the way she holds me when I am sleepy. I like the feeling so I like these people too. They are all my mother, they are all my family.

My sister and I roam and find the sweets in small bowls on the low glass table. I pick up the white nuggets between my fingers and pop them in my mouth. They taste like crystal to me as my teeth grind them down. Breathy flutes are singing on the stereo, a song that winds up and down and up and down, followed by strings and a woman’s voice. Drums follow. I want to march to the beat and twirl with the woman’s voice and I do this in the center of the room, for what better place to do this than the center of the room? And what better moment than when I feel it most? My sister doesn’t dance – but she watches as I do. With the sweetness still in my mouth, the music swirls around me and I smile deeply for the moment. Sissy sees other children coast by, a group of three, or were there four? I reach down to pick up another sweet and when I turn back she is gone, riding the wave of children than has just passed. That’s okay. She’ll circle back. I join my mother and sit in her lap as she waves her hands around, a cigarette wedged between two fingers. She is talking to the woman next to her and taking puffs in between her long rambling sentences. She likes it that I am sitting with her and I am content for a few minutes until I am not content anymore and decide to go in search of my sister.

I swim between tall grownups, their voices rising and falling around me, I have my eye on the kitchen door which is a few feet away and I can hear the water pouring out of the faucet as some women are washing dishes. I also hear the hiss of a round cage sitting on a low table and its sound draws me closer. It reminds me of the tiger cage at Barnum and Bailey, the cage that the brave man enters to talk to the tigers. Inside this tiny cage is a bright object that glows red like my coat, red like the bus. It feels hot as I get closer, but the color and the memory of our bus ride draws me in. I reach my hands out because I want to touch the red, but the cage meets my palms first and a seering pain, cold like ice but cutting like a sharp knife, tears in to my hands. I scream. I scream. I scream. I have already let go of the cage, but the pain has not let go of me and I fall back on to the floor holding my burning hands in front of me. Make it stop, make it stop! There are people all around me, why can’t they make it stop? I am lifted in to arms and carried to that pouring water and the two women part so I can be brought down to run water over the pain. The tears are pouring down my face and I see the water running over my hands which are red and puffy. My screams fill the kitchen and I know there are lots of people that I don’t know around me, until I feel my mother lift me into her arms. I don’t want to take my hands away from the water because it gives me relief from the cold, cold pain that tears through me. But I want her to hold me tightly and not let go and she does. After a few more minutes I calm down and my cries are hiccups that wrench through my stomach. I shake uncontrollably, but my tears are subsiding. All these grownups are crowding in to the kitchen and watching me as I wash my hands and I look around in to their faces. I see my father, my sissy and my Uncle Firooz, I see Uncle Hussein.

My mother shouts out commands and a woman brings a cake of butter. She puts a big smear of the slimy butter in my palms and rubs it in and I scream because it feels like my hands are back on the cage, back on the burning red object, the red bus, my red coat, my pinched cheeks. The tiger cage. I pull my hands away with all the strength I can muster and reach for the water still pouring out of the faucet.

It is decided that we are leaving and wet rags are wrapped around my hands which doesn’t feel very good at all. My red coat is wrapped around me and I am carried out to the waiting elevator. A taxi is waiting outside and I am sitting between my mother and father. It’s dark already and we are driving for a long time. I didn’t get to eat my dinner so my stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry” I tell my mother, and she looks down at me with sad, sad eyes, eyes that want to give me the world, eyes that are so present that I forget my hunger and lean in closer to her.

When the taxi stops, my father pays and we all get out. This isn’t home. “where are we going?” I ask softly in to my father’s ear as he lifts me in to his arms. “The doctor needs to see your hands,” he replies.

The hospital is bright, so bright that I squint and bury my face in my father’s shoulder. My hands hurt so much, the cloth that had been wet at Uncle Hossain’s is now dry and rough against my tender palms, but the brightness assaults me even more and I forget about my hands for a moment. Just a moment. My sister is told to sit in the waiting room with Uncle Firooz and I am carried through the big doors. I know that children are not allowed in hospitals unless they are sick. When my sissy was in the hospital I was not allowed to visit her there. I begged and begged, but I was not allowed in the building, left to wait outside that big Russian hospital with Aunt Mehry. But this time I am carried in, invited even, even though I am not wanting to be there at all.

“ I want to go home!” I cry and once again the tears roll down my cheeks. He holds me closer until words are exchanged and I am carried in to a small room where there is a man with a white coat waiting. I am sitting on my father’s lap and the man unwraps the cloth from around my hands. I am alarmed that there are puffy bumps all over my palms, and the skin is red and raw. This scares me and I cry louder. I don’t pull my hands away from this man because these are not my hands, these are not the hands I had eaten sweets with an hour ago. The doctor takes my hands in his but his skin is hot and now I do want to pull away. Where is the rag? My father holds my arms in place so the man can look closer at the puffy bumps, touching them, is he cutting them with his fingertips? Why are his fingers so sharp? My eyes fill with tears so that I cannot see clearly, the man’s white coat and my red, red hands are swimming in the tears that have filled my eyes. I feel woozy and my stomach begins to hurt. When the man finally goes away I reach up for my mother and she takes me in her arms, saying soothing words in to my ear. “Baby jon, my poor baby jon.” I am her baby jon.

My hands are washed which alternates between feeling soothing and painful, but then another person in a white coat arrives and sticks a long needle in my arm. It pokes me and I scream because the needle is inside me. I am spent, so exhausted that by the time the needle is taken out I feel my lids heavy and the pain in my hands recede. I am floating now and need to sleep. I am no longer here.

Our Northern Adventure

May 11-19th, 1971
Mahabat, Iran

In May we departed on a week-long road trip to the north, to the cities of Tabriz and Mahabat in the Azarbaijan region of Iran. I slept my way through most of the 11 hour bus ride to Tabriz and was amazed to wake up in an altogether different kind of place. My eyes were glued to the scene during the bumpy jeep ride that took us on the last leg to Mahabat. Gone were the wide streets of Tehran, and in their place I saw primitive roads and people dressed in a village costume that was colorful and festive. This was a Kurdish region, surrounded by rolling hills filled with wildflowers and spotted with adobe and brick huts. My mother’s friend, Hon Joon, delivered us safely to a cozy brick house with bedrooms, and a kitchen – a magical home away from home away from home. The world was proving to be much larger than I had ever imagined.

This northern adventure was set up by my mother’s relatives and friends, new names to remember, more faces to recognize, and every day there were new ruins to explore, and dimly lit bazaars to ramble through. My father was beside himself with excitement. Unable to converse in Farsi he used his camera to dig deep, and reach further in to absorb the immensity of images, smells and sensations that met us each day. We were accustomed to the pace of his camera, the click click and the smiles that followed, the conversations with wide gestures and pats on the back, tea delivered on a silver tray by a small boy not much larger than my sister. The scenes seemed to unfold for my father and we watched with wide eyes as he embraced it all.

One day, on an excursion in to a Kurdish village outside of Mahabat, my mother negotiated with a Kurdish villager to have her dress me and my sister in her children’s clothes. I complained bitterly about being stripped down and redressed in layer ofter layer in the hot shadows of her hut. My mother watched the Kurdish woman wrap a long scarf round and round my middle, and place a tall headdress on my head, and with my sister I was paraded in front of my father’s camera, squinting in to the sun. In spite of my tearful protest, the memory was collected on Kodachrome – two American children masquerading as Kurds, on either side of an unknown Kurdish villager. Lygeia managed a smile, but a smile was more than I could muster, for I was too uncomfortable and sweaty to appreciate the moment.

From my father's journal:

Today, some six families, others, about 30 in all, head west along the Mahabat Lake for what can only be called a "Persian" picnic. A caravan of seven cars filled with people and food in search of a sylvan setting. Arriving at the approximate site, I can only describe what followed as a fitful-fretful orgy of tug-of-war, a 1 1/2 hour search for the perfect spot. At one point, Behrooz relieved his frustration by driving straight across a wild looking field whereupon he got decidedly stuck in an irrigation ditch. We towed him out with a jeep. We found our sylvan setting under a grove of apricot trees faced by a flowing fields of green hills - what a picnic! Hon June brought out a great big pot of osh (soup) and only the darkness of approaching night brought our caravan together on the road.

The party never ended, but only faded to dreams as I dozed on a colorful rug with a breeze blowing by my face. Another bumpy car ride and then another party would begin, as simple as rugs being thrown down on the road, food delivered in massive tin pots and voices all around in jovial tones. The grown-ups were absorbed by one another and their drink, and I would settle in to a contented wandering, watching the children's games until sleep or hunger would overtake me again.

From my father's recollection:

The court jester who (happened to be the chief of police of Mahabat) officiated an all night party in the main street that faced our Mahabat habitat. He closed the entire street (to my amazement) and this hearty bull of a man served as conductor and master jester...We danced, dined, recited poetry and there was story telling--we devoured potfuls of rice, meats, osh soup, mast and vodka until well past midnight and long past your bedtime. So long as the "chief" was the master of ceremonies the party kept going until nearly 2:a.m. but only when he--our "court jester" decided it was over.

A few days later we were boarding a night bus from Tabriz to Tehran and back to the familiar sounds of Tadjrish. It was a Thursday in the early hours of the morning when we pulled in to the Tehran bus station, the 20th of May, and by breakfast time I was settled back at home, expectant of my birthday which was only a few days away, for while Christmas and Easter may have passed hardly noticed, my birthday was set to arrive on mark.

Norooz - the new year tradition

This was our ceremonial Norooz table called "haft seen" (or "seven dishes") Each of the seven dishes begin with the Persian letter cinn. The number seven has been sacred in Iran since the ancient times, and the seven dishes stand for the seven angelic heralds of life-rebirth, health, happiness, prosperity, joy, patience, and beauty. The symbolic dishes consist of:

1. Sabzeh or sprouts, usually wheat or lentil representing rebirth.
2. Samanu is a pudding in which common wheat sprouts are transformed and given new life as a sweet, creamy pudding and represents the ultimate sophistication of Persian cooking.
3. Seeb means apple and represents health and beauty.
4. Senjed the sweet, dry fruit of the Lotus tree, represents love. It has been said that when lotus tree is in full bloom, its fragrance and its fruit make people fall in love and become oblivious to all else.
5. Seer which is garlic in Persian, represents medicine.
6. Somaq sumac berries, represent the color of sunrise; with the appearance of the sun Good conquers Evil.
7. Serkeh or vinegar, represents age and patience.

There were other objects on our table that do not start with the "s" sound, but are considered traditional: the Koran, a photo of loved ones that could not be with their family (my uncle in the U.S.), a photo of the prophet Ali (the person who Shi'ites believe was the first to profess his faith in Islam to Muhammad), oranges and goldfish to symbolize the sun, dyed eggs (perhaps a nod to the Christian Easter) and sweets of all kinds.

Norooz celebrates the beginning of the Persian year, which is also the spring equinox. The spring equinox is one of the two days of the year that the Sun moves across the celestial equator, the imaginary line among the stars that lies directly above the Earth's equator circling from east to west. The Sun's crossing of the celestial equator occurs one other time, on the autumn equinox. Both times this crossing occurs, the Sun rises exactly due east and sets exactly due west.

Norooz is like Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving and New Years Eve put together. We eat a meal with family, we exchange gifts, we celebrate spring, and we count down to the new year which is the exact beginning of spring, which every year falls at an exact time down to the second.

sources:
http://www.space.com/spacewatch/050318_equinox.html
http://souledout.org/nightsky/springequinox/springequinox.html
http://www.farsinet.com/norooz/

Grandpapa's Welcome

Tadjrish, Iran
January, 1971


My father arrived in Tehran on a cold winter night in January. Lygeia and I sat huddled in the dark car with aunty for what seemed like hours as we waited for him to emerge from the glass doors of the airport. My mother had disappeared through those doors leaving us the promise that she would return with him, and after months without him in Iran it seemed an impossible miracle that it could be true. When he finally appeared, weighed down with handbags and dragging two heavy suitcases, my mother at his side, the exhaustion of the late hour ran off me as if a light switch had been turned on in my mind. I squealed and I squirmed, bolting upright to reach for him in the front seat to wrap my arms around his neck. Before long, I nestled my head in to my mother’s lap in the back seat and listened to his voice tangle topsy turvy with the rumble of the car as we made our way back to my grandfather’s house.

At breakfast the next morning, my grandpapa had gained a formality that seemed odd and awkward. Instead of the cotton pajamas which he had always wore all day around the house, I found him eating his breakfast in a suit, with a crisp white shirt and shiny black shoes instead of his leather slippers. When my father emerged from the house, beaming and excited, Grandpapa rose and I watched him shake my father’s hand stiffly.

“Baba,” my father called him. “I am so pleased to finally meet you.” He pumped my Grandpapa’s arm vigorously and smiled. Grandpapa tipped his head forward, his eyes down, bowing slightly towards my father. “Ekhdiarderee,” was all he said, a slight smile on his lips. He laid his cane down on the ground and settled in to his chair, gesturing for my father to sit in the chair next to him.

I jumped in to my father’s arms as soon as he was free to catch me, and I remained planted in his familiar lap as he sat quietly at my grandfather’s side.

“Put your cheese in your bread, Daddy,” I explained. “and don’t forget the jam!” I erupted into giggles at the thought of him eating the dry bread with the cheese. “That’s sugar for tea, Daddy. Grandpapa puts sugar in his mouth. See?” We both watched as my grandfather drank down his warm tea and let the sugar dissolve in his mouth.


“Like this?” my father asked, and my Grandpapa smiled and nodded in agreement as my father placed the sugar cube from his saucer in his own mouth and reached for his glass of steaming tea.

The next week flew by quickly, pulling my father’s hand through the narrow streets, through the bustling bazaar and up the steep hill behind Grandpapa’s house to buy a snack, warm Pofak-namakee, like American cheese puffs. I suddenly had someone I could show around, someone who knew less about this place than me, and Lygeia and I enjoyed laughing at the way he pronounced all the new words we had learned, “sheer,” “ob,” and “madreseh.” Grandpapa seemed stiff in his suit, but he could not be convinced to change back in to his cotton pajamas, which he normally had only changed out of when he was planning to leave the heavy courtyard gate.

“Baba, really,” my mother would implore. “Do you think my husband cares whether you’re wearing a suit?”

“Hhmmf,” he would grunt and glare at her. He did not want it discussed.

It was about four weeks after my father arrived that Grandpapa’s suit began disappearing like a subtle strip tease in slow motion. First, the carefully shined shoes were replaced by the worn leather slippers that had been waiting patiently by the door and he returned to his shuffling walk and lost the clop of hard soles on the concrete patio.

Another week went by and my grandfather shed his suit coat and then after a few more days his tie, leaving them hanging over a chair, or laid out on his bed. After another week, his button-up shirt was replaced by his crème-colored cotton pajama top with the brown trim. Piece by piece my grandfather was restored to his normal self until two months after my father’s arrival he finally arrived at lunch, a springtime lunch under the blooming plum tree, without any sign of the formalities of the previous weeks. He settled himself at the head of the table, as if he had just rolled out of bed, resting his cane at his feet, and let out a tremendous fart which held a tone like a lengthy blow on a paper party favor. My grandfather was looking down at his food and his expression didn’t change.

“I’ve finally arrived!” my father exclaimed happily looking around the table and he, my mother and my uncle burst into hearty laughter. A sly smile crept on to my grandfather’s face and he peeked up through the long white hairs of his bushy eyebrows.

“That sound must be from a little mouse under the table,” said my uncle jokingly and I peeked down between my legs to try to catch a glimpse of it before it could scuttle away.

“Yes, a mouse,” my mother replied, smiling, and we all dug in to our rice and stew as if it was our first meal as a family reunited.

The Early Morning Gift

Tadjrish, Iran
Fall 1970

When I woke, the house was silent and still shedding its darkness with milky early morning shadows. I watched them through the slats of my crib with half-opened eyes. The noises from the night before, the rhythmic bark of the kitchen door as it swung like a heavy wooden pendulum when anyone pushed their way through, and my mother’s voice, piercing, all had fallen away in the night and in a moment’s time it seemed had turned in to this silent morning. I rolled over, tucking my knees underneath me, and sat up, rubbing my eyes with balled fists to clear them, smelling the moistness of my thumb which I had been sucking most of the night. The small rolling hillside of my sister’s back did not move in the next bed.

Since arriving in Iran we had been spending most of our days in Tadjrish in this big stone house and courtyard within the safety of the tall stone walls that embraced all that had now become familiar. The pond where my grandmother rinsed her pots, the folding table where Grandpapa played backgammon with my mother, the small garden plot that Grandmama tended, the slender trunks of fruit trees, these were the resting places, and the passages between them were my playground, my race track and my dance floor. No one seemed to know how to traverse the space like I could and I found joy in discovering its hiding places, its subtle changes with each passing day.

I heard the sound of steam escaping from the kitchen teapot and knew that meant Grandpapa would be waiting for his breakfast in his usual place. The springs under my mattress creaked under my weight as I stood and lifted my leg and rolled over the crib wall, dropping to the floor. At the window I could peer over the sill to spy him sitting patiently with his hands resting on his cane, his hair a bushel of whiteness, his eyes fixed on some far away spot on the garden wall. There was an empty chair next to him. The breakfast had not yet arrived.

When I arrived at his side with a polyester robe over my shoulders and a pair of plastic slippers on my feet, he turned to me and smiled with his eyes, patting the empty chair next to him. I settled into the chair and searched for the spot on the garden wall that had caught his attention and joined him in staring at it. I glanced up to take in the colorful umbrella of branches and brittle leaves that autumn had brought and watched them vibrate in the breeze. I wondered what he would have said to me if I could have understood him. I wondered how long we would sit before Grandpapa’s breakfast would arrive. He sat quietly, patiently and the deep lines on his face were a maze of cracks that made him seem like a statue, but one made of soft warmth and not the coldness of stone.

It took two trips to the kitchen to bring the spread of food out to him – a small shapely glass of steaming auburn tea with two white cubes of sugar balanced on a glass saucer, a basket of warm flatbread dusty with flour and tiny jars of dark jams in reds and purples. Some phrases were exchanged between my grandparents, and the second tray brought small cubes of white cheese in a bowl. I wanted to reach out for a square of cheese, to feel its wetness between my fingers, and the saltiness on my tongue, but instead I waited. I’d joined him already enough times to understand that he would share with me.

Grandpapa placed a square of flat bread in his palm and a square of the white salty cheese in its center. A spoonful of cherry preserve was dripped on top from a silver spoon coated with its sticky sauce. He rolled the bread closed and handed it to me with a napkin under it. I gladly took it from him, quickly letting the napkin fall to the ground as I sank my teeth into the sticky mixture of sweet and salty wetness and dry bread. When I was through I licked my fingers clean.

In the tea was a miniature metal spoon and I watched next as Grandpapa placed a white cube of sugar in his cheek and removed the spoon before he brought the glass to his lips to drink. Threads of dark tea leaves floated in the tea which shone red as I watched him drink it down in one smooth gesture, and place the glass back on its saucer. When he reached out for another slice of bread my brows went up in earnest.

Did you forget? My eyes asked, eyeing the last cube of sugar that remained on his saucer. Will today be the day that you forget? But he did not forget, and before long I had the cube on my tongue, dissolving it slowly to fill my mouth with sugar juice. The last taste of sugar to leave my mouth marked the end of breakfast, and the tray was returned and the jars and basket were cleared before the sun could peak over the courtyard walls. The city woke around us with the sounds of cars and peddlers unseen, and our courtyard filled with the busyness of the day. My grandfather and I would begin again the next morning, and once again I would leave the warmth of my bed to be the recipient of his early morning gift.