"So brave."
There were three incidents the other day that could be classified as "highly coincidental". I'll leave it at that.
Cost of a four-course meal in a 5-star restaurant for two people: $14. I think I've shaken more hands in the past week than I have in the past year. The incredibly kind elderly woman who works at the hotel has offered to wash our clothes. Perhaps she has used Iran's leading laundry detergent, which goes by the name of "Barf".
We're driving around Esfahan on the way to check out Khaju Bridge. The next day starts two of the holiest days in Shia Islam, the last two days of Ashura. The first will commemorate the tribulations of Imam Hossein's friend, Abbass; the second, the martyrdom of Imam Hossein.
"Its a bad time to be in Iran," the cabbie says, me waiting for the shoe to drop, "because everything will be closed tomorrow." Like virtually every cab driver we've used, he asks where I'm from.
H2 says to me in an aside, "You're lucky to be born in the USA and not Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan."
*
Its true. The next day I awake to the empty streets of a city populated by nearly 2,000,000 people. Everything is closed. Its difficult to hail a cab, but we manage to get a gregarious bear of a man to take us to the Zoroastrian fire temple outside of town. Along the way, we pass by large groups assembling, preparing for Ashura ceremonies. Free drinks and food are passed out on the street and sidewalks. The driver comments that I look like Bill Clinton.
H2 explains that many men stop shaving during Ashura. My kind of town.
Along the way, we stop to see a procession beginning. The driver pulls me out of the car with my camera and takes me to the scene and tells me to start shooting. Banners are raised and men with chains are lightly whipping themselves. Some have begun crying, nearly all Shia will at some point over the next 48 hours. Then a crowd forms around me and wishes me to stop taping. I'm crushed that I may have offended them, but they assure me its perfectly fine to record the action, but it has to be away from where I am because its a police station.
There will be much more to take in later and we move along to the fire temple. Women in full hejab are ascending the mountain. The vista is breathtaking and we can see various processionals manuevering throughout Esfahan.
In the cab back to town, H2 gets a message from M, our young university friend, inviting us to meet her and her family at Imam Square, where they will lead us to some neighborhood ceremonies. Seemingly out of nowhere, our bear-ish driver proclaims, "George W. Bush! He has good behavior!" Iranians' single greatest concern in life is behavior - proper handling of affairs will lead to universal acceptance and open doors, unruly or untoward varieties will get you marginalized. Small, unsolicited random samples show that many Iranians seem split on the subject of the current US president. We pick up some free tea at a roadside stand and one of the men tells me he deserves to work today on behalf of Imam Hossein.
Its about this time that my trip transcends into some sort of dreamscape. The driver says we can see ceremonies throughout the city, especially in parts where the poor live. Lambs are led to slaughter.
We meet M, her mother and sister at Imam Square. They give us more gifts, including a lovely rice pudding treat with spice sprinkled on top spelling out "Oh! Hossein!"
We walk. I ask M what she is feeling on this special day. She happily says she will cry for Hossein for being "so brave. So brave." We stop by a tomb. I take my shoes off and enter.
This day is mainly dedicated to Abbass, the man who went to fetch water for Hossein during his time of trial in Karbala. There are thousands of tents set up in the city, millions across the country. H2 explains that groups from different mosques travel the streets from tent to tent, each providing its own singer who performs sad songs for Abbass and Hossein. They cry for water, as Abbass did before the Sunni enemies captured him, cut off both of his arms and tied him to his horse to ride back to Hossein's camp. A man at the neighborhood we're in holds up a baby to one of the banners, signifying Abbass holding up a baby, asking for just enough water for the infant. The enemy killed the baby with bow and arrow. H2 surmises that Sunni and Shia will never get along and that Sunni courts in Iraq routinely sentenced Shia to death in that country.
Hundreds of people have lined the streets and filled the tent near a temporary mosque. I'm the only foreigner. I have little reason to be as nervous as I am, holding my camera. Little by little we move closer to the crowd. M and her family stay close. A woman beside us takes off the Abbass headband from her infant and pins it to me arm. M's brother in law shows up and offers to take my camera into the ceremony. He's close to the action - men with chains, singers weeping for Abbass, colorful banners hoisted high. Curious onlookers press close to me, knowing I'm American, rarely if ever seen at an event such as this. M's brother in law returns my camera and leads me right into the action. A man, his hand over his heart, appears before me offering a cup of tea. I'm touched. Invitations for food and company come at me from all directions. The man with the tea takes the saucer, but accidently drops it and as I bend down to pick up the pieces, half a dozen men stop me and do it themselves. The man takes me and H2 by the hand and leads us straight into the area of greatest crowd density. Hundreds of men are clamoring around a gate, waiting for the food that's being prepared inside. Its body-to-body as he wedges us by these men and through the gate, into a small courtyard.
Inside, a line of women wait for food, but the man wants us to see more. He leads us down a flight of stairs; still further, he brings us directly into the sweltering kitchen where dozens of men work tirelessly preparing plates full of food. M had given us orange juice outside and we offer it to the kitchen workers, who form an assembly line heaping rice and lentil/lamb sauce. A middle-aged man speaks English to me, welcoming me and telling me he studied at Michigan State. They invite me to continue recording, then bring us over to a stove where we're served some food. Every time I turn around, someone if offering me something. The conditions would probably not pass muster with the health department, but I'm told Imam Hossein will not allow me to get sick from what I'm eating. Activity is all whirlwind and my eyes are wide open.
We head out of the kitchen and everyone welcomes me, shaking my hand. We push past the crowd at the gate, still body-to-body, more invitations. We return to M and her family. She was concerned about where we went, text messaging H2 as we were in the kitchen and scolds him for not returning her query. They are returning to their home for rest. H2 reminds me not to shake hands with the women. M waves to us as they disappear into the crowd.
As H2 and I walk back to the hotel in a light rain, I'm reminded of the pervasive influence of the western media, with its propensity to condense what I've seen into 1:10 packages to be construed as 'Islamic chaos' to the uninitiated. We share the rice pudding with some people at another makeshift mosque set up for the day, they offer us tea. We stop by the to see our friends at the Foreign Police station and I show them the armband.
We're exhausted, but the ceremonies continue in earnest the following day. We've been invited to a special program that starts before dawn. Its only as I'm about the fall asleep that I realize my next waking moments will take me into what most Americans might deem their worst nightmare.
*
Its 4:45 am. H2 knocks on my door. He's alerted our silly clerk with a snap of his fingers and by the time I'm dressed, tea and eggs are served. H2 has been up until 2 making arrangements with our Arab Iranian friend, J - who we met at the hotel a few days earlier. J has told H2 that he would be so proud if I attended their ceremony.
I confer once more with H2 about my appearance at this event. "Yeah, yeah." We finish our tea. He says, "Okay, let's go."
Its still dark and the streets are deserted until we get closer to the ceremony. Banners are hung with knives dripping with blood. We get out of the cab to find J and his group. The event has been going on for over 200 years, J does it as his father has. J explains that its something like a miracle - despite what he's about to do, he will feel no pain. He and his group wish only that they could have been among Imam Hossein's 72 followers at the time of his death. He says this is their way of giving up their bodies for their beloved leader. This event is called ghameh zani - 'night beating'.
I want to be clear: everyone knows I'm American. H2 says I may be the only American to witness this firsthand, maybe the only foreigner. I can't say, it matters little. What I'm about to describe - if I could only do it justice - is not condoned by the Ayatollahs, in fact, they wish people would stop doing it. The vast majority of Iranians feel the same way. One of the group explains to me that he knows people judge them - probably harshly - for their actions. The point is - they don't care what people think. This is their way of showing their allegiance to Imam Hossein, one of the main men who shapes their lives. Its the most important thing they will do all year.
J takes us into a house full of men dressed in white cloth. We go into a room where about 15-20 men are gathered - mostly minority Arab Iranians - and the door closes. They indicate that I can begin recording. The swords come out.
Truly a 'night of long knives', they wipe their instuments down with alcohol. Boys younger than 14 excitedly sit around me - it will be their first participation in ghameh zani. J is in another room preparing and H2 and I are alone with these men we've never met before. One man wants to know how he can learn to speak English. I tell him that many Mexicans who come to America learn through TV and movies. I also suggest that many airline magazines publish articles in both the native and English languages. We're served some cocoa. One man jokingly pretends to beat me with his sword. Others pick up the barrel drums and begin to proceed out to the street where the event will take place. A picture of Imam Ali hangs in the room, watching over these ecstatic and religiously charged individuals. They adorn me in cloth to keep the blood from my clothes. We head out to the street.
The participants prepare by patting the crowns of their heads with the broad side of their knives. Like the previous day, many groups will parade through the streets - because J's group is one that did the most to coordinate the occassion, they will go last. They're steely, focused. I shake J's hand and wish him good luck. The boys are giddy.
I can already see what will happen, since many of the groups have already started. Chanting slogans for Iman Hossein - this day commemorates his death - men pass by me streaming in blood from the tops of their heads. One guy holding a red-soaked cloth on his crown says, in excellent English, "You're from America?"
>"Yeah."
"Where do you stay?"
>"Minnesota."
"Oh, yeah? I have a sister in Coon Rapids."
The leader of J's group is in rapture, striking the sharpened blade against the top of his head, making the incisions. Another man positions members in front of him, drawing blood in a firm and swift motion to their crowns. Each member of the group takes part, even the youngest. The mens' tears of sorrow mix with the flowing blood. Some of the members grab me and lead me to the middle of the group to get better shots. Blood splatters on the pavement. The streets are lined with onlookers. H2 goes to J and dabs some of his blood onto his finger, wiping it on our cloth so that we can make a wish. J shakes our hands, kisses us and returns to his group.
*
On the way back I explain to H2 the meaning of 'badass'.
We're at the hotel. H2 tells the owner and his friend what we've witnessed. The friend bursts out laughing - "You took *him*?!", referring to me. The owner confesses he's never seen it before. The wonderful elderly cleaning lady smiles and says to us, "Don't use those swords."
The owner says that before the Revolution, 30,000 Americans lived in Esfahan. They cried as they left.
*
We see our 'silly' clerk one last time. He's only 16, is quite friendly and highly entertaining. The clerk, who's dropped out of school because he "doesn't like to read a book", will leave his job at the hotel to be a carpet seller for his cousin in Kerman. At the hotel, he works from 5:30 am to 2:30 am every day and sleeps for three hours on the floor in front of the desk. At the carpet shop, his income will be around $300 a month, up from the $50/month he earns at the hotel. He arose this morning to serve us literally at the snap of H2's finger.
Cost of a four-course meal in a 5-star restaurant for two people: $14. I think I've shaken more hands in the past week than I have in the past year. The incredibly kind elderly woman who works at the hotel has offered to wash our clothes. Perhaps she has used Iran's leading laundry detergent, which goes by the name of "Barf".
We're driving around Esfahan on the way to check out Khaju Bridge. The next day starts two of the holiest days in Shia Islam, the last two days of Ashura. The first will commemorate the tribulations of Imam Hossein's friend, Abbass; the second, the martyrdom of Imam Hossein.
"Its a bad time to be in Iran," the cabbie says, me waiting for the shoe to drop, "because everything will be closed tomorrow." Like virtually every cab driver we've used, he asks where I'm from.
H2 says to me in an aside, "You're lucky to be born in the USA and not Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan."
*
Its true. The next day I awake to the empty streets of a city populated by nearly 2,000,000 people. Everything is closed. Its difficult to hail a cab, but we manage to get a gregarious bear of a man to take us to the Zoroastrian fire temple outside of town. Along the way, we pass by large groups assembling, preparing for Ashura ceremonies. Free drinks and food are passed out on the street and sidewalks. The driver comments that I look like Bill Clinton.
H2 explains that many men stop shaving during Ashura. My kind of town.
Along the way, we stop to see a procession beginning. The driver pulls me out of the car with my camera and takes me to the scene and tells me to start shooting. Banners are raised and men with chains are lightly whipping themselves. Some have begun crying, nearly all Shia will at some point over the next 48 hours. Then a crowd forms around me and wishes me to stop taping. I'm crushed that I may have offended them, but they assure me its perfectly fine to record the action, but it has to be away from where I am because its a police station.
There will be much more to take in later and we move along to the fire temple. Women in full hejab are ascending the mountain. The vista is breathtaking and we can see various processionals manuevering throughout Esfahan.
In the cab back to town, H2 gets a message from M, our young university friend, inviting us to meet her and her family at Imam Square, where they will lead us to some neighborhood ceremonies. Seemingly out of nowhere, our bear-ish driver proclaims, "George W. Bush! He has good behavior!" Iranians' single greatest concern in life is behavior - proper handling of affairs will lead to universal acceptance and open doors, unruly or untoward varieties will get you marginalized. Small, unsolicited random samples show that many Iranians seem split on the subject of the current US president. We pick up some free tea at a roadside stand and one of the men tells me he deserves to work today on behalf of Imam Hossein.
Its about this time that my trip transcends into some sort of dreamscape. The driver says we can see ceremonies throughout the city, especially in parts where the poor live. Lambs are led to slaughter.
We meet M, her mother and sister at Imam Square. They give us more gifts, including a lovely rice pudding treat with spice sprinkled on top spelling out "Oh! Hossein!"
We walk. I ask M what she is feeling on this special day. She happily says she will cry for Hossein for being "so brave. So brave." We stop by a tomb. I take my shoes off and enter.
This day is mainly dedicated to Abbass, the man who went to fetch water for Hossein during his time of trial in Karbala. There are thousands of tents set up in the city, millions across the country. H2 explains that groups from different mosques travel the streets from tent to tent, each providing its own singer who performs sad songs for Abbass and Hossein. They cry for water, as Abbass did before the Sunni enemies captured him, cut off both of his arms and tied him to his horse to ride back to Hossein's camp. A man at the neighborhood we're in holds up a baby to one of the banners, signifying Abbass holding up a baby, asking for just enough water for the infant. The enemy killed the baby with bow and arrow. H2 surmises that Sunni and Shia will never get along and that Sunni courts in Iraq routinely sentenced Shia to death in that country.
Hundreds of people have lined the streets and filled the tent near a temporary mosque. I'm the only foreigner. I have little reason to be as nervous as I am, holding my camera. Little by little we move closer to the crowd. M and her family stay close. A woman beside us takes off the Abbass headband from her infant and pins it to me arm. M's brother in law shows up and offers to take my camera into the ceremony. He's close to the action - men with chains, singers weeping for Abbass, colorful banners hoisted high. Curious onlookers press close to me, knowing I'm American, rarely if ever seen at an event such as this. M's brother in law returns my camera and leads me right into the action. A man, his hand over his heart, appears before me offering a cup of tea. I'm touched. Invitations for food and company come at me from all directions. The man with the tea takes the saucer, but accidently drops it and as I bend down to pick up the pieces, half a dozen men stop me and do it themselves. The man takes me and H2 by the hand and leads us straight into the area of greatest crowd density. Hundreds of men are clamoring around a gate, waiting for the food that's being prepared inside. Its body-to-body as he wedges us by these men and through the gate, into a small courtyard.
Inside, a line of women wait for food, but the man wants us to see more. He leads us down a flight of stairs; still further, he brings us directly into the sweltering kitchen where dozens of men work tirelessly preparing plates full of food. M had given us orange juice outside and we offer it to the kitchen workers, who form an assembly line heaping rice and lentil/lamb sauce. A middle-aged man speaks English to me, welcoming me and telling me he studied at Michigan State. They invite me to continue recording, then bring us over to a stove where we're served some food. Every time I turn around, someone if offering me something. The conditions would probably not pass muster with the health department, but I'm told Imam Hossein will not allow me to get sick from what I'm eating. Activity is all whirlwind and my eyes are wide open.
We head out of the kitchen and everyone welcomes me, shaking my hand. We push past the crowd at the gate, still body-to-body, more invitations. We return to M and her family. She was concerned about where we went, text messaging H2 as we were in the kitchen and scolds him for not returning her query. They are returning to their home for rest. H2 reminds me not to shake hands with the women. M waves to us as they disappear into the crowd.
As H2 and I walk back to the hotel in a light rain, I'm reminded of the pervasive influence of the western media, with its propensity to condense what I've seen into 1:10 packages to be construed as 'Islamic chaos' to the uninitiated. We share the rice pudding with some people at another makeshift mosque set up for the day, they offer us tea. We stop by the to see our friends at the Foreign Police station and I show them the armband.
We're exhausted, but the ceremonies continue in earnest the following day. We've been invited to a special program that starts before dawn. Its only as I'm about the fall asleep that I realize my next waking moments will take me into what most Americans might deem their worst nightmare.
*
Its 4:45 am. H2 knocks on my door. He's alerted our silly clerk with a snap of his fingers and by the time I'm dressed, tea and eggs are served. H2 has been up until 2 making arrangements with our Arab Iranian friend, J - who we met at the hotel a few days earlier. J has told H2 that he would be so proud if I attended their ceremony.
I confer once more with H2 about my appearance at this event. "Yeah, yeah." We finish our tea. He says, "Okay, let's go."
Its still dark and the streets are deserted until we get closer to the ceremony. Banners are hung with knives dripping with blood. We get out of the cab to find J and his group. The event has been going on for over 200 years, J does it as his father has. J explains that its something like a miracle - despite what he's about to do, he will feel no pain. He and his group wish only that they could have been among Imam Hossein's 72 followers at the time of his death. He says this is their way of giving up their bodies for their beloved leader. This event is called ghameh zani - 'night beating'.
I want to be clear: everyone knows I'm American. H2 says I may be the only American to witness this firsthand, maybe the only foreigner. I can't say, it matters little. What I'm about to describe - if I could only do it justice - is not condoned by the Ayatollahs, in fact, they wish people would stop doing it. The vast majority of Iranians feel the same way. One of the group explains to me that he knows people judge them - probably harshly - for their actions. The point is - they don't care what people think. This is their way of showing their allegiance to Imam Hossein, one of the main men who shapes their lives. Its the most important thing they will do all year.
J takes us into a house full of men dressed in white cloth. We go into a room where about 15-20 men are gathered - mostly minority Arab Iranians - and the door closes. They indicate that I can begin recording. The swords come out.
Truly a 'night of long knives', they wipe their instuments down with alcohol. Boys younger than 14 excitedly sit around me - it will be their first participation in ghameh zani. J is in another room preparing and H2 and I are alone with these men we've never met before. One man wants to know how he can learn to speak English. I tell him that many Mexicans who come to America learn through TV and movies. I also suggest that many airline magazines publish articles in both the native and English languages. We're served some cocoa. One man jokingly pretends to beat me with his sword. Others pick up the barrel drums and begin to proceed out to the street where the event will take place. A picture of Imam Ali hangs in the room, watching over these ecstatic and religiously charged individuals. They adorn me in cloth to keep the blood from my clothes. We head out to the street.
The participants prepare by patting the crowns of their heads with the broad side of their knives. Like the previous day, many groups will parade through the streets - because J's group is one that did the most to coordinate the occassion, they will go last. They're steely, focused. I shake J's hand and wish him good luck. The boys are giddy.
I can already see what will happen, since many of the groups have already started. Chanting slogans for Iman Hossein - this day commemorates his death - men pass by me streaming in blood from the tops of their heads. One guy holding a red-soaked cloth on his crown says, in excellent English, "You're from America?"
>"Yeah."
"Where do you stay?"
>"Minnesota."
"Oh, yeah? I have a sister in Coon Rapids."
The leader of J's group is in rapture, striking the sharpened blade against the top of his head, making the incisions. Another man positions members in front of him, drawing blood in a firm and swift motion to their crowns. Each member of the group takes part, even the youngest. The mens' tears of sorrow mix with the flowing blood. Some of the members grab me and lead me to the middle of the group to get better shots. Blood splatters on the pavement. The streets are lined with onlookers. H2 goes to J and dabs some of his blood onto his finger, wiping it on our cloth so that we can make a wish. J shakes our hands, kisses us and returns to his group.
*
On the way back I explain to H2 the meaning of 'badass'.
We're at the hotel. H2 tells the owner and his friend what we've witnessed. The friend bursts out laughing - "You took *him*?!", referring to me. The owner confesses he's never seen it before. The wonderful elderly cleaning lady smiles and says to us, "Don't use those swords."
The owner says that before the Revolution, 30,000 Americans lived in Esfahan. They cried as they left.
*
We see our 'silly' clerk one last time. He's only 16, is quite friendly and highly entertaining. The clerk, who's dropped out of school because he "doesn't like to read a book", will leave his job at the hotel to be a carpet seller for his cousin in Kerman. At the hotel, he works from 5:30 am to 2:30 am every day and sleeps for three hours on the floor in front of the desk. At the carpet shop, his income will be around $300 a month, up from the $50/month he earns at the hotel. He arose this morning to serve us literally at the snap of H2's finger.
posted by s. at 11:18 AM
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