November 17th, 2009 § 0
I’m sitting on the dark grey wool sofa, body closed tight, tense as can be, across from the TV. I watch with eyes wide open, red from the combination of the lack of sleep and excessive staring at the bright rectangular, which puts me right into the streets of my birth town, Tehran. I wonder how could what I am witnessing be even possible?
Ferdosi Square, Tehran, 1957
November 16th, 2009 § 0
Details of the Pazyryk Carpet
2
I turn to my Dad, sitting on the matching dark grey wool loveseat, on my right. His shoulders, still broad but are now curved inward a bit, from the combination of old age and the weight of the pain he has been carrying for decades. Those are the shoulders that carried me around the house so that I would forget about my wounds whenever I would fall and injure my knees or elbows, a common and almost daily incident, when I was a super active child. His perfect shaped head, not too round and not too oblong, with very short white hair blending so well with his bald spot, is held in the palm of his left hand now, resting against the arm of the sofa. His eyebrows, still not completely white, are now in a tight knot. Those are the eyebrows my mom fell in love with. She said they resembled a pair of perfectly shapes swords. The swords are now engaged in a duel, frozen in horror and sadness. Unlike me, Dad is not staring at TV. Instead, his dark eyes are fixed at the patterns of the Persian carpet under his feet – the same patterns that taught me harmony, balance, color, and most importantly anticipation.
My dad when he was young with his sword-shape eyebrows
Persian Carpets
Pazyryk Carpet - Made in 5th century BC - Discovered in Pazyryk, Siberia.
November 15th, 2009 § 0
“What is it, Dad? Why are you not watching TV? Is this too painful for you?” I want to ask him but the words don’t leave my mouth. It is all in my head.
During the last couple of weeks, I have gone from cloud nine to the pit of the earth, from being an ultimate optimist to an absolute hopeless soul. I have felt all my dreams and wishes for my birth country secure in my hand, so accessible I could easily taste them, only to have them snatched away from me. Words such as absolute devastation wouldn’t even begin to describe my state of being. I am a fool, I tell myself. I should have known better. After all, this is not my first time facing such calamity.
I look at dad again, still no sign of him being interested in what is on the screen. My heart drops, for him it has been at least one additional time, I remind myself! And unlike me, witnessing the events from the other side of the globe, he was there, not only in the streets, but there, right in the center of it all. He never talked about it though. My grandmother mentioned it once or twice, but back then I was too young to really understand it. I wonder if I can ask him about it now, as it seems that the history is toying with us once more. But that would be selfish of me and unfair to him – so much pain, so much despair, a sea of lost hopes.
Tehran 1953
Tehran 1953:: Somethings never change!
Tehran 2009 :: They just get bigger
Tehran 2009 :: ... and bigger.
November 12th, 2009 § 0
Achaemenid Gold Earring
I hear something outside in the balcony. Two doves, white like snow, and beautiful, have perched on our railing. Doves often bring me smiles. They remind me of my childhood, and the long nights when my great aunt was visiting. “Ezy”, we called her, was a great storyteller and knew thousands of stories. With her around we felt like the king in the 1001 nights. She was our own Shahrzad.
“Tell us another one”, we would plead.
Ezy never refused, never complained that she was too tired. We stayed up past midnight and she told us story after story. So many of Ezy’s stories included doves as part of the cast. Great white doves of her stories could speak, but only to each other. Their dialogue was part of the story, so we could hear them too. It was as if they were the storyteller’s special helper! The doves had a specific mission; they would give us bits of information that the hero and heroines didn’t have access to, but we were to find out about soon! A clever invention of the old storytellers, which made us feel smarter than the cast! The story doves always came in twos, and they were always sisters! Smart, clever, and intelligent sisters!
November 10th, 2009 § 0
White Story Doves
Now, a set of white doves are sitting on our balcony, looking at me in the funny way they do, while moving their tiny heads from one side to the other. I look them back in the eyes.
“Hello”, I whisper in my mind, “Can you tell me what happened at our house that summer day in 1953?” I smile. “You could if you were Persian Story Doves. But you are not from the stories. You are just doves.” I think to myself, “You aren’t even able to understand me, which is fair since I can’t understand you either.”
“Long, long time ago, when people were still good, they could understand the animal’s language.” my grandmother used to tell us when she told us stories, not as often as Ezy.
“But I guess the world is now changed and is filled with bad people who are not good enough to understand your tongue,” I say to the doves.