Modern love

My favorite poem by Nader Naderpour.

از ویس به رامین

تو ای رامین تو ای دیرینه دلدارم
چو می خواهم که نامت را نهانی بر زبان آرم
صدا درسینه ام چون اه می لرزد
چو می خواهم که نامت را به لوح نامه بنگارم
قلم در دست من بیگاه می لرزد
نمی دانم چه باید گفت نمی دانم چه باید کرد
بیاد آور سخنهای مرا در نامه پیشین
سخنهایی که بر میخواست چون اه از دلی سنگین
چنین گفتم در ان نامه:
" اگر چرخه فلک باشد دبیرم
ستاره سر به سر باشد حریرم
هوا باشد دوات و شب سیاهی
حروف نامه:برگ و ریگ و ماهی
نویسند این دبیران تا به محشر
امید و آرزوی من به دلبر
به جان من که ننویسند نیمی
مرا در حجر ننمایند بیمی "
من ان شب کین سخنها بر قلم راندم
ندانستم کز این افسانه پردازی چه می خواهم
ولی امروز می دانم
نه می خواهم حریر آسمان طومار من گردد
نه می خواهم ستاره ترجمان عشق افسونکار من گردد
دوات شب نمی اید به کار من
نه برگ و ریگ و ماهی غم گسار من
حریر گونه ام را نامه خواهم کرد
سره مژگان خود را خامه خواهم کرد
حروف از اشک خواهم ساخت
مگر این سان توانم نامه ای اندوهگین پرداخت

نادر نادرپور

Masti

No one does Persian 'new poetry' like Naderpour. It's still as delightful as the first time I came across it over two decades ago.

مستی
هوا بارانی و من مست و او مست
شراب سرخ شیرین در سبو مست
همه چشمه سیاهش سر به سر ناز
همه زلفه درازش مو به مو مست

نادر نادرپور

In case you want to 'read' along...

Where the heart is

Music from the Iranian province of Lorestan. I really think their music is my favorite...

Baroun (Lori folk song) - Rastak



..except maybe for Kurdish music. This includes a little bit of behind the scenes and the song starts around 2:01

Sozaleh (Kurdish folk song) - Rastak



(There's definitely a little bit of a modern sound to their interpretation, but I strongly suspect that is because they are all classically trained. Certainly, the instruments are authentic, and so is their enthusiasm for making the real music of Iran's provinces accessible, especially to younger Iranian generations domestic and abroad--whose interest in such music is apparently on rise bolstered by a renewed sense of national pride--and also to non-Iranians who may be surprised to hear the same rock and roll under currents, in these many decades and sometimes centuries old songs, as some of their standard favorites of the genre.)

One fine day

I get the call about 20 minutes after I've handed her over to P. to take her down to radiology.

"She threw up a bit and she's in pain, of course more now the Oxy's probably come up, too."
"Food?"
"No, just clear, the food won't come up probably until after the treatment, so she's good to go. You know, this is just the typical...
"Yep. So..."
"Yeah, she's fine."
"Okay, good, then I'm good to leave?"
"Yep. Call you later."

Pause.

"I'm glad she's fine."
"Me too"

***

Language is a funny thing. You can completely deconstruct existing definitions and reconstruct them to suit yourself in a matter of moments.
We do that with only one, though. The mother language we keep intact and safe from these subjective manipulations. They're the words she taught us. Those we don't change.

***

She knows that Rashid Khan, heading the Ghooches of Khorasan, hasn't been heard of in several days. She knows that there is a great price on his head and that even if his enemies haven't gotten him, his own friends may have turned him in for that kind of money.

But she's knows she can't fall apart in front of everyone because that's just what they expect and because that's not what he wants.

So she says, it's fine.

Rashid Khan - [unknown]

That's what he said

الا یا ایها الـساقی ادر کاسا و ناولـها

که عشق آسان نمود اول ولی افتاد مشکل‌ها

بـه بوی نافه‌ای کاخر صبا زان طره بگـشاید

ز تاب جعد مشکینش چه خون افـتاد در دل‌ها

مرا در منزل جانان چه امـن عیش چون هر دم

جرس فریاد می‌دارد که بربندید مـحـمـل‌ها

بـه می سجاده رنگین کن گرت پیر مغان گوید

کـه سالک بی‌خبر نبود ز راه و رسم منزل‌ها

شـب تاریک و بیم موج و گردابی چنین هایل

کـجا دانـند حال ما سبکـباران ساحـل‌ها

همـه کارم ز خود کامی به بدنامی کشید آخر

نـهان کی ماند آن رازی کز او سازند محفل‌ها

حضوری گر همی‌خواهی از او غایب مشو حافظ

مـتی ما تلق من تهوی دع الدنیا و اهملـها

All in the family

Unanimously voted by my family as the most romantic song in Farsi--lovely, simple, to the point lyrics. It may have to do something with the fact that we're huge Shahidi fans. Dad does a very credible cover of this and hearing him belt it out, right around when we'd hit Delijan in time for lunch was another little tradition of ours, on those drives to Shiraz. With full backup from the 'girls', might I add.

Unfortunately, this cuts off right before the upbeat coda, but I'm still happy to have found it on youtube. I guess this is one area WMG and Sony can't get their grubby censoring hands on.

Zendegi (Life) - Shahidi

Beyadeh gozashteh

Listening to Banan will forever be associated for me with driving the 'Kolikosh' on the way to Shiraz, for our annual NoRuz visit to my dad's family. As the musical director for the drive, I would invariably end up picking from the grand old singing masters, gladly. Somehow, at the end of the long drive, hitting that particular stretch right around dusk, Banan's voice always seemed like the right one to listen to.

Bahareh Delneshin (Heartfelt Springtime) - Banan

Second verse, just like the first

"This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction."

The Handmaid's Tale; Margaret Atwood

***

We're sitting side by side. The chairs here are the hard, metal, folding kind, and the area is little more than a corner turned holding area, with rather poor lighting and certainly nothing to offer in way of entertainment to pass time for those who wait. None of that really matters, though, since nothing could honestly offer enough comfort or distraction to make us forget why we're waiting.

"Are you going to get a copy of the preliminary again, before they send out the final report?"
"Yes, just like last time."
"And you'll call me first, no matter..."
"Yes, just like last time."

We both move around a little, trying to find a spot where our chair actually feels like one. There isn't one.

"Are you going to have them over when I call with the final results, so you're all in the same place?"
"Yes, just like last time."
"And you'll call me back afterwards, no matter..."
"Yes, just like last time."

She pulls out a manila folder and takes out a pen to make notes on a patient's report. I pull out my laptop and bring up a design document to edit. Half an hour, she hasn't made a single mark on the paper, and I'm still watching the cursor blink at the beginning of the document.

Just like last time.

***

Whenever it is just the two of us together for a significant period of time, I remember this. I've thought about it so many times, I sometimes wonder if I'm making up parts of it--it seems so perfectly orchestrated in my mind, like a scene out of a movie, than I have to wonder. But even if a particular retrospection is larger than life, it doesn't make it less real.

***

She comes back, having gone to see how much longer it will be.

"Another twenty minutes," she says.

I get up to stretch my legs, and come back to find her putting away the manila folder. I'd already packed away the laptop while she was gone.

"Were you remembering again?"
"Yep."
"Tell me again."

Like a one trick pony Scheherazade, I perform on command. Just like last time.

***

We're bored. The television holds no interest, and neither does the radio, both now seemingly devoting themselves exclusively to news of the revolution. We've read all our books several times over. It's already getting dark, which means we can't even kill time going to the mini-super. In any case, it's raining unexpectedly. Besides which, we're not even really allowed to go out by ourselves during the daytime, anymore, without a responsible grown-up accompanying us--this last really chafing her, since it completely negates her position as one, something she had just started to enjoy since turning 15.

"How about some 'Old Songs'?", she asks, holding up a cassette.

The first song comes on. We both find this song hilarious, the juxtaposition of Arabic and French (and Spanish, it seems) for some reason amusing us to no end. With exaggerated hip movements, we twirl around, facing each other to sing the words which are more than just words to us, even as we laugh about them. I take great care to pronounce the French "r's" just as she's told me ("Don't roll it with your tongue, like in Farsi; do it with your throat"--a line that years later also ends up amusing us to no end, when I remind her of it) and get a barely perceptible nod of approval.

"Cherie, je t'aime...cherie, je t'adore"

Ya Mustafa - Bob Azzam


The next song is equally as cheery, and also has ten times the saccharine. She perches on top of the impressive tower we've made from the cushions belonging to our garden table and chair set (brought inside to avoid getting wet from the unexpected summer rainstorm), to sing along, while I still keep spinning and singing, like the opening scenes from 'The Sound of Music'. We're not allowed to sit or otherwise play around with the cushions, but our parents are not home, and the shared defiance, initiated by her, is one of our long established bonding rituals. It's understood that if we get found out, I will play fall guy because I will only get a verbal chastising, with only a likely "And you should know better than to let her" thrown her way. In return, I will continue to have full access to her records and record player. These things are understood.

"Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera"

Que Sera, Sera - Doris Day


Halfway through the song she stops singing, and I, ever in tune with her changing moods, also stop to see if it's because of something I am doing. She's not looking at me, though, she's staring down at her feet. I call her by her nickname and she looks back at me, and says in a serious voice,

"Do you know what that means?"
"What?"
"Que sera, sera?"
"Whatever will be, will be."
"No, I mean do you understand what it means?"

I look at her a bit blankly, and also a bit expectantly and in slightly excited anticipation. Because I know that tone of voice; it's the one she uses when she wants tell me something really interesting. Sometimes I don't really understand her, but she is very good with explaining things over and over until I do. At times like that, I love her so much it makes me almost want to cry.

She walks over to the cassette player, hits pause, and then for the next few minutes, starts telling me about these things called fate and karma, not what I know of them from sayings and parables often quoted by the older members of the family, like my grandparents and great aunts and uncles, but from these books she's reading by someone called Dostoyevksy and Maxim Gorky. I don't understand a lot of what she says, but I don't want to stop her because there is something fascinating about what she is telling me, even though I can't make sense of it. There is something a bit scary about what she says--did she just say there is no God?--but also something rather liberating, although it will be years before I know enough to put that particular label on it.

The pause button has, in the meantime, released, and even as she's been talking the songs have been playing. When she finally stops, we're already half way through a song which I've never really liked much, but know by heart anyway.

"I couldn't say the things I should have said
Refused to let my heart control my head"

The Music Played - Matt Monroe



It's really dark in the living room now; the only light is from the controls on the stereo. She rearranges the cushions so now there's two towers of equal height, right up against the wall, and easily lifts and sits me on one, before hopping on the second one herself. The last song comes on and she tells me very quietly to listen to the words. Listen carefully, she tells me, and try and remember it. I already know the words, so once again I'm left to wonder what exactly it is she wants me to do, but still, I listen. I listen harder than I have before.

The song ends and we sit there companionably for a while. I'm starting to slip a little off the cushions and without really looking at me, she senses this and steadies me with her hand.

"And every conversation I can now recall
Concerned itself with me, and nothing else at all"

Yesterday When I Was Young - Roy Clark



"You know, some day you and I won't be young. We'll be as old as Maman and Baba are,"--this seems so very old to me, just then, being all of seven--"but you know what's neat? You'll look back and you'll remember this and sitting here with me and listening to this song, and it will be okay."

I'm not sure what she means when she says it will be okay, but even though I don't get it, I don't doubt that she is telling the truth. If she says it will be okay, it will be.

***

"I can't believe you still remember all that."
"That's what you said before."
"And I can't believe I would tell you all that stuff. You poor kid, it's a wonder you didn't end up in a strait jacket."
"You said that last time, too."
"Are you trying to tell me I'm getting old and forgetful?"
"Maybe."

She makes like she is going to swat my head, but just pulls me close.

***

It will be okay.

Just like last time.

30 years

Thirty years ago this past month, this was heard for the first time on television and radio sets across the country, back home. Despite its overwhelmingly--and deliberate, of course--religious overtones, everyone knew it, everyone sang it, and everyone hummed it within a few days. Everyone, even my sister and I.

(Damn if it doesn't totally take me back, even after all this time.)




It slowly but surely replaced the most beloved of the country's many anthems (but never its national anthem, contrary to information on youtube and elsewhere to that effect), something else everyone knew and sang and hummed. The old anthem was one of national pride and devotion, not of religious fervor and obedience, but that is what was needed to fuel the flames, even that of the so called intellectuals and educated, white collar class. Because religion? Truly is the opium of the masses.



But when the 'cleansing' huntings and killings grew exponentially those first few years--and then especially when the war broke out and there was the undercurrent of talk about young boys of 12 and 13 running out on the battle fields first to deactivate the mines, with their life--the song took on a different light and became almost a macabre warning of the bloodshed that was happening (and to come) rather than of the bloodshed that supposedly had happened under the old regime. It was around then that the song was banned and the old anthem resurrected and played over the airwaves, to unify a country that was already--and only a very few years in--doubting the revolution, and to redirect the people's growing concern against a new enemy. (And, most importantly, divert their attention from the growing controls and limitations, which were by then far beyond what had been in the past regime; controls and limitations that were being used to increase the power of those who were now at the top of the food chain).


(Sounds familiar? Go skim the middle chapters in Animal Farm, especially where the song 'Beasts of England' gets banned in favor of a new song lauding Napoleon the boar, and then is briefly permitted to support the emotional manipulation of the animals against their growing unrest. It is almost funny how that whole book reads like a blueprint for those first 15 years, if it wasn't so terribly sad.)

Persepolis

When people ask me to recommend a book that gives a good idea of what it was like to grow up in Iran post revolution, especially during the war, I reply without a second's hesitation: the Persepolis books by Marjane Satrapi. Yes, they are graphic novels and that can be off putting to the folk who either don't like, think they don't like, or purposely don't want to like graphic novels. If you pass it up because you are one of those people or worse, think graphic novels are beneath serious readers, then you are passing up on the best books out there on the topic (and there is a lot of them.) They really are the best retelling of the Iranian revolution and the Iran/Iraq war and its impact on Iranians, especially the educated middle class . Out of all the autobiographical books I've read by Iranian [female] authors who grew up in the same environment and time, this one was the one that rang the truest to me, that neither downplayed nor exaggerated anything. It's the one book that I feel could have been written by me.

And that, my friends, is the biggest seal of approval from me for anything having to do with life in Iran post revolution.