An Unlikely Gift
When I was handed a card giving me special seating privileges at the yearly commemoration of Imam Khomeini's departure, my first reaction was so what. But after hearing other girls clamoring for similar cards, and seeing the other fortunate ones calling their families in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan to tell them about their luck, I decided to pocket my card after all and see where it would take me.
Where it took me was his shrine in Tehran, where he was buried 17 years ago. As the crowd chanted slogans about Imam Khomeini, I was hit by a sudden sense of what Imam Khomeini must have meant to the Iranians. Before, on the outside, I could have said what he meant to the Muslims; but now, inside Iran, I felt distinctly what he meant to the Iranians on a national level and the gratitude many people felt for giving them self-determination and a new start. And, even though they were doing sinezani for Hazrat Fatimah (saa), as a non-Iranian, I felt distinctly left out.
After the azadari, first Imam Khomeini's grandson gave a speech, and then the people prepared for the rahbar to come forward. As they chanted their allegience to the rahbar and their death wishes to America, I wondered exactly what Americans were supposed to do during "Death to America" chants. I had the same feeling that I had in Iraq when I was caught in the middle of a Muqtada Sadr demonstration two feet in front of a guy who was bombed by the Allied forces and was letting us know it; I just didn't feel like I should be there. Then, suddenly, an electric presence went through the room. I wasn't sure whether it was the personal charisma of the rahbar himself, or else the loyalty that the people there had towards him. As the rahbar calmly tried to quiet the audience, I felt a sense of empathy towards the spiritual struggle he must face to maintain humility in front of so much praise.
As the rahbar spoke, the entire Iranian government sat by his side, from Ahmadinejad on down, as well as a number of foreign dignitaries. Coming from a country where the Senate lives almost solely in the Senate House and almost no one sees the President, I was surprised that not only me with my special seating privileges but anyone else could come in and be a stone's throw from all of their leaders. I was somewhat taken aback by the fact that I was sitting within earshot of one of the most powerful men in the world. I also wondered if this arrangement was not somewhat unwise since a single "pre-emptive strike" would have taken the entire government out. I felt a contradictory sense of emotions. One the one hand, being literally face to face with the government made me feel like their government was much more for the people than mine. On the other hand, seeing their polite silence as the crowd raised their fists and chanted for Khamene'i highlighted the power dynamic. In a way, it reminded me of the yearly general board meetings they used to have at the Islamic center where I was living in America.
As I pondered, a young girl from the Red Crescent -- which was milling around in case of emergency -- came up to me, asked me where I was from, and told me she was studying English. A few more of her friends came up to me and asked me why I, as an American, was there today. To me, it did not seem at all odd that a religious student in a state sponsored school would be at a commemoration for Imam Khomeini, but I gave them my honest answer -- honestly, more than anything else, I was just curious. Just as they were.
Despite the fact that they found my presence strange, I couldn't help reflecting on my newfound sense of connection with the rahbar. More than any lessons, the thing that has made me feel most a part of the hawzah system was the gift I received -- a not insignificant amount of tomans which I was told the rahbar gives yearly to all the religious students in Iran. Although I had sworn up and down before coming here that I would never accept any money from the hawzah system, after having to live through the strict rules (such as, for example, a lady who wanted to come see me was told she could come once a month), I began to think that maybe I was entitled to some compensation. So I accepted the money -- despite the fact that I also felt it was quite odd to be given it since they had still not yet offered me legal persmission to actually study in Iran.
Immediately after the speech, we left. As we left, I got into an disagreement with one of the guards who had confsicated several dangerous items (such as soap) from my handbag and had set them outside against the wall, where they had promptly been stolen. I didn't really care about the soap, but I was upset that I had brought a gift for a friend of mine from America and dragged it all throughout the Middle East only to have it meet its end at a memorial for the leader of the Islamic Revolution. She and the other guards chided me that Americans carried too many things in their purses and asked me what was wrong with me that I was carrying so much stuff. I actually was significantly more upset about their insults to my nationality than I was at the loss of my items, but since there was nothing I could do about either, I let it go. As we continued down the dusty road packed with cars and buses, I overheard an old man cussing out the rahbar. I don't know why. It could have bee the traffic. Or it could have been personal. I did wonder why he had gone to listen to him if he felt like that, but I didn't take the effort to ask. We just kept going, past the crowds of people that reminded me of the people walking Karbala -- only without Aba Abdillah (as) at the end -- and past other students from Qom. We passed the inhabitants of the competing women's school, and the male students from the Imam Khomeini school. As we passed by our future ulamaa, I felt the same sense of relief that I perceived they too felt to actually be in the presence of people of the opposite gender after weeks of confinement. I wondered if they had the same interpersonal difficulties living in close quarters in their hawzah like we did, and, after examination, decided that they probably did. After an hour or two, we finally got on the long, dusty, hot road to Qom -- where for the first time I actually had a chance to investigate the giant salt bed that breaks the monotony -- and arrived back one day older and one day wiser.
Where it took me was his shrine in Tehran, where he was buried 17 years ago. As the crowd chanted slogans about Imam Khomeini, I was hit by a sudden sense of what Imam Khomeini must have meant to the Iranians. Before, on the outside, I could have said what he meant to the Muslims; but now, inside Iran, I felt distinctly what he meant to the Iranians on a national level and the gratitude many people felt for giving them self-determination and a new start. And, even though they were doing sinezani for Hazrat Fatimah (saa), as a non-Iranian, I felt distinctly left out.
After the azadari, first Imam Khomeini's grandson gave a speech, and then the people prepared for the rahbar to come forward. As they chanted their allegience to the rahbar and their death wishes to America, I wondered exactly what Americans were supposed to do during "Death to America" chants. I had the same feeling that I had in Iraq when I was caught in the middle of a Muqtada Sadr demonstration two feet in front of a guy who was bombed by the Allied forces and was letting us know it; I just didn't feel like I should be there. Then, suddenly, an electric presence went through the room. I wasn't sure whether it was the personal charisma of the rahbar himself, or else the loyalty that the people there had towards him. As the rahbar calmly tried to quiet the audience, I felt a sense of empathy towards the spiritual struggle he must face to maintain humility in front of so much praise.
As the rahbar spoke, the entire Iranian government sat by his side, from Ahmadinejad on down, as well as a number of foreign dignitaries. Coming from a country where the Senate lives almost solely in the Senate House and almost no one sees the President, I was surprised that not only me with my special seating privileges but anyone else could come in and be a stone's throw from all of their leaders. I was somewhat taken aback by the fact that I was sitting within earshot of one of the most powerful men in the world. I also wondered if this arrangement was not somewhat unwise since a single "pre-emptive strike" would have taken the entire government out. I felt a contradictory sense of emotions. One the one hand, being literally face to face with the government made me feel like their government was much more for the people than mine. On the other hand, seeing their polite silence as the crowd raised their fists and chanted for Khamene'i highlighted the power dynamic. In a way, it reminded me of the yearly general board meetings they used to have at the Islamic center where I was living in America.
As I pondered, a young girl from the Red Crescent -- which was milling around in case of emergency -- came up to me, asked me where I was from, and told me she was studying English. A few more of her friends came up to me and asked me why I, as an American, was there today. To me, it did not seem at all odd that a religious student in a state sponsored school would be at a commemoration for Imam Khomeini, but I gave them my honest answer -- honestly, more than anything else, I was just curious. Just as they were.
Despite the fact that they found my presence strange, I couldn't help reflecting on my newfound sense of connection with the rahbar. More than any lessons, the thing that has made me feel most a part of the hawzah system was the gift I received -- a not insignificant amount of tomans which I was told the rahbar gives yearly to all the religious students in Iran. Although I had sworn up and down before coming here that I would never accept any money from the hawzah system, after having to live through the strict rules (such as, for example, a lady who wanted to come see me was told she could come once a month), I began to think that maybe I was entitled to some compensation. So I accepted the money -- despite the fact that I also felt it was quite odd to be given it since they had still not yet offered me legal persmission to actually study in Iran.
Immediately after the speech, we left. As we left, I got into an disagreement with one of the guards who had confsicated several dangerous items (such as soap) from my handbag and had set them outside against the wall, where they had promptly been stolen. I didn't really care about the soap, but I was upset that I had brought a gift for a friend of mine from America and dragged it all throughout the Middle East only to have it meet its end at a memorial for the leader of the Islamic Revolution. She and the other guards chided me that Americans carried too many things in their purses and asked me what was wrong with me that I was carrying so much stuff. I actually was significantly more upset about their insults to my nationality than I was at the loss of my items, but since there was nothing I could do about either, I let it go. As we continued down the dusty road packed with cars and buses, I overheard an old man cussing out the rahbar. I don't know why. It could have bee the traffic. Or it could have been personal. I did wonder why he had gone to listen to him if he felt like that, but I didn't take the effort to ask. We just kept going, past the crowds of people that reminded me of the people walking Karbala -- only without Aba Abdillah (as) at the end -- and past other students from Qom. We passed the inhabitants of the competing women's school, and the male students from the Imam Khomeini school. As we passed by our future ulamaa, I felt the same sense of relief that I perceived they too felt to actually be in the presence of people of the opposite gender after weeks of confinement. I wondered if they had the same interpersonal difficulties living in close quarters in their hawzah like we did, and, after examination, decided that they probably did. After an hour or two, we finally got on the long, dusty, hot road to Qom -- where for the first time I actually had a chance to investigate the giant salt bed that breaks the monotony -- and arrived back one day older and one day wiser.
posted by Ayatollah Logic's Wife at 6:11 AM
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