Lost in the Middle East

I heard a new word on TV!

2006-09-18T15:13:00.000-07:00

homicide bombing: (haw - me - side) n. Bombing with the intention to kill. Antonym: demolition bombing (mining, construction). Usage: "A homicide bombing in Baghdad killed 12."

There IS No Place Like Home, Right?

2006-09-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

So I'm back in America, the "Great Satan" or the "Land of the Free", take your pick. But although I was gone for a very short time, all does not appear to be well in the home of the brave.

The first problem that, honestly, I've been seeing is the F.B.I. (OK, arrest me now for blogging what the F.B.I. does. I don't think it's illegal) Before I left, I heard about one or two "suspected terrorists" who were getting their medical degrees or something being interrogated. These days, it's my friends! (My friend said that her teenage rebel was proud of her that she finally got arrested for the first time) The Shi'a just don't seem to be on the "good list" any more. Apparently someone in the department misplaced the memo that says "Shi'a are archenemies of Al-Qaeda because Al-Qaeda kills them" and thinks that we are going to launch bombs. Sorry, it's Al-Qaeda (if Al-Qaeda even exists, which I have always doubted it does) that has nothing better to do except play chemistry; we have Molla Bassem to keep us busy.

The second problem is propaganda! It seems like every day someone at the local paper manages to pair "Islam" with words like "anger" and "rage" (as well as odd photo ops from Pakistan). I understand there are some serious issues brewing in the Islamic world, but do we ever hear about "Catholic rage"? "Buddhist rage?" "Hindu rage" for that matter? And the convert stories. Before I left, I had never ever heard of an American Muslim convert making national attention. Now, people are asking me if I knew the American Al-Qaeda guy who lived down the way.

And the third problem is, quite frankly, stares. Now, coming from Iran, I'm quite used to stares. EVERYONE stares in Iran. But since, in Iran, everyone stares at everyone, it's not a big deal. Here, everyone is staring at me! The first day I came back, this lady with an unplaceable foreign accent stomped up to me, chided, "Dress like an American," and then stomped away. This didn't happen before! Even after 9/11, the most that happened is that some lady gave me a hug in the grocery store and told me she hoped I was all right.

As they say, you can never go home again.

There's No Place Like Home

2006-09-17T20:32:00.000-07:00

Although my experience in Qom hadn't been anything that I had expected, I felt sad as I made my last trip to Tehran. I thought about the friends I had met there who now would be like ghosts, locked behind an inaccessible border. I thought about Hazrat Ma'soumah, and how the 3rd of Sha'ban -- the birthday of Imam Husain -- had been the perfect day to say goodbye. And I also thought about the driver, and wondered if I should talk to him so he wouldn't fall asleep.

In no time, we reached the new, shining Imam Khomeini airport, where it seemed that all the goodwill in Iran was concentrated. A smiling (yes, smiling) lady waved me through customs, and the airline employee decided he did not need to charge me for both of my overweight suitcases. As I sat at a Starbucks-like coffee shop where people were eating "Islamic ham", I thought of the adage that people will rise to their surroundings, and wondered what would happen to morale in the rest of Iran if it were similarly prosperous.

Of course, the Imam Khomeini Airport was nothing compared to my first stop, Dubai. Not only was the Dubai-an desert infinitely more compelling than the dry, dead Qom desert, but, most importantly, in Dubai, they had FOOD. LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF FOOD. Fruit juice in season. Fruit juice out of season. And consumer goods! All available at a moment's grasp -- if, that is, you weren't like me and weren't hauling around a wad of tomans.

I knew we were en route to the U.S., though, when the security kicked in. "Ma'am, we'll have to confiscate that toothpaste," a gruff, burly man said, and I prided myself on the fact that I was able to hide my chapstick. (So much for their newfound strict security) My real reception, however, was yet to come:

Dude in Uniform: Where're you coming from?
Amina: (standing in line marked "Citizens") Iran.
Dude: And?
Amina: Yeah, uh, Syria.
Dude: And?
Amina: Like, yeah, Lebanon--
Dude: (turning passport over) Is that Iraq, ma'am?

(Line progresses)

Elderly White Man with Big Glasses: Welcome home!
Amina: Thanks!
Elderly Man: That way.

(Amina waits as the majority of the passengers dispel, except for two other Shi'a ladies in hijab. Of course, no one would ever accuse anyone of religious profiiling)

Friendly Asian Lady: Ma'am, lift your suitcases onto the belt.
Amina: (looks around for some men who feel sorry for the woman travelling alone and feel the need to help in order to prove their masculinity. Unfortunately, they seem to all have been left behind in the Middle East) They're kind of heavy.
Friendly Lady: I can help. (They heave the overweight suitcases onto the conveyor belt) How long were you in Iran?
Amina: A few months.
Friendly Lady: But your visa is only for one month.
Amina: Really?
Friendly Lady: What were you doing in Iran, ma'am.
Amina: Studying.
Friendly Lady: (suspiciously) Religion?
Amina: No. Persian. I'm a Middle Eastern Studies major!
(Incidentally, that was the right answer. Amina's friend who answered "religion" got held 10 hours)
Friendly Lady: If you were studying Persian, then what are these books for?
Amina: It's history. I LOVE history. And cooking. Ever had "Zucchini, a Tomato, and a Potato"?
Friendly Lady: Turn on your camera please.
Amina: Can't.
Friendly Lady: Why not?
Amina: It's broken.
(Again, another right answer, since, as a rule, broken electronics do not get confiscated, and my friend who turned on her computer never got it back)
Friendly Lady: (making a piles of CD's labelled "Bassem Al-Karbala'i") What's on ALL of these CD's?
Amina: Songs.
Friendly Lady: (in slight disbelief) Songs.
(Incidentally, the third right answer, since my friend also lost all her CD's)
Amina: You know, poetry, singing. Traditional music.
Friendly Lady: I get it.
Amina: (thinking, "No you don't!")

(Meanwhile, across the way, another smaller but no less valuable pile of media is accumulating)

Guard: (holding up CD labelled "Bassem Al-Karbala'i") These are songs too?
Shi'a Lady: Uh, sure.
Guard: (squinting at CD) What is this "Thaqalayn"?
Shi'a Lady: Um.... (leaning over) Pssst! What's Thaqalayn?
Amina: A production company.
Shi'a Lady: Yeah, a production company....

(Meanwhile, Friendly Asian Lady has been busy piling something other than CD's onto the conveyor belt)

Amina: Hey! Can't you search those IN the suitcase?
Friendly Lady: Sorry, ma'am.
Amina: Just... put them under the X-ray machine or something. I mean, they're just, you know....
Friendly Lady: Is this a religious issue?
Amina: (glancing furtively at Shi'a youth, who fortunately has his back turned) It's embarrassing!
Friendly Lady: (obliges and puts the bag of unmentionables under the X-ray machine) All right. (conspiratorially) Did you MEET anyone in Iran?
(Yes, wallah, she said that)
Amina: I met LOTS of people. They're really friendly over there.
Friendly Lady: That's not--

(Friendly Lady begins pulling papers)

Friendly Lady: Does Imam Husain live in Iran?
Amina: No.
Friendly Lady: (unfolds a minute scrap of paper) Who is this "Mollana Nasser Biria"?
Amina: Um.... (Friendly Lady waits) Well....
Friendly Lady: (to Guard) Google this.
(Guard proceeds to Google "Mollana Nasser Biria" and reads about the Muslim Congress Conference)
Amina: (under her breath) Google him all you want, he's in Iran

(Meanwhile, the Shi'a Ladies are holding their own)

Big Man: You were in Iran.
Baby: Waaah!
Shi'a Lady #2: Yes.
Big Man: Why were you in Iran?
Toddler: Mommy!
Baby: Waah!

(And next to me)

Guard: (also pulling the papers) Who's this.
Shi'a Lady: My husband.
Guard: I've seen him before.
Shi'a Lady: I don't know.
Guard: Is he popular?
Shi'a Lady: I don't know.
Amina: (thinking, "She's GOOD.")

(Eventually, the Shi'a ladies and their children are waved away, and it's just me. Alone in America)

Guard: (still googling) Interesting, very interesting. (Closes window -- that's the computer window, mind you)
Friendly Lady: I guess you can go.
Amina: (eyes piles of formerly carefully packed stuff everywhere) Thanks.

So here I am! On the bright side, being unemployed and at home, I've had a lot of time to update my other websites. So be sure to check out the new material at:

http://englishnohas.tripod.com (see the stuff Friendly Lady read in my suitcase)
- and -
http://karbalaplay.tripod.com (my tribute to my true beloved)

Amina out!

I'm Being Exported!!

2006-08-28T02:27:00.000-07:00

But as the Governator says, "I'LL BE BACK!"

It's Cooking Time!

2006-08-04T08:38:00.000-07:00

Seeing as we just don't have the opportunity to go outside and purchase ingredients, we've been putting together dishes these days that rival my cooking adventures my first years at Berkeley ("No, the ketchup goes IN the Ramen noodles"). Here are some of my discoveries that actually taste good:

Zucchini with a Tomato and a Potato

Italian cuisine... hawzah style

You will need:
3 zucchinis
A tomato
You guessed it... a potato
Salt
Oil (NOT the sheep fat they sell at the butcher's)
A pot
A metal spoon
A knife

1. Wash the zucchinis but do NOT under ANY circumstances peel them. You don't want to lose any of that zucchini goodness, do you? But do peel the potato. No civilized person wants potato skins in their food. Cube the zucchini, potato, and tomato.
2. Sautee the potato in the oil. (This part will require the metal spoon. If, like me, your metal spoon was stolen again during suhur by someone who clearly missed the "Thou shalt not steal" lesson in ahkam class, you will need to aquire one in the next couple minutes. Be sure not to repay evil with evil and snatch another one, or your food will become haram -- unless of course it is your friend's friend's roommate's spoon, in which case it becomes halal by transmutation; or unless it really really looks like your own spoon, in which case God is forgiving) Sautee the potato well, because this will be the only flavor the food will have.
3. Add the tomato. Sautee the tomato extra well so that no one can tell that there should have been more than one tomato in this dish.
4. Add the zucchini and a bit of water (the drinking kind, not the tap kind). Boil.
5. While the zucchini is cooking, smash the potato bits with a metal spoon. This will give the food a thickish consistency and leave the conissuer to wonder what other delights might have been pureed into the broth.
6. And finally, eat.

Apple Turnovers

When I was teaching Little House on the Prairie, I remember scoffing at the simplicity of the prairie-life recipies such as "Fried Apples" that were included in the teacher's sourcebook. No more.

You will need:
2 cans of Iranian canned apples (like the kind my friend gave me when I was sick)
2 pieces of lavash bread
Sugar or other sweetener
Lemon juice
Oil
Salt
A metal plate
A metal spoon (that darn spoon again)
A knife
A can opener

1. Once you have been able to find it, use the can opener to open the cans of apples. Then, obsessively wash all of the liquid off of the apples since you are paranoid about whatever else happens to have been in the can and because your friend who isn't allergic to anything else gets allergic recations to canned apples.
2. Finely chop the apples on the metal plate. Add the sugar, a splash of lemon juice, and the salt (the salt is actually very important here because it brings out the sweetness of the apples). Cook for a while until any remaining liquid evaporates.
3. Remove the apples from the plate. (This will probably entail putting them back in the can, but oh well) Pour a fine layer of oil (OIL, NOT sheep fat or vegetable ghee) onto the plate. Add one piece of lavash, the apples, and another piece of lavash. Cook at medium heat until the bottom is brown (think tah digh here).
4. While cooking, rescue a styrofoam container from the trash (what a waste). Wash it exceedingly well until you can't ever tell it contained Pakistani food.
5. Flip the apple turnover. If you are like 90% of the population, the lavash will tear as you flip it, but just try to pretend like it didn't happen. Continue cooking until the other side browns.
6. Slide the contents into the styrofoam. The shape should mask any holes.
7. Eat. When done, toss the styrofoam back into the trash again.

Grilled Dates with Panir

This one is my specialty.

You will need:
2 pieces of lavash (getting a pattern here?)
Dates
Panir
Oil
A metal plate
Salt
Optional: Honey

1. As in the Apple Turnover, cover the bottom of the plate with oil. Add 1 piece of lavash. Top with some pitted dates, crumbled panir, the optional honey, and a dash of salt. Then add the second piece of lavash.
2. Fry. While frying, continually squash the lavash with the spoon; remember, "thin is in."
3. When brown and crunchy (not smoking), flip and fry some more. Note: if you do not have a spoon, or potholders, break off bits of the lavash and use them to insulate yourself from the heat. Then, when you are done, you can eat them too.

Huevos Con Frijoles

For some reason, a lot of my food of late has been taking on a Mexican flair. It must have something to do with someone I used to live with....

This is a deluxe dish, requiring many ingredients.

You will need:
A can of Khorak Lubiya Chiti (a.k.a. "Beans")
An egg
Really hot green peppers
A cooked, cubed zucchini
Oil (Yes, oil)
Salt
A pot or metal plate
A spoon
A can opener

1. Finely chop the green peppers. Test them to see if they are actually really hot. (How will you know? Trust me, you will)
2. Fry the green peppers in the oil. Then, add the Khorak Lubiya Chiti and zucchini and refry. Bludgeon the zucchini while refrying so no one who has a vegetable aversion would ever imagine there was zucchini in it.
3. Now, fry the egg next to the beans. It should be roughly yellow in color.

You could eat this with lavash, but I'm sick of it, so I ate it by itself.

Peas and Honey

Exactly what it sounds like.

You will need:
Peas
Honey
(No spoon this time)

1. Mix

Enjoy!!!

Meet Your Neighbors

2006-08-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of ways to meet your neighbors -- at the market, at the mosque, or at the cops. But one of the best ways to get a true cross-section of your neighbors -- independent of origin, creed, or thought -- is at the hospital.

The sun had long since set when my friend came down with a fever of astronomical proportions as well as devilish hives, so she and I and an older lady hit a taxi and made for a nighttime clinic. Straight away, we entered what I would call the "Injection Room", because everyone in there was getting an injection. And then we froze in the middle of the room, transfixed. One of the patients was screaming her head off, calling out for everyone from her mother to Imam Husain, and we weren't quite sure what was wrong with her.

A nurse took us out of our reverie and led my friend to a bed, where she hooked her up to her serum (this was a bring-your-own medicine clinic) and left her to drip. I surveyed the nondescript room and realized that being in the hospital in Iran was way different than being in the hospital in America. In America, they do everything they can to keep the patients separate. Here -- like so many other things -- it was more of a social experience. "What's wrong with her?" "Will she get better?" And, of course, "Salaam alaikum!!! How are you??? So good to see you!!!!!" (Small world, eh) Another lady chided the screaming woman, "Quit that wailing, and quiet down now." While I had hitherto been somewhat put off by the local habit of telling whoever is doing something out of the norm to STOP doing it in the most demeaning of ways, I detected an undercurrent of concern behind the lady's words, and I began to look at my neighbors differently.

As we waited (drip... drip... drip... there were 1,000 mL to drip), I realized something else. Incapacitated or otherwise, these women were stylish. I don't know how they did it, but all of the women there (except for this sedate lady) were wearing the most classy mantos, "in" pants, and vogue chadors. They even had elaborate make-up jobs and impeccable hairdos (except for the screaming lady, but that was probably because she was grabbing at her head). I wondered if I would look so together in a medical emergency.

As another 50 mL dripped, I began to get bored (even my friend was bored), so I wandered out to the waiting room. There, everyone -- men, women, friends, relatives, employees -- was literally glued to the TV set, which was showing the hit miniseries Nargis. Since, having missed the first few episodes, I wasn't quite sure what Nargis was about, I tried to ask the lady next to me, but I was met with a chorus of "SSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!" I did however glean that it was about some boy who wanted to marry some girl but his dad wouldn't let him.

With some sympathy for the poor guy, I left the roomful of zombies and returned to the drip. The lady had stopped yelling and was asleep. My friend's fever and hives had subsided too. And then the bill came. When I saw it, I almost had to be admitted to the hospital. Weren't there supposed to be some more zeroes??? Granted, this clinic lacked some amenities that hospitals have back home (such as changing the sheets between patients), but surely sheet-changing can't be on the level of powers of ten. We paid the (to my American eyes) measly bill, and then made our way back.

The next morning, I woke up with a fever that, in my imagination, rivaled our daytime temperature. "Why don't you go to the doctor?" someone asked.

Visions of soaring medical bills, inscrutable deductibles, and overpriced pharmaceuticals danced in my head. "Nah, I'm not that sick," I said.

"You Americans," she laughed. "You never want to go to the doctor."

She had a point.

Lost in Translation

2006-07-31T10:20:00.000-07:00

I was burning the midnight oil when the call came urgently asking me to come to Tehran in the morning and translate this woman's speech into English at a religious institute. Seeing as they even made it easy on me by faxing me a copy of her speech, I decided it wouldn't kill me to use up the rest of the midnight oil to help their cause.

A bit after sunrise, after I had finally succeeded in hacking prhases such as "the weeping flowers and blossoms of the Resistance" and "the illegitimate Zionist cancer aggressor" into what I felt was acceptable English, my friend and I headed for the religious institute in Tehran. (As usual, once we got near Tehran and began coughing on the thick pollution and languishing in the heavy traffic, I regretted that I had ever wanted to go there, and wished someone would put me back in Qom) As we marveled at the size and stature of the institute, a guide greeted us warmly and told us not to worry because the bus would soon come to take us where we were going.

Where were we going? We looked at each other and at various placards that said "DEATH TO ISRAEL!", and it dawned on me that we were headed for a demonstration. Since I had sworn off demonstrations, I was a bit annoyed; but since I believed in the cause, I didn't say anything.

Scores and scores of black-chadored women -- as well as a handful of men -- met us at the demonstration. As I took in the old women carrying pictures of their martyrs, and the young women wearing kefiyyahs over their faces with (presumably) mock-up explosives strapped to their chests, I realized that this demonstration was unlike any other that I had hitherto been to. This was a real demonstration.

"Death to America! Death to Israel!" roared through the crowd.

"Woe to you, Israel," incited a lady from up front, "if Khamene'i declares war on you!"

"Death to America! Death to Israel!" For the first time since I had come here, I realized how the revolutionary spirit had swept through the country and ousted the shah. As I listened to them chant, I really felt that I too was going to go fight the jihad, and Israel would be demolished. I felt an immense sense of my own responsibility, and decided that I would do everything I could to deliver a stirring translation.

"It's your turn," my guide whispered, leading me up to the stage. "Speak loud. Don't be shy. Let it all out!"

I noticed I was the only one at the microphone. "Where's the lady I'm translating for?" I asked.

"Oh," she said to me conspiratorially, "we thought it would be better if you just gave a speech yourself."

Gulp. I looked out at the crowd, and the crowd looked back at me. I would have said that I couldn't believe what was happening -- except that I have learned that everything that can happen in Iran does. I grabbed my translation and looked for help. "The Zionist cancer. The useless U.N." There was no way those words were going to come out of my mouth with a billion TV reporters pointing their cameras at the token American who hated Israel. I looked at the translation again. "Islamic unity. Boycott Israeli goods." I could work with that.

All of a sudden, as if time stopped for a moment, I caught a glance of that often-circulated picture of Israeli soldiers beating a woman and her children. I decided then and there that I was going to ignore the crowd and the translation and everything else and just do what I could to speak for that child.

I took a deep breath. (Actually, I also prayed) "Allahu akbar!" I called out.

"Allahu akbar!" they replied.

"Allahu akbar!" I repeated.

"Allahu akbar!" they called back.

Thank God, thank God, this was easier than I thought. Calling out one more "Allahu akbar!" so I could take a microsecond and wrack my brain for any tidbits of Sayyid Nasrullah's speeches that I could remember, I plunged in.

As I was describing the second Qana massacre, I caught sight of an American reporter in the crowd. She had interviewed me yesterday, and I had done my best to present myself in a calm and rational fashion. In fact, I had even invited her to the program at which I would be translating. Now, she had the privilege to see my other side, the side that yelled about the "Zionist enemy". I decided that I had best pretend that she was not there, and hoped she wouldn't write about it back home.

And in no time, it was over. With the mantra of "never again" going through my mind, I stepped down from the podium.

"Good job!" my guide congratulated me. "We were worried about you. You seemed so quiet when we met you. We didn't think you could do it!"

I muttered my thanks and escaped from various newscameras on the pretext that I couldn't speak Farsi or that I wasn't allowed to interview. ("But we have a translator!")

Later on that day, my friend and I were blinking back sleep at Tehran airport when, all of a sudden, "Death to America!" blared over a giant set of TV's. It looked even larger on TV. I noted with considerable relief that they had declined to broadcast the American's speech, but the sound still sent chills through me. The anger, the passion, the determination -- it was real.

And now I was a part of it.

Camera Moment

2006-07-31T10:18:00.000-07:00

From Iraq, but even more relevant in the here and now...

Camera Moments (when I didn't have my camera)

2006-07-31T09:54:00.000-07:00

* Way back when, when we chosen ones with the tickets were in our special seating at the commemoration of the anniversary of Imam Khomeini, a wizened old lady -- whom I took to be a villager -- decided that she was going to join us too. Since she didn't have a ticket, she made the logical decision to climb the freshly painted crowd control fence. I watched in admiration -- and the security in consternation -- as she made her methodical way up the fence, her well-worn chador blowing back to reveal a shock of repeatedly hennaed hair. But was most striking to me was her dress. Unlike the somewhat masculine coat-and-pants which you have to wear under your chador to be fashionable in the cities, bits and pieces of her long, brilliant, emerald green dress flashed by as she climbed. Far from being simplistic, her dress swished and swirled to reveal layers upon layers of bright green fabric -- some with patterns, and some with lace.
I really envied her and for a moment wished that I was living wherever she was living so I didn't have to wear the ugly coat-and-pants under my chador anymore. I felt genuinely sorry for her when the security -- consisting of girls in their early 20's -- removed her from the fence, and I wished that I could have traded her seat with mine.

* The other night, I chanced upon another, even more elderly woman at the shrine of Hazrat Masoumah (saa). The distinctive blue tattoos covering her face and hands (and which, many years ago, I used to think was a strange sort of hopefully incommunicable face disease) as well as her gossamer black shawl immediately pegged her as another villager -- this time from Iraq. Something about her struck me, and I watched for a moment as she raised her wrinkled hands and in a very thick accent prayed to God to utterly and completely destroy Israel.

And, on a lighter note...

* A middle-aged man of average build walking down the street in Tehran with a T-shirt featuring a photo of Arnold Schwartzeneggar and screaming GOVERNATOR!!! (I never even saw that one in California)

Guess What I Did Yesterday?

2006-07-16T00:02:00.000-07:00

Seeing as I was bummed out about the war in Lebanon and other various and sundry things, when my friends (who happen to be Lebanese) asked me if I wanted to go SWIMMING!, I uttered a faint, "Yes...."

Aside from what was on my mind, I was also a little hesitant to go swimming in Qom because someone had told me about several women who had been in a private pool here and died of chlorine inhalation. But someone else later correct her and said that they had merely been hospitalized. Neither option seemed appealing to me -- but, as it turned out, the trip to the swimming pool was much more treacherous than the destination itself.

We got to the swimming pool visa Qom's famous female-run taxi service. (See http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2002/sep/06/irans_first_female/) Since I tend to get more than my fair share of stares and date invitations from male taxi drivers, I was looking forward to an uneventful ride. Was I mistaken. I should have realized we were in for something when I saw the driver. The first thing I noticed was that she had an ATTITUDE. Not an attitude, but an ATTITUDE. It wasn't just the bright red scarf the size of Rhode Island, or the chador draped loosely off of one shoulder, or even the Southern California Persian pop music blasting out of the taxi. It was the way she walked, the way she talked -- and, most alarmingly, the way she drove. Lanes had no meaning for her. She would speed up and slow down for no good reason and cut off poor men who would flip her off from behind their car windows. For the first time in my life, I felt a true sense of fear on the road here, and it occurred to me that maybe the occasional pick up line was not so bad after all.

After some impromptu prayers on my part, we made it to THE POOL! (Forgive me for sounding un-hawzah-like, but I have to share my excitement... we're allowed to have some fun, aren't we?) The pool was not just A POOL. It was a pool with DIVING BOARDS and a WATER SLIDE!!! I wanted to run straight in, but the caretakes made us go through not one, not two, not three, but FIVE salty showers as well as a foot washing pool to enter. (Hey, at least we know we were clean)

It was great... for a while. And then, the masses arrived. Hordes of Iranian women -- some young, some old, but, surprisingly, mostly old -- descended on the showers. Suddenly, someone pulled out a boom box and began blasting vaguely familiar American music and leading the crowd in water aerobics. I was doubly shocked. For one thing, I had no idea you were allowed to blast music in public places in Qom, and I had somewhat naively assumed that all the amplifiers they sold in the bazaar were for religious gatherings. And I also had no clue that people did water aerobics in Iran. But the good thing about water is, you can escape. All you have to do is go down... and it is the quietest place in the world.

It could only last so long though (especially the chlorine was rather strong), and eventually we had to go back to reality. But if I had to rate the experience, I'd give it a 10, and I'd recommend it to all!

Let's All Pray

2006-07-14T22:56:00.000-07:00

The lastest news last night was that they tried to kill Sayyid Hassan Nasrullah in Lebanon. (First target the airport, then the sea routes, then the overland routes, then the leader) Sayyid Hassan is the backbone of the resistance. I'm not saying the Lebanese can't repel the Israeli onslaught without him, but he is the one who is giving the people courage and strength. We all know that life and death is in God's hands, but let's get together and pray anyway for his continuing health and safety.

Another Trip to Tehran

2006-07-14T04:09:00.000-07:00

The other day, we went on another trip to see the rahbar. Unfortunately, I misconstrued "see" to mean "have an audience with" or "visit" -- whereas it really meant just physically "see" -- so as we waited for some missing buses, I hauled out my green, giant Farsi-English dictionary (which travelled from the Main Stacks in Berkeley to Los Angeles, parted from me, went to Qom, and then found me again eight years later) and began to write a plea regarding my visa problems (or, rather, "lack of visa" problems). I had hope since a friend of mine had dropped a letter on our last visit and had received an almost immediate response. My friend advised me that the appropriate way to address the rahbar is "Khedmat-e-Maqam-e-Ma'zam-e-Rahbari", so I used that as a good beginning. (Of course, being me, I messed that up and wrote "Khedmat-e-Maqam-e-Mu'azzam-e-Rahbari) Eventually, the buses appeared, and we set out to Tehran.

Not long after we passed the dry salt bed -- which still fascinates but also disturbs me after hearing that the Shah dragged the surviovrs of his attack on the Fayziyyeh to die there -- the police pulled us off the road. Fortunately, we were just missing an important paper, and they escorted us back to Qom where we drove from building to building looking for the elusive document. Eventually, it was procured, and we turned back to Tehran. I didn't mind the delay because I enjoy looking at the scenery and, anyway, I had to write my letter, but some others were upset.

As we entered Tehran, the giant buildings and cosmopolitan environment hit me. You would think I hadn't been raised in big cities in the West. I stared at the glitz and the glamour and the newsstands and the bookstores and the consumer goods and the women without chadors and the men with funny mustaches and the youth with greasy haircuts and the traffic and the chaos. I also choked on the thick pollution and decided I liked Qom better. Soon, as luscious green trees gave way to the University of Tehran, I felt again like I had just come out of the backwaters. Chadorless women and beardless men walked and talked and -- unlike in Qom, where being female is a legitimate cause for a great amount of unwanted attention -- no one noticed us. We piled into an auditorium, and I wondered whether the auditorium was the same as those in the West because the architect was trying to copy the West, or because the architect studied in the West, or whether auditoriums are simply functional structures and are the same the world over.
After another instance of myself not heeding a bit of personal advice about refusing to be interviewed on TV (that makes it the fourth time I have been broadcast since I got here), we headed off to see the rahbar. Unfortunately, due to our delays, we were too late. Many of my companions decided to take matters into their own hands and see the rahbar or else, but since the doorguard had already confiscated my letter, I had no real reason to take unnecessary risks, so I stayed my ground and joined a large, open-air congregation for maghrib prayers. Although I didn't know who the prayer leader was, I felt that he had a very charismatic and unusual voice -- not exactly Arabic, but lacking the usual Persian (and in my opnion annoying) accent in reciting the Qur'an. It was a voice that I consciously enjoyed and told myself I could listen to for quite a long time. Later, someone told me that the rahbar himself was leading prayers. Then, we sat under the open sky and listened to a majlis by some shaikh from Bahrain. (At least they told me he was from Bahrain) It was one of the better speeches that I have heard in a while, and I am still pondering some of his points -- one of which was that families should not send their girl children alone off to universities while they are young and at the peak of their emotional development and require a stable family structure to develop smoothly. I can't say I agree 100% because life is complicated, but he did give me some cause for thought.

Throughout the majlis, hordes of people banged on the door of the building next to us where the rahbar was locked inside. They pushed and yelled and clamored until, all of a sudden, the door opened, and a person on a stretcher came out. A mad rush ensued. Although the guards tried to push the crowd back, a few people managed to slip in anyway. I couldn't help recalling the Qur'anic ayah about seeking permission before entering someone's house and thinking that if someone really doesn't want you in their house, you shouldn't force yourself in -- particularly if you are sitting in a majlis commemorating the atatck on the house of Hazrat Fatimah (saa).

All in all, I enjoyed the summer night in the hills of Tehran -- even though I spent the whole time coughing and most definitely did not want to return any time soon. Soon, we set back home, and -- to my surprise -- some my companions informed me that, yes, they had been able to see the rahbar.

So What's it Like there, Anyway?

2006-07-13T04:23:00.000-07:00

As much as I try, I can't paint a picture of what it is like to live in the women's hawzah. It's something you really have to live to experience. But since so many have asked, I will try.

Life here is very structured and organized. Every morning, about half an hour before dawn, they attempt to wake us up by blasting Qur'an and du'a. (This is generally ineffective since dawn happens to be around 3 AM and I even caught the lady responsible for awakening us struggling to get up from under a blanket the other day) Afterwards, we have a second, louder wake-up call at 6:45 AM, and classes start at 7 or 8. Classes continue until noon, at which time we have lunch and then are expecetd to do what the rest of Qom does in the hot afternoons -- namely, sleep. After that, classes resume, and we have the rest of the time to study, or take care of personal business. We do not have to cook and, with 16 girls per room to do the work, only do occasional chores. Coming from living on my own where I had to do everything myself, I really appreciate the easier pace of life here, but by the same token I still feel uncomfortable accepting the food and lodging they offer here.

I have mixed feelings about living here. On the one hand, the system is convenient and effective. But on the other, it seems strikingly similar to a convent -- which is prohibited by Islam -- and I feel it is cruel for some of the families to send their girls here since many of them -- particularly the ones from the Subcontinent -- are extremely depressed and homesick. A few told me with teary eyes that they were "chosen" for tabligh. Others from Turkey told me that they came here because, in their country, to go to university, they have to take off hijab. One girl I know here from Africa is here because she is an orphan and her family didn't know what to do with her. The only real sign of happiness I have seen here was the other day when a contingent of Pakistani girls was on their way home and decided to break out into the Pakistani national anthem. I think it would be psychologically healthier for most of the girls to remain with their families -- but, as I mentioned elsewhere, life is complicated, and ultimately it is an individual and a family choice.

Qom itself, while not a perfect city, is very peaceful, and is a welcome change from the hectic pace of living where I was before. Society is mostly pretty clean (although I heard some dude on the street whispering about a clandestine disco once). While it is still a very traditional city, it has also modernized a lot in the past few years and there has been a sudden appearance of pizza restaurants, rollerblades, and stylish jeans with the letter "D" embroidered on them in blue gems poking out of chadors. (Why"D"? I don't know. That just seems to be the popular letter) Gamenet can even be found in certain parts of the city (yes, I was tempted; no, I will not admit it in person). Since I had more than my fill of all of that in America (except for the jeans with the letter "D"), none of that is particularly interesting to me, but it does show how the city has changed even since the last time I was here. And it goes without saying that of course the religious infrastructure is the most prominent, and pretty much everywhere you see libraries, educational institutions, bookstores, mosques, and husainiyyahs.

But by far the best part of living here is being able to visit Hazrat Ma'soumah (saa) on a regular basis, and I hope everyone who would like to has the opportunity to come and do that too.

What is Wrong with this Sentence???

2006-07-13T04:06:00.000-07:00

Israeli aircraft have fired rockets at the main runway of Beirut international airport in Lebanon, causing flights to be diverted. (from the BBC)

See the complete story and the video of the airport being blown up at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/5175160.stm.

An Unlikely Gift

2006-06-04T06:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Wafat of Hazrat Fatimah Ma'soumah (saa)

2006-05-27T06:14:00.000-07:00

The Answers

2006-05-27T06:09:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has converted to Islam knows about The Questions. The Questions are the questions that everyone asks, all the time. (I can now say from experience that they ask in any country you go to, from Mexico to Iran) I have at times tossed around the idea of printing a list of Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ's) to hand out when people start asking me the same set of questions three or four times a day, but I dropped the idea when I heard that someone else here had actually done it.

I -- as well as anyone else who has come to Islam from another ideology -- have answered these questions for many, many years. However, I had to come to Iran to actually finally come up with some foolproof, unarguable answers to them.

(Feel free to use them yourself. However, keep in mind that they must be delivered in a polite tone and with an innocent expression)

Q: Who was it who led you to Islam?
A: Rasul Allah.
Q: Who do you have in Iran?
A: God
Q: What is your real name?
A: Steve.
Q: I didn't quite get it the first time I asked, or the second, but exactly what did your parents think when you became Muslim?
A: In Nahj Al-Balaghah, Amir Al-Mu'mineen (as) advises us not to focus on the past, nor the future, but on the present.
Q: Were you Shi'a when you were born?
A: Before we were sent to this world, God created our souls and then instructed them about the wilayah. We all then gave bay'ah to Amir Al-Mu'mineen (as) and the rest of the Imams from Ahl Al-Bayt (as).
(That one is a particular conversation stopper)

There are more but they have slipped my mind... I will add once my memory improves :)

My First Demonstration

2006-05-12T03:04:00.000-07:00

As religious students, we were all encouraged to attend the local hijab demonstration. Unlike most times, when we are discouarged from or simply not allowed to leave the religious school, they actually brought buses so as many students could go as possible. I am somewhat ashamed that my reasons for going were somewhat less than pure -- quite frankly, I just wanted to get out; and also, I was curious. So, clad in a black chador, black scarf, and black manto, I boarded the bus with the other (mostly Iranian) students.

The bus took us to the main masjid where they give the Friday prayers. As we entered the masjid, men served us small plastic glasses of Iranian lemonade and offered us packages of cookies. I thought the hospitality was a nice touch. As we were seated, women in black chadors with sashes and featherdusters lined the area, creating a semicircle behind us. Overall, the masjid was about three quarters full. The women -- all wearing black chadors, black scarves, and black mantos -- listened with varying degrees of attention as a lady giving a speech reminded us that hijab really was wajib and cautioned us against giving into our baser desires by talking to unrelated men. During the speech, the women around me began adjusting their chadors as a television crew filmed both the speech and the audience. Periodically, the women behind me would chant (somewhat wanly), "Allahu akbar, Khamene'i rahbar, death to the enemies of wilayat al-faqih." I thought we would also have to chant "Death to America" like they do at the Friday prayers, but I guess America wasn't the focus of the demonstration. After listening to the speeches for a while, I began to examine the package of cookies, and after deciphering the ingredients in Farsi and discussing the contents wtih my neighbor, I was somewhat disappointed to learn that I couldn't eat them (see the April archives about my allergies). Afterwards, a man came up front and began reciting azaa for Hazrat Fatimah Masoumah (saa); that part I liked.

After a reminder that we were supposed to march silently, we crowded back out of the masjid into the street (Iranians aren't big on lines; they tend to move in large bunches). As we marched mostly silently behind big banners about hijab, scores of religious scholars and women in black chadors (occasionally with a bit of hair peeking out) lined the street and stared. I felt that perhaps I shouldn't be in a hijab demonstration after all since I was at the time cursing my chador which was blowing every which way and hoping no one could hear me. As we walked, I struck up a (quiet) conversation with one of the girls next to me. I asked her why they were having a hijab demonstration in Qom since everyone here already wears chadors. She said that, unlike in prior times, women nowdays have started to wear colored scarves and pants and sweaters under their chadors instead of mantos. I suggested that since most women in Qom already knew that they had to wear hijab, rather than simply telling them again that they had to wear proper hijab, they should investigate the roots of the social change and address them directly. She said the reason was obvious why women in Qom were not covering properly -- the people were being brainwashed by Western movies. I pointed out that most girls I know were pressured to adorn themselves by family, friends, fiancees, and husbands, and not Jurassic Park, but she insisted it was the movies

Finally, we halted in a big square, and a man began giving a speech from a rooftop. At that point, I realized that we were about 10 feet away from the local women's Internet cafe (where I am now), and I began begging my friend to come with me. (Yes, I know it's pathetic, but we don't get many opportunities to go online here. If they restricted us less, I wouldn't be trying to skip out of things) However, unfortunately there was no time, because we had to go to a memories service for a friend of mine who had passed away, so we inconspicuously slipped away from the crowd of women, bought some juice, and went to go console the family of the deceased.

Cool Stuff

2006-05-08T06:54:00.000-07:00

The owner of the sodas said I did a very nice job arranging them. :)

Just because America happens to be the consumerism capital of the world does not mean that you can find everything you ever wanted there. Here are some of the notable items for sale that I have found on my travels. (Note that my choices are somewhat woman-centric -- but, heck, I'm a woman)

Iraq:

Since I last visited Iraq during the time of the economic sanctions (funny how so many people seem convinced that Bush really had the well-being of Iraq in mind when he invaded, and yet they seem to forget that the American-imposed economic sanctions on Iraq killed millions of Iraqis -- mostly children -- through starvation and disease), I was stunned to see the large variety of consumer goods available -- albeit for a price -- ranging from the pleasantly familiar (Neutrogena face soap) to the really unnecessary (a cymbal-clapping Santa Claus). Here are my personal three favorites:

1. Karbala Cola. Perhaps I've been to one too many majaalis, but the words "Karbala" and "Cola" just do not seem to fit together to me. Add that to the fact that I am constantly lecturing people back home about the evils of soda, and I was completely perplexed. But I chalked it up to an improvement in the local economy, although my friend swore that it was because soda was banned from the general public during the time of Saddam -- even though I remember seeing them selling it then. Despite my abhorrence of soda, I did take a sip, and it was quite good. If you get tired of Karbala Cola, there is also "Forat Orange" and "Karbala-Up" (that last one does not sound very appetizing).
2. Nice hijabs. A friend of mine once said that Iraq may be suffering from wars and poverty, but at least it has nice hijabs. She was right. They do.
3. Queen size footless tights. I was walking down the street in the backroads of Karbala when I came across a vendor selling queen size footless tights. I guess women wear them under their dresses. That's something that you can't find in the US; believe me, I've tried.

Now, Syria:

1. A three-bladed vegetable chopper. Just outside of sites frequented by visiting Iranians, you will find scores of men with neatly arranged piles of cilantro and carrots hawking three-bladed vegetable choppers. The way it works is that there are three wheels, and you roll them over the vegetables, resulting in perfectly chopped salads and greens. Undoubtedly they were reaching out to the Iranian population on the assumption that they would think, "This would really cut down on the amount of time that it takes to make ghormeh sabzi!" They thought right, because I too fell prey to this marketing ploy as I was hauling a big bag of sabzi down the street and thinking about all the hours it would take me to chop it. 50 liras later (about US $1.00), my vegetable chopper and I were in the kitchen.
2. Fresh-baked bread. Not just bread, but from the local bakery, you can buy fresh manaish, fataayir, and other savory pastries for only 5 liras (US $.010). They have every flavor you could want, ranging from za'tar and cheese to meat and spinach and even (yuck) that disgusting-looking stuff they have in Lebanon called "sujuk".
3. Hijab plastics. Ever get tired of your scarf bunching up? You put the hijab plastic in front, and it keeps it nice and flat. Very practical, very effective. 10 liras (about US $0.20)

Of course, they have all the usual items too, such as rugs and collectibles and the other items that you usually associate with the Middle East, but these were some of my own personal favorites.

Ma'a Salamah, Syria

2006-05-08T06:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not taking more pictures... I ment to spend my last day in Syria taking pictures, but I got sidetracked. However, here is a strictly against-the-rules picture of the inside of Sayyida Zaynab.

I got on the IranAir flight from Damascus with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness. After all the effort it took me to acquire a visa, I actually enjoyed the surprised glances from the border guards ("You're American? And you're going to IRAN?"), and I sat through the various sorts of bureaucracy at Iranian customs with a smirk. But I felt sad to be leaving all of the wonderful people I had met in Syria. On my last day at the hawzah, the women had all gotten together and taken money from their pockets and offered it to me. I was speechless. I absolutley positively did not want to accept (especially since most of them are much poorer than I am), but they insisted. That truly is the akhlaq of the Prophet of Allah. And then, as I was leaving, my downstairs neighbor -- who is so shy that he always used to ask permission to speak to me -- pulled out a hundred dollar bill and told me that life was hard in Iran and I should take it. That I managed to refuse, saying that rather than giving me money, he should pray for me.

(He's single by the way. I tried to find a nice girl in America who wanted to marry him, but no one seemed interested. Well, if anyone would like to marry an extremely polite, kind, thoughtful, and not bad-looking man from Karbala -- 33 years old, degree in electrical engineering, descendant of Imam Husain (as) -- email me, and I'll see what I can do)

What do I miss in Syria? I miss the hospitality and helpfulness that even strangers showed. I miss the openness in conversation where no question was too personal. I miss being able to talk to anyone -- man or woman -- and not having people think that I was after the man. And of course I miss being able to sit in Sayyida Zaynab. But now I am in Qom Al-Muqddasah. I am grateful to God to have reached my destination, and I will let you know where I go from here.

Amina's Driving Results

2006-04-30T06:17:00.000-07:00

The American State Department has (seriously) issued warnings that Americans who travel to the Middle East are in extreme danger of death due to road accidents. So. The results are in... here is Amina's unofficial rating of the driving in the past four countries she has visited.

1st place goes to... Iran. Iran definitely has the best driving in the Middle East. Not only do they drive backwards on the sidewalk on the wrong side of the street, but they then yell that you're driving like a Qommi. (No comment) When in Iran, I rapidly learned to cross the street in groups. It's somewhat embarrassing shadowing an old lady to make it to the other side safely... but better that than the alternative.

2nd place goes to... Lebanon. In Lebanon, driving is somewhat like a game of chicken. Both cars rush towards each other as fast as they can, and you wait and see which car will swerve first (note that which side of the road does not seem to have any bearing on who gives way). I was somewhat impressed that, unlike in other countries, women seemed to participate just as actively as men do in this national sport.

3rd place goes to... Iraq. In Iraq, you get the feeling that the people are taking out decades of frustration due to wars, economic sanctions, and a brutal dictatorship on their accelerators. I don't blame them. The only mitigating factor was the frequent appearance of farm animals, which somewhat slowed the traffic.

And last places goes to... believe it or not... Syria. Despite the fact that my neighbor (who is not Syrian) says that Syrians drive "like they are drunk", and despite the fact that I saw three car accidents in the past couple weeks, I have found Syria to have the tamest driving in the Middle East. Although, like other areas in the region, you find the same spirit of independent interpretation of road laws, the sheer number of cars and pedestrians forces the traffic to flow at a very moderate pace. Plus, you really feel like they are trying NOT to hit you. Kudos to Syria!

That's all for now... more to come wherever life takes me.

At the Roman Ruins in Bosra

2006-04-30T05:55:00.000-07:00

The other day, my friend decided that she wanted to go visit the Roman ruins in Bosra (not to be confused with Basra, Iraq; I suggested that I'd rather go to Basra since I actually know people there, but she didn't go for it). I am ashamed to admit that I actually tried to wriggle out of the trip by pretending to oversleep, but since I somehow managed to set my clock two hours ahead and not notice that it was 8 AM and still dark outside, my plan backfired, and we set off at 6:30 as scheduled.

Aside from the 2 hour bus trip (which some poor guy that she knew and I didn't ended up paying for), the Roman ruins really weren't that bad. Since I used to study Latin many years ago, I was excited to read my first real-life Roman inscription. Scores of schoolchildren on guided field trips swarmed the area, and I realized the human truth that schoolchildren on field trips in Syria behave much like schoolchildren on field trips in America (and also that selling plastic flutes to large crowds of kids is not conductive to peaceful contemplation -- even though some of them put their flutes away after I put my hands over my ears in protest). We sat there at the top of an ancient Roman theatre and read out loud from her Syrian guidebook. And it was then that I discovered that the guidebook was wrong. The Roman theatre was not the most interesting thing in the city of Bosra. We were the most interesting thing in the city of Bosra. Kids crowded around us as she read out loud in English, and one continually shouted out the two phrases he knew in English -- "What's your name?" and "How are you?" -- at great volume until some lady shouted at him to cut it out.

My friend escaped onto the rocks and began leaping from one portion of the ancient roof from another. Lacking her sense of balance, I elected to stay behind, and a second crowd began to gather around me. As my friend bounded about, oblivious to my plight, about 40 Bosra-ites (yes, I asked, they actually were from Bosra) surrounded me -- mostly women and children. Although I have a fear of mobs just like I have a fear of heights, the crowd seemed friendly, so I tried to appear unconcerned. A boy took it upon himself to tell me each and every name of every person there, and also how they were all related. Several of the women pulled out cameras and took pictures of me, the ajnabi in hijab. (I found it odd that some foreign tourists were also taking pictures of me -- presumably as the token Syrian) I wanted to photograph the crowd too for posterity's sake, but unfortunately my camera was out of batteries.

All in all, it was a memorable day. It wasn't quite the day that the guidebook promised, but maybe it was better.

Don't Talk the Talk When They Walk the Walk

2006-04-26T04:34:00.000-07:00

Part of the human condition is that -- depending on where you live -- certain ethnicities tend to get a bad rap. Among the Muslims in the city I was living in in the United States before I came here, it was the Iraqis who bore the a large part of the criticism. (Sorry to inform you of that if you're Iraqi and living in that city -- but it's true. That's just how people talked, and no one could convince them otherwise)

So it is because of this that I feel compelled to describe my experiences with my Iraqi neighbors here in Sayyida Zaynab. To begin with, everyone I have met feels incredibly sorry for me because I am here alone. Therefore, they have been trying to help me in any way possible. Forget just offering lunch and dinner. Several of my neighbors have suggested that I move into their houses so that I will not be alone and vulnerable. I was particularly touched by one newlywed lady who insisted that I come and live with her and her husband; I'm not sure I would have the same faith in human goodness to ask a strange, young, foreign woman to live with me and my husband if I were married. Of course I have been getting a lot of marriage offers (and assurances that theirs are the best of men to marry). But what completely floored me was today at the hawzah when this woman -- whom I know is by no means rich -- tried to give me money. When I declined to take it, she proceeded to hide it in my clothing. I really was at a loss for words. I have rarely been offered money before from anyone, and I really did not know how to respond. I felt completely embarrassed that alhamdulillah, Allah has freed me for the time being from need, and yet she was still trying to give me something.

So since I have nothing to offer here except du'a, all I can say is may Allah reward all of the people who have helped me so far -- from whatever ethnicity they may come -- and may Allah grant me some of their human dignity and good akhlaq.

The Helpful and the Helpless

2006-04-20T00:52:00.000-07:00

He flashed me a giant smile as I got onto the bus from the border town of Shataura to the place they call the "factory" (why? I don't know. Ask someone in Lebanon) He seemed determined to help me the entire way. Whenever the bus was about to move, he came and got me. When we got to the "factory", he walked me up to the border. And even though I realized with some surprise that he could barely read, he attempted to direct me to the correct lines and the correct forms in Lebanese emigration.

I wasn't sure whether he befriended me out of idealism (in wanting to help me), opportunism (in wanting to make a buck off of me), or just loneliness. Generally I am wary of strangers, but since he was technically young enough to be my son, I grudgingly accepted his attention. Anyway, since I had no idea where I was going, I figured I would be better off following him than the hordes of men hawking currency exchange. With a face full of pimples and a shock of blonde hair, he looked no more than 15 or 16, but his eyes had a hardened, mature glance that -- along with his clothes -- betrayed his poorer roots. Although I didn't ask him anything about himself, I gathered that he was from Bint Jbail (where I had also left that day), and that he was going to Syria to visit his family. Somehow I doubted that, but I didn't say anything.

He showed me his ID card with pride as we got to the border. His eyes were sparkling with excitement. I wondered if this was the first time he had gone to Syria -- or at least, the first time alone. I told him to go on without me since I would be a long time at Syrian immigration, whereas as a Lebanese citizen he could go straight to Sham. But he insisted that I wait for him. I wondered why I felt compelled to do what he said, and then I remembered the hadith -- he who shows you kindness makes you his slave. So I waited at the door.

When he returned, he said nothing. He walked over to the side of the road and stomped his foot. He looked like he was doing everything he could to stop himself from bursting into tears. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn't say anything. Finally, a man came up to him and asked why he was there. He said that the Lebanese officials had told him that he was too young to go to Syria without his family's permission. "Of course," the man said, "what are you doing going by yourself? They'll throw you into the army over there." I didn't know if that was true or not, but that was what he said.

"Don't worry, we'll find a solution," he said. A couple girls about my age came over and consoled him.

I asked him if he needed anything and he said no. If he did, I'm sure he wouldn't have said. I felt terrible, but I really had to go since I was afraid the visa agent who had the papers to get me into Syria would leave me stranded between Syria and Lebanon if I didn't get to immigration fast. Feeling like Judas Iscariot, I thanked him and apologized and got into a taxi.

"Going to Iran?" the taxi driver asked.

"Insha'allah, from Syria," I said, with enthusiasm.

"That kid with you?" he asked.

"No," I said, averting my eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes, he's not with me," I said.

We drove on, and I avoided looking back. I regretted not doing anything to help him. I hope he got back to Bint Jbail all right.

Ten Practical Lessons About Lebanon

2006-04-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

Ten Practical Lessons About Lebanon

1. Bring a jacket.
2. Everyone knows each other.
3. If they don't know you, then even if they do not appear to be looking at you, be assured that they will be able to give a completely accurate (and slightly embellished) version of what you did, what you said, and what you were wearing to everyone within earshot.
4. When you associate with religious women, you need to wear sleeve extenders -- even if you are at a women's gathering. Otherwise, see #3.
5. Sayyid Nasrullah is awesome.
6. Plain raw meat does not taste like anything and looks deceptively like tomatoes.
7. The larger and more ornate a house is, the less likely that someone is living in it.
8. The quickest and most effective way to preserve the environment is to make gasoline $16/liter.
9. To convert from Lebanese money to American money, divide by 3, multiply by 2, and drop 3 zeroes.
10. Lebanese hospitality is some of the best in the world -- except of course for maybe Syrian and Iraqi. :)

The Islamic Revolution of Lebanon

2006-04-15T01:36:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was sitting there on the streetcurb, I was somewhat surprised that no one seemed interested in seeing Rafsanjani but me. In fact the only acknowledgement of his presence that I heard was from some Iranians who were muttering in Farsi that "some Iranian" had come and now they had to go outside of the haram.

However, it seems that in Lebanon, EVERYONE knows that he was there. And not just him -- but, unbeknownst to me, Sayyid Nasrollah was also there on that night in those cars.

Sayyid Nasrollah is cool. Although I've only been here two days, he has rapidly risen to the top of my good list. I am still continually touched by the amount of respect many people show towards him and also towards the rahbar in Iran. In fact, I think the people here show more respect to the rahbar than they do IN Iran. I respect the rahbar too, but I have to admit my view of the Islamic Republic has been tainted by the fact that Islamic Republic does not want me in their country. Despite the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, neither Imam Khomeini nor his successor have ever been here, the Islamic Revolution took root a lot deeper here than it did in Iran. Here, I don't see bureaucracy or formality. (For example. While I cannot even enter the border to go to Iran, I was waved by a checkpoint which clearly stated "No foreigners past this point") Just action. And not just religion but schools, organization, and development. Those who wear hijab here wear it MUCH better than you see on the average street in Iran, and yet you don't have to deal with these silly cultural ideas like your hijab is not proper if it is not black. And you don't sense the same resentment towards the Islamic movement that you do in some places in Iran.

Of course as impressed as I have been by the amount of development in South Lebanon, at least economically, there has been a price -- at least half of the families have men who are working outside of the country to support their families. As a result, there are a lot of strong women. But I feel for them because I would not want to live like that.

I'm in Lebanon!

2006-04-14T01:25:00.000-07:00

As I drove over the border to Lebanon, I suddenly understood why Lebanese people are so passionate about defending their homeland. It is so incredibly beautiful here. It looked as if God Himself had hand-painted every detail on the mountainside. I could imagine Khalil Gibran and others wandering around and taking inspiration from the countryside.

The ocean was equally beautiful. I realized how much I had missed the ocean the past few years. When you grow up around it, you get used to it.

Now I am experiencing South Lebanon. So far it is really great! You wouldn't believe that there was a war here. They have built the country back up so much. One of my teenage dreams was to come to the land of Hizbullah, but like so many other dreams, it faded away as I became busy with other concerns in life. But once I got over the unease of entering to Lebanon alone (among the sentences I never thought I would say in my life was "How much is the taxi fare to Beiruit?"), the excitment came back. And so far so good -- Lebanon is really awesome!

Guess Who Came To Town Tonight

2006-04-12T11:55:00.000-07:00

I was alerted to the fact that we had a special guest tonight not by the word on the street and not by friends, but by the heavily armed Farsi-speaking bodyguard who came to our door asking for a cup of water. (All right, actually I had already heard earlier in the day who was coming, but I had been too dense for it to occur to me that he would be passing by our neighborhood) Figuring I had nothing to lose, I hastily dressed and ran out the door towards the place where the former president of Iran was heading towards, the haram of Sayyida Zayab.

To give some background to my story, I have to mention that I have been chasing after an Iranian visa for the past couple years -- and, especially, the past couple weeks since my current visa expires tomorrow, and I have to go SOMEWHERE. With options on the table like Jordan and Qatar, I felt that it was now or never to resolve my visa issues with Iran. I really didn't expect running into Rafsanjani to help me with my visa issues, but at least I hoped to catch the eye of some of my recently made friends who are acquainted with the visa process and whom I knew were accompanying him so that I could beg and plead some more. Plus, I figured that since I was locked out of my house until 10:30 PM, I may as well sit at the door of Ahl Al-Bayt (as) and chat with God instead of sit at my own doorstep and chat with the bodyguard until my hosts got home.

Therefore, I took myself to the haram. As I walked there, I couldn't help reflecting on the difference in security between Rafsanjani and my marja'. Admittedly both were potential targets, but I remember that when I had once in a lifetime privilege of going to my marja's house, the only security between me and him consisted of a group of men who asked me what my nationality was and requested that I leave my purse with them before going inside. Here, they were clearly taking no chances. Armed men lined the rooftops, and they cleared all of the people out of the haram four hours before the expected guest arrived. Looking at the haram from the outside in, I felt like the distance between me and the haram of Sayyida Zaynab was the same as the distance between me and Iran -- so close, and yet separated by so many layers of security and bureaucracy. Men inside of the haram rapidly began sweeping up the dust and laying down special carpets. I wondered how my view of the world would change if every place I visited was impeccably cleaned and prepared. I reflected that I must not be standing on the street that the guest would be arriving on because they started to pile up the trash next to me.

Again, having nothing better to do, I sat down and decided to wait, trying to ignore the fact that I was sitting by myself on a streetcurb in Damascus at night. No one really took notice of me -- not even the various men that call out marriage proposals at all hours of the day and night -- except for the security men standing around the gates and on top of the buildings. I felt conspcicuous, but I also didn't feel like leaving, so I held my ground. Gradually the hustle and bustle lessened as various people started going back to their homes. Occasionally, Hujjat Al-Islams would come by the gate to the haram, give their salaams to Sayyida Zayab (as) from outside, and then go on their way. A very old man who could not walk sat outside, bent, and prayed. I was also praying too, for some kind of miracle.

As I sat there, two kids wandered up to the trash and began to search it for something useful. One found some aluminum foil and a shoe sole, and the other found a plastic tray and an empty bag. I felt sorry for them that their circumstaces were forcing them to go through the trash, but I really respected the fact that they were electing to search through the trash rather than beg.

I sat there for three hours. The men with guns looked at me, and I tried to avoid looking at them. Eventually, one of the ladies who for some reason had also been sitting outside asked me in heavily accented Iraqi Arabic whether I was waiting for my husband. I said no. She asked me whether I was waiting for my brother. I said no. She then asked me who I WAS waiting for, and I said, "Rafsanjani."

"Who?" she asked.

I left.

As I made my way down the street, trying to ignore the fact that I was walking alone down the street in Damascus at night(somewhat unsuccessfully I might add since I ran into 5 people that I knew who all asked me why I was walking the streets by myself), suddenly several soldiers pulled me and the passerbys aside as the convoy finally arrived -- police cars, and many, many black limousines. I watched in silence as they keys to my Iranian visa drove past me. The soldiers then felt obliged to escort me home, where I climbed the stairs and noted with some relief that the bodyguard was gone.

Message from Ayatullah Seestani

2006-04-06T04:27:00.000-07:00

Since I heard this with my own ears, I feel obligated to convey it -- especially because I had the distinct (and slightly terrifying) honor of translating for Ayatullah Al-Uzma Seestani in Najaf Al-Ashraf! Ayatullah Seestani was asked to send a message to the Muslims in the West. He said that, first and foremost, Muslim parents in the West need to teach their children their native languages because Islamic resources are lacking in English (you can say THAT again). I then abused my translator's privilege and asked what the Muslims whose native language IS English should do, and he replied that we need to learn Arabic to the degree that we can read Qur'an and tafsir.

I've been reflecting on that message for the past few days. On the surface, it seems simple. But a number of issues get in the way. For one thing, most parents just assume that their children will just pick up their native languages, but that does not happen beyond a very basic level unless the parents take the immense amount of effort required to teach their language at a level of literacy AND the children take the immense amount of effort to learn it. However, the more I think about what he said, the more I realize he was correct, because even I -- a native English speaker -- would have a much shallower understanding of my religion if I could not understand Arabic and Farsi.

Along these lines, I do have to comment on two counterproductive trends present in many Muslim communties in America. On the one side, there are those Muslims who believe that religion on exists in their native language and that everything has to be in Urdu/Arabic/Farsi/Urdu/Gujrati/Urdu/whatever. This way of thinking simply does not work in the West because not everyone is fluent in Urdu/Arabic/Farsi/Urdu/Gujrati/Urdu/whatever (partcularly the youths), and ALSO because we have a responsibility to do da'wah. However, on the other side, there are those Muslims who harbor suspicion and resentment towards other Muslims who speak languages that they do not, and they are always pressuring them to abandon their native languages and use English only. I don't see why we can't have a happy medium -- for example, do most of our religious programs in ENGLISH, but some also in other languages so we can appreciate the beauty of each other's languages and be encouraged to learn them.

Qaf

2006-04-06T04:20:00.000-07:00

Qaf. Qaf. Such a wonderful letter. One of the final letters in the Arabic alphabet, Qaf was described in the book I first learned Arabic in as the letter than sounds like "the top of a soda bottle being popped off".

Like most letters, you don't appreciate Qaf until it's gone. Most Syrians I know simply do not say Qaf. I am beginning to learn to emulate them and say words like "taree' " and "ti'ra", but it's a shame. Such a lovely letter...................... now gone.

No, REALLY, Thank You

2006-04-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

One thing I am having difficulty with is explaining the concept of food allergies; someone suggested that this might be because food allergies are much more common in the West than here. As those of you who know me know, I am allergic to approximately half of everything that is potentially edible -- in particular, nuts, dairy products from cows, and coffee -- all of which seem to find their way into local food. In Amerca, declining food on the basis of allergies was never a problem, but here -- given the linguistic and cultural barriers -- it can be quite akward. I have become adept at sneaking proffered sweets back into their containers and switching full for empty coffee cups when no one is looking, but there has to be an easier way.

Allergies can also lead to some potential etiquette dilemmas. For example, yesterday, I had the unexpected honor to meet a famous poet who writes about Ahl Al-Bayt (as). (Actually, he is the second poet I have met here; I guess birds of a feather flock together. It is somewhat humbling hanging around literary people because they have a way with words that I do not, not even in English) I was paying attention to the poet and not to the cake I was eating when all of a sudden my mouth began itching like fire, and I realized that swallowing whatever was in my mouth would be a very, very bad idea. So, casting etiquette aside, I jumped up, ran to the kitchen, spat the offending matter out, and explained to the lady of the house that YES, I did like to eat cake, but I couldn't eat peanuts or I would drop dead. I then returned to where I was sitting and pretended like nothing had happened (and that I wasn't the slightest bit concerned about an upcoming allergic reaction).

What to do. On the bright side, I have found goat cheese here, and it is much cheaper than it is in America. But to find it, I did have to dispense with some of my dignity and "baa-a" to the shopkeeper since I didn't know the word for my fluffly friends that graze here and there along the street and comprised today's lunch.

Kids

2006-04-06T03:37:00.000-07:00

I have to say that one thing I have been very impressed by here is the children. All of the children I have met so far have been considerably politer, more religious, more hard-working, and more innocent than their American counterparts. When this one seven year old heard that I had been in Karbala, she began rattling off ahadith about the merits of visiting Imam Husain (as). To say I was impressed would be an understatement.

The kids here also seem to follow the old American adage of being seen, not heard in adult company. I'm not sure whether it is considered odd in Syrian culture to pay much attention to children, or whether Syrians just consider children to be boring because there are so many of them, but since I do like to talk to kids I have been engaging a lot of them in conversation and have heard a lot of pleasantly refreshing perspectives.

So what is it that makes them this way? A more religious environment? A closer family structure? Less distractions? Whatever it is, we need to learn from it in America quickly because we all know we are losing 90% of our youth there.

Where am I?

2006-04-03T02:37:00.000-07:00

I am currently staying with a friend in the Sayyida Zaynab neighborhood of Damascus about 5 minutes from Sayyida Zaynab! (See picture) After all the times that I have wanted to come here in the past 8 years and find some peace in my life, I am really appreciating the opportunity to literally walk out the door and down the street and be in the picture to the left. I like living in the Sayyida Zaynab neighborhood. Primarily, I think I like it beacuse it is mostly Shi'a, and I don't feel out of place here. There are a lot of hawzah ilmiyyahs and bookstores selling books on Ahl Al-Bayt (as), and you can occasionally hear latmiyyah in the street. Plus, there are a lot of other non-Syrians here and people who speak Farsi, so I feel comparatively at home. The only downside is that prices have been a bit expensive due to the number of people who came from Iran, Lebanon, and the gulf countries for ziyarat, and I wouldn't advise drinking the water.

The rest of Damascus is nice too, but I'm not sure I would like living in another neighborhood.

Coming from America, I can't help but reflect on the differences between Syria in America. As in America, most people here are unhappy with and concerned about the economy, but, unlike in America, there is a general sense here of trying to make the best of what you have. In contrast, in America -- particularly in Houston -- I always felt there was this general sense of misery and despair. I always felt it was somewhat ironic that in one of the richest countries of the world, I was afraid to roll down my windows while driving or walk down the street alone. Being outside of that sort of environment really makes you realize how unnatural it is.

I am also appreciating the social aspect of living in the Middle East. In America, life is so busy that we rarely have time to see anyone we know outside of our housholds more than once a week. Here, it is relatively easy and not unexpected to drop in on people. It is too bad that we in America cannot regain the part of our culture that used to go calling on neighbors, family, and friends.

It is very peaceful also being able to walk a land which prophets walked. A while back I went to the mountains and visited my great-grandfather (or great-uncle, or most likely both) Habeel. We have no connection with any of our roots in America. There is a sense of peace and spirituality in the land which I don't find in America (particularly in Texas).

Being an American Muslim woman in Syria is another story. I learned very quickly here not to tell the average person on the street that I was American. My first day here, I went to go use a public phone, and while I was sitting there trying to figure out how to use my phone card, a lady came up and asked me if I had change. I said no, and she promptly went to the next phone both and told the lady about the foreign lady at the phone next door. They called their friend over, and before I knew it there were about fifteen ladies surrounding the foreign lady in the phone booth, staring and asking me questions. I could have handled it much better than I did, but I didn't. When I realized I was literally trapped in the phone booth, I panicked and just took off running.

Since then, on the street, I am Iranian. (For some reason people actually seem to believe this) However, of course I am still telling people I know that I am American. People are very curious to know that there are indiginous Muslims in America, and they are always asking how I became Muslim. I always got these questions in America too, but here they do seem more credible since I probably AM the first American Muslim most of these people have ever seen. Some of the Shi'a Muslims I have met here have in particular wanted to know about English latmiyat, and I had the new experience of reading an English noha at a majlis where I knew that the women spoke little to no English at all. I was surprised to find them following and repeating, and even after the majlis they were taking apart the lyrics.

I have also realized where what a small world it is. There is a truck that drives around our street playing "It's a Small World" on a loudspeaker, and while I don't know if the vendor knows what that song means, I sure do. I had always thought that the Shi'a community in America was close because it was small. I now realize that this is a worldwide phenomenon. So far I have run into FOUR people that I knew from America. I think that is a rather large number for a foreign country. In addition, I met someone the other day who has to be the largest hub of knowledge I have ever met in my life. Despite the fact he has never been to America, when I said I was from America, he began rattling off many names of people I knew (and many interesting facts about them which I never knew either). I suppose now I, the American Muslim, am part of his library.

For the Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters: I wanted to mention that I met an Afghani sheikh today who spoke fluent Spanish (and was surprised that I didn't). I should have gotten his contact information so you could speak to him, but I am sure I could locate someone who knows him if you would like to meet him!

Karbala, Ya Karbala

2006-04-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

By a miracle of God, I was able to take these pictures in Karbala on Arba'een myself!!!!!! According to the guy with a gun who drove us through Baghdad, there was 6 million people who walked to Karbala (and some Iranians too who ostensibly drove or flew). I have more pictures, but they are hard to upload from Syria, so these should at least let you know what it was like. It was really amazing. It was incredible. Words cannot describe it. You see the most beautiful displays of love for Imam Husain (as) from ordinary people. The only way I can express what it is like to be there is to say that the fact that 6 million people will walk for days just go to Karbala indicates that there is something very special and very unique there. So if you have not gone yet, you need to come too!!! I also had the privilege of being in Karbala on Arba'een 8 years ago, but it was a completely different experience. Back then, it was crowded too, but you couldn't even move without being harassed by the soldiers. It was so touching to see so much religious freedom. As I watched all the people, I had the uncanny feeling that the power of God and Ahl Al-Bayt was quite alive in freeing this land from the enemies of Ahl Al-Bayt.

The only thing I missed in Karbala were OTHER types of people -- I was told that this year they were not allowing foreigners into Iraq due to security concerns. (But apparently there were one or two exceptions...)

Although I really enjoyed being in Karbala, and I would have loved to stay if I had something to offer the country, I was sad to see that there is still so much poverty in Iraq, and that the country was largely a mess. Going from Syria to Iraq was like traveling back in time 100 or 150 years. Although Karbala seemed fairly safe, when I was at someone's house in Najaf someone missed with their missiles and killed some people on the street not very far away from us. I felt somewhat guilty that I had the option to leave as I pleased since most people do not. However, I did feel optimistic about a couple things. One was that I didn't see the throngs of orphans that you used to see on the streets of Najaf and Karbala. Someone told me that people built shelters for them, and I had the honor to visit a large orphan school in Najaf. Also, I was touched by the way many people really are dedicated to the reconstruction and the future. I had always assumed that the Iraqi reconstruction consisted only of power plants, sanitary services, roads, and so on, but after meeting some people who returned to Iraq from Iran to do religious tabligh I also understand the importance of spreading Shi'a teachings there after all of the years of repression.

Anyway may God help them with what they are doing. I am extremely entirely 100% grateful to God that He gave me the privilege to go to Karbala AGAIN in my life, and I hope everyone has this opportunity!!!!!