My friend MMM sent me her second post about Iran. She has set up her own account and will soon be posting herself...
- Taking The Heat
Iran is mostly dry rock. In July, even June, it becomes incredibly hot whether you are in the rocky plains of Central Iran or the grass and croplands of the Northeast. I’ve learned to live luxuriantly in such heat from summers on an archaeological dig at the Russian/Kazakh border, where a refrigerator is a wet cloth-wrapped bowl in a breeze and shade. It took decades and thousands of miles to finally appreciate the ubiquitous watermelon of summer cookouts. Watermelon is a big crop in Turkmen Sahra, the northeastern province of Golestan. I eat it now with relish and remembrance of having tea and just watermelon with Kheder, Ahmangul his wife, and children in 2002. Was it that watermelon was all that was served? Or the perfect food in the heat? Or was it that no one could speak the other’s language yet, guileless hospitality, a blanket clause in any part of Eurasia, made one pause and savor the moment?
More below the fold...
I realize that sharing my experiences in Iran may arouse all kinds of response. But I hope you read in these words: Each person makes their own experience in life. You find what you look for. One of the best things about the United States is that an individual can have a powerful effect and the choice is ours to make. I also realize that while my experiences have been nothing short of magical, there are many people who have not been so fortunate. Some of you may have been hostages in 1979, or worried about your loved ones. You may be an Iranian, like my dear friend Darya, who is trying to move to another country where her brilliant mind and gifts can be recognized. You may have lost homes and loved ones, or directly felt the torture of interrogation and incarceration, or even now have loved ones in such circumstances. I mean no disrespect, nor to minimize your experiences. We all agree that things need to change here and abroad. There are other sites to carry that discussion.
The walls inside Kheder’s simple brick house are speckled, gleaming gold with the chopped straw that was added and smoothed into the interior stucco. I remember an exclusive wallpaper sample that mimicked this very effect. Utilitarian pile carpets cover the floor. Ahmangul’s special hand made carpets and felts can be pulled out and spread at a moment’s notice. The easily purchased carpet-covered cushions make backrests along the walls as we sit on the floor around a plastic tablecloth with tea. We talk about the gas rationing that had just been instituted, and the news that nineteen gas stations had been burned in protest, in Tehran. We’re far away in Turkmen Sahra. Kheder doesn’t seem to be worried. Talk is that some people will just not work and stay home, making money by selling their gas card. It’s all so crazy and sudden. Mohammed Amin, the newest member of this household, playing with the cell phone, brings us back to the moment. His eyes are those of an old soul. This time the afternoon sun plays through curtains onto old friends enjoying tea, the question unimportant of ever seeing each other again. Smiles are brighter than the light outside. Air is cool from thick walls and the ceiling fan, so welcome after having been outside visiting others in the village. Kheder offers to come tomorrow to take Darya, my "guide" and me to Gonbad, to visit an old scholar of Turkmen carpet symbols.