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sexing_the_cherry
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Name: Zahra
Country: United States
State: Kansas
Metro: Emporia
Birthday: 11/15/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: God | art (pencil.charcoal.oils) | debate | feminism | music | my beautiful girls | resistance | moans & sighs | ripped jeans | stargazing | photography | skinny-dipping | belly buttons | rainbows | and the like.
Expertise: being difficult
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  verde dionysus
Yahoo:  virgis_dionysus
Member Since:
6/20/2005
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| 12 June 2009 – 6:25AM (CST) & 3:55PM in Iran
In the span of 7 months, I have been a first-time voter in 2 different countries. The experience here was, unsurprisingly, very different than the voting experience in the states.
In the states, I voted in an air conditioned little church a block or two away from where I live. I went around 8AM, hoping to avoid lines and a long wait. I only had to wait a minute or two before I was led to my little curtained booth. I voted for president and a handful of local issues as well. And that was that.
Today, around lunchtime—the hottest part of the day, when we had hoped the polls would be less busy—I went to vote here. We walked to a mosque a few blocks away. I couldn’t wear my normal scarf, because it is green, the color of Mousavi. I also have a purple scarf and a blue scarf, both of which are colors claimed by two other candidates. Ariana has an orange scarf, also a color claimed by a candidate. So I was forced to wear my mom’s heavy grey scarf, since—just like in the US—campaigning at polling places is not allowed. Even if the color of my scarf had been permitted, I would likely face some harassment in this neighborhood for it, since the people around here are mostly older, religious, and conservative. When we approached the mosque, there was a man standing outside of it, dressed in his military fatigues and holding a machine gun. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old. He apologized and told us that his orders were to search any bags, and he truly seemed like it was something he didn’t want to do. So he searched my bag and let us in. Inside, there were a few other soldiers, all armed with machine guns. A little intimidating.
Once inside the mosque, we had a little bit of a wait, which was surprising. The main courtyard of the mosque, where voting was happening, is still mostly open to the outside. There are 4 walls and something resembling a roof, but it was certainly not a totally enclosed space. The afternoon heat was pretty intense, and yet there was a line of 20 or so people, mostly women. I was also surprised by the fact that it was a single line, instead of the 2 sex-segregated lines that had formed in some other places. I waited in line, presented my birth certificate and passport (since I have no other Iranian photo ID), and went through the line. I confused lots of the people working at the polling place, who kept asking, “so, you’ve never voted before?” My dad finally said “no, that would’ve made her 16,” although I guess it wasn’t really such a silly question, since 15 was the minimum voting age at the time of the last election. In any case, I passed through the line mostly uneventfully, despite a little bit of confusion. At the end of the line, there is a lady who collects the birth certficates and holds them until the ballot is cast. I didn’t really understand this concept, so when I went to get mine before I had voted, the smiling lady said, “Azizam, go vote and them come get this.” My dad was thrilled that she had used an endearment with me. He said afterwards that it seemed like the people working there were proud of me.
And now I have a blue finger, from marking my fingerprint on my ballot. On the ballots here, there is a single question—who should be president? There were two boxes, one for the candidate’s name, and one for his numerical code. I had practiced writing and spelling my candidate’s name ahead of time, and I was surprisingly nervous. My hands shook a little. But I’m so proud of myself.
Today, I read in the news that the entire text messaging network is down. Mousavi is warning his supporters to try to vote at schools instead of mosques, since it’s much easier to tamper with ballots at mosques, apparently. There is also a rumor going around, propagated by AJ, that Mousavi has withdrawn from the race, which is obviously not true. I had also forgotten, until today, that any Iranian citizen can vote, even if they’re not in Iran, if they can get to a polling place. I assume there are a few in the states, at the very least in LA. There are about 4-5 million Iranians outside of Iran that can vote, and my bet is that the large majority of those are progressive enough to vote for change. For the first time in Iran’s election history, it is very possible that the incumbent may not reclaim his seat. Fingers crossed.
Yesterday, I said goodbye to most of my family. It was much more difficult than I thought it would be. I had no idea what to expect at the airport, but it was not what I found there. Over 400 people were going to Mecca, and there were all crowded into one nauseatingly hot room. Since Saudi Arabia is even more restrictive than Iran about what women can wear, nearly every woman in the room was swathed in a billowing black chador. Saudia Arabia is also Sunni, so women can’t even wear sandals. It was miserable for me, so I can’t imagine how stifling it must’ve been for the women leaving. I even saw a tiny little girl, probably only about 3 years old, wearing a white headscarf and long sleeves with pants. Totally covered up. It made me so sad. Then, all of a sudden, there was a man in the front calling out names and holding up a sign. When he called out your family’s name, you were given an ID on a lanyard (in Farsi & Arabic), your passport, tickets, etc, and you could board the plane. And then my family’s name was called, and they were suddenly leaving. I barely had time to say goodbye. My cousins, the little boys who cried for hours when we left 4 years ago, barely seemed to realize we wouldn’t seem them for another couple of years. Everyone was too excited to be going, I suppose. And of course, I melted into a blob of tears. It hurts to imagine how much I may not even recognize my cousins the next time I see them again, post-puberty. And I’ll be married, then, even. It’s very strange to think about.
Our time here is almost over. We are leaving for Tehran tomorrow. Tomorrow! And then, so much waiting. I have nearly all my shopping done, including a few surprise purchases, like a key hook that is designed in traditional Iranian inlay. It was cheap, and it’s adorable. I just want a few things still—some trays of sweets, some cooking things (which can be purchased very close to home, or my grandmother has some already), and this really adorable picnic bubble thing that holds a set of plastic plates and bowls and cups for picnics. My cousin had one yesterday at the park, and they are apparently very cheap.
I’m so excited to be home, even though leaving here hurts me terribly. I’m so spoiled that, aside from my family, I mostly miss the conveniences of the states. Hot water, central air, washer/dryer, dishwashers, my own car, a bed, the ability to wear and say what I want, etc.
I promised Jordan I would write something for him, so I had better get to that, I suppose.
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| June 11, 2009 – 3:25AM (CST) and 12:55PM in Iran
Yesterday, I went to a political rally for Mirhousein Mousavi, the strongest challenger to incumbent Ahmadinejad. An article I read today said that he is currently leading the president, 56 to 42%. If that’s the case, then the election will be over, but I kind of doubt those numbers. I do believe Mousavi is leading, but perhaps not by quite that much. And even if AJ is in the lead, he has to have more than 50% support to end the election after one vote. If no candidate gets a simple majority, then there will be a runoff, in which case I believe Mousavi will easily win, since the other two candidate’s voters will likely swing his direction.
In any case, Khatami—former Iranian president immediately preceding AJ—was in Esfahan yesterday, campaigning for Mousavi. I have never seen such a spectacle in my entire life. There were thousands of people, filling Shah Square (I refuse to call it Imam Square) in a tsunami of green. Throngs of people filled the streets around the square, heading towards it hours in advance, even in the scorching heat, myself included. And I saw every imaginative incorporation of the color green into outfits—women surrounded their eyes and the bridge of their nose with green makeup, some people had green hair, there was plenty of green paint on faces and hands and arms, and of course, green tshirts, scarves, jackets, ribbons, headbands, hats, and even pants, as far as the eye could see. I know that the clothing we choose to wear can very often be a political statement, but I have rarely been involved in a situation where even the colors we are wearing is political (although I know there have been similar color movements elsewhere).
There were just so many people. I wanted to work my way towards front and center, but my dad wouldn’t let me anywhere near it. We overheard a young kid saying “marg bar Amrika” (death to America), and my dad freaked out and pulled me away from the most interesting part of the crowd. I never really feared for my safety, but my dad’s paranoia started to freak me out, especially when people started popping balloons. And normally, Iranians are very pushy—they don’t like to wait in line, or wait in traffic, or wait for service, etc. So in a crowd like this, the pushing and jostling was intense. Definitely not for agoraphobes or claustrophobes. Before the speech, an announcement was made that someone had tried to disconnect or damage the sound system at the event, but that they had been caught and were unsuccessful. They also announced that they had heard people chanting “death to…” so-and-so (probably “death to the dictator,” but also possibly the phrase I overheard about America), and that that kind of language was unacceptable and should not be used. I was very pleased to have heard that.
Since my dad pulled me so far away from the goings-on, there wasn’t really any point in staying for a speech that I couldn’t entirely understand anyway. We left early to see my family, who is leaving today. It’s a compromise I am okay with, since it gave me more time with them. In the time we were at the rally, though, and with all that concern about safety, the worst that happened was that I was pushed down a step by all the jostling and scraped my ankle. And then as we were leaving, the taxi started to pull away before I had gotten in, and my arm is a little bruised today from the doorframe hitting me. But I am so glad I went. I don’t think I’ll get too many chances like that in my life.
Last night, we ended up going to the park instead of the mountain like we had planned. Traffic after the rally was just too insane. After the speech, it seemed like nobody really went home—they all just drove around town honking and yelling and being excited about change. It took hours to get anywhere, except by foot. At the park, we saw two giant groups of kids, campaigning on opposite street corners. Mousavi’s people have adopted the color green and the v-for-victory peace sign, while AJ’s people have adopted the Iranian flag and the color orange as their symbols. In their gathering, the most interesting to me was a sign that said “1 > 3,” which I assume means their man is better than the other 3. It is true that no presidential incumbent has ever lost reelection here, but then again, this is only the 10th presidential election this country has held. Change is in the air, and I’m hoping for the best. I can’t imagine what kind of upheaval might happen if AJ wins again. The country deserves better.
Even with everything going on here, I feel like I’m missing out on so much of the news at home. I try to stay as caught up as I can, but it’s hard to find much political analysis since so many sights are blocked. Even Offbeat Bride is blocked, which I’m guessing is because it uses the word “porn” so often to describe photos of wedding things. Which just sucks. But there’s going to be so much for me to read when I get home, back to the land of unrestricted internet access.
Speaking of home, it is Thursday. We are leaving Esfahan on Saturday afternoon—my dad insists that we need to be at the airport 6 hours early. Why? Because he’s crazy. In any case, we’re leaving Saturday afternoon from here, enduring a 4-5 hour car trip to Tehran, waiting for several hours, and then we’ll start the trip back to the states at around 3AM, local time (5:30PM Saturday at home). We’ll chase the sun the whole way home, so we’ll get home 14 hours later, despite around a total of a few hours more than that spent on airplanes alone, which is not including getting through customs, waiting on the runway, layovers (minor this time, at least), etc. And it will all be worth it, not just because of the trip here, but because of those blue eyes that will be waiting for me when I step off the plane in KC. As much as I can’t bear to be away from this place for very long, I can’t wait to get home. The problem with being from two places is that you’re always missing one of them, and the people there.
Today, we’re seeing off my family for Mecca. I won’t be able to wear makeup, because I’ll definitely cry it all off. It’s unbearable. My heart is breaking. I hate leaving, and we’ve even been cut a few days short by their trip. I’ve tried to enjoy this trip as much as I can, but it’s difficult when time is so limited. I dream of being able to come here for entire summers someday. Our family tree will be so expansive and tangled when that day comes. I love my family so much.
Afterwards, I suppose there is some last-minute shopping I still need to do. Some gifts for friends, some cooking stuff for my home, and so on. There are some dishes here that I’ve forgotten how much I like, and I’d really like to force Jordan to try them. I hope I can someday be a little better at cooking—not just skills, but ability to make myself do it. I need to be far less lazy about food. After a trip to Chipotle the second we get back. But I’ve already made myself a grocery list, of things here, and things to get when I get home. With as much as I love my culture, I certainly don’t enjoy its culinary offerings as much as I should when I’m at home, and I’d like to. I don’t anticipate too many protests from Jordan on that front. Wish I had a bigger kitchen, though.
When I get home, I’ll work for two weeks at my normal job (dolla dolla), and then leave for a rotation in Emporia. Bah. A whole month in Emporia. Clearly I didn’t think this through very well. At least I won’t be staying a dorm (haunted or not). I’m a little bit dreading the rotation, for several reasons. I’ve never worked retail before (especially since I’ve had a grand total of one pharmacy job), so dressing up every day and wearing a lab coat is going to be a struggle for me. People I actually know may be coming into the pharmacy, and that has the possibility of getting awkward, although of course I will maintain my professional obligations. And then there’s counseling, and I am terrified of it. I really hope it’s nothing like the counseling we’ve had to do for skills lab, which seems completely unrealistic. I guess what worries me most is that it’s a pretty unknown situation for me, and I tend to be fairly sheltered, and I live in a pretty permanent comfort zone. I really hope this experience helps me get out of that bubble. That’s the least I’m hoping to take from it.
Oh well. Time for lunch, and then off to the airport. Hopefully we’ll get some shopping done tonight, since tomorrow is Friday, the day everything is closed.
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| 09 June 2009 – 4:20AM (CST), 1:50PM in Iran
In five short days, we’ll be back home in the states. Already. In 4 days, we’ll be leaving Esfahan. The huge chunk of my family is leaving on Thursday for a trip to Mecca. This includes my oldest aunt (and her husband), her three daughters (two of which are married, so their two husbands as well), and her total of 3 grandchildren—my first cousins once removed. I think that makes a total of 10 family members going on this trip. Not only is it a big part of my family, but it’s the part with which we are closest. They want to see us more often, they go places with us, and they really enjoy our presence. It would be easy for parts of my family not to feel close to us, since we’re able to come so rarely. But this part of my family really makes an effort. I’m enamored of them. A lot of the rest of my family tries to spend time with us just so they can get things from us—money, presents, etc. Anyway, it will be sad to be the one giving the send-off to my family for once, instead of the other way around. I dread it.
There is so much drama in my family, but it doesn’t necessarily show itself right away. And over the years, it has become more and more obvious. Maybe that’s a product of growing up, but my dad has noticed it, too. My grandmother, especially. Even though I love her so much, and admire the amazing family she’s helped cultivate, she’s become the crotchety old woman that everyone fears. No one in my family likes to come inside the front gate because they don’t want to deal with her. The other day, some of the neighborhood kids were playing soccer in the alley and they accidentally kicked their ball over my grandmother’s wall. My dad helped them out and gave it back, but then my grandmother chased the kids away by spraying them with water from the hose. She gossips in the worst way—not just “did you hear so-and-so got married?” but things like “the neighbor woman whose husband just divorced her is mentally ill.” Which turned out to not even be true. Anytime we go anywhere, she has to know where we’re going. Anytime we buy anything, she has to inspect every item the second we come home. The other day, she criticized me for wearing a different shirt every day—“did you bring every shirt in America here with you?” It’s just hard to understand what brought about this mean streak. And to make matters worse, she feeds her gossiping tendencies by sending my middle aunt—whose husband died, and who has no children—everywhere with us, even when she hasn’t been invited. She just sits and listens and watches, and then reports back to my grandmother. At the park the other day, my cousin and her husband got into a fight, and my aunt couldn’t wait to get home to tell my grandmother all the juicy details. She has isolated herself from everyone by alienating them all, and she doesn’t seem to mind. It’s really upsetting.
My grandfather, on the other hand, is adorable. When I was younger, I can’t remember him ever smiling—that’s how severely depressed he was. Over the years, he’s gotten better, but you can tell that time is starting to wear on him. But, like my dad says, you couldn’t find a better, kinder man. I accidentally sat on some bread my grandma had hidden under a sheet on a couch so that it could dry out, and I shattered it to pieces. My grandpa saw the whole thing, and never tattled on me. He thought it was funny, even. He calls me professor, and he calls Ariana Arya Mehr. He moves around like a sloth—almost comically slowly, but so cute. And he’s content to just sit around and do nothing. And even though you might not guess it, since he’s quiet most of the time, he’s hilarious. The other day, my grandmother and aunt brought home a ridiculously large watermelon. With the most stoic poker face, my grandpa asked, “you couldn’t find a bigger one?” He is the greatest at being sarcastic. I aspire to be like him in that regard.
The other day, we ended up going to Hotel Aseman. I knew it would be difficult for me, since I’m so afraid of heights, but it was definitely worth it. The spinning made me experience some serious vertigo, and the elevator on the way up was pretty rickety-feeling, but it gave us a seriously awesome view of the city. You can’t see where it ends—it just goes on and on and on. We went for dinner, so just like I’d hoped, we got to watch the city turn its lights on as the sun began to set. There is just so much of it to see. The restaurant itself was also really good. The servers were dressed as flight attendants, which was really cute. We had kabob and rice, of course, and it was perfection. I can’t wait to bring Jordan here. He’d love every second of it.
The other day, I did end up finding most of what I was hunting for. I think I found the most perfect tapestry—termeh. It’s green and beautiful. We went into a store, and the owner pulled out a variety of colors, so I could see the selection. First, the traditional purple-ish red, then the green one I picked, then about half a dozen more. The second I saw the one I chose I knew it was perfect. I really wish Jordan had been there, so that I wouldn’t be the only one making the decision, since it’s really for us and not just for me. He did give input—that he’d like a green one—but I would be devastated if I got home and he didn’t really like it. I hope my judgment was good enough. I also bought a huge mirror, handpainted in traditional Esfahani miniaturist style, and it’s beautiful. I hope it makes it back to the states in one piece, but if the mirror part breaks, it wouldn’t be a tragedy. The frame part is what’s so special to me. I can’t wait to surround myself with bits of my culture at home. Today, we are going back to the bazaar, and hopefully I can find a little cup for honey, or a pair of glasses for toasting.
The other day, I was having a serious self-esteem crisis, and was simultaneously lovesick and homesick. I stayed up until 2:30AM, and was just feeling pretty low. I ended up taking it out on Jordan, even though he was just trying to help. I feel so awful about that. I even knew it was going to happen. I could feel myself getting impatient with him for no reason, and suddenly I was angry, and I knew I had no reason to feel that way either. I love him so much that it hurts to think about it. I will definitely do better—I need to be more patient and slower to anger. I really thought there was no way we could bicker while I was abroad, but it’s apparently possible. Arguing is just part of our relationship, and even when we’re annoying each other, there’s nothing I would change about us. Even though I love it here, I can’t wait to come home to him. I’m trying to console myself by continuing to think about the fact that I’ll never have to come here alone again. He will be here every time with me, from now on—holding my hand on the plane, letting me fall asleep on him (I’m sure), helping me reach my overhead luggage, wandering around town with me, braving my enormous, dramatic family, and sleeping on this absurdly uncomfortable floor right along with me. I can’t wait.
It’s been a lazy day so far. I slept in way too late and haven’t changed out of my pj’s yet, but there’s no real reason to do so, since it’s siesta time, and nobody will be up around until about 5 at the earliest. I will just have to console myself with my DS, I suppose. Jordan would be proud.
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| 05 June 2009 – 12:26AM (CST) and 9:56AM in Iran
Last night, I had a dream about my future wedding. It was what should’ve been a disaster, for some reason. Somehow, I had forgotten until the day before all the planning that should’ve been done—I had no dress, no decorations, no makeup on, and I hadn’t even washed my hair. And all I can remember is how I was so totally not worried about any of that. I found some dress, and now the image of that dress is glued to my brain. Fitted on top, flowy on bottom, and very simple. However the wedding (eventually) happens, I hope real me is as introspective and thoughtful and tuned into the things that really matter as much as dream me was.
I’m awfully lovesick. I certainly don’t want to cut any precious time short here, but I just wish that I could’ve brought Jordan with me. It hardly seems fair that he wants to come so badly but can’t, while other people don’t even begin to appreciate for a second how rich the culture and people are here. I am so thankful for the wonderful, respectful, and absolutely amazing partner I have managed to find. I will never understand how I got so lucky.
Yesterday was another holiday—the anniversary of the death of the ayatollah. Good riddance. But when a holiday falls on a Thursday, it’s two days straight of near-total boredom since Friday is the day everything is closed, like Sundays in the states. Fortunately, we do have a humongous busy family to keep us preoccupied.
On Wednesday, we went to the bazaar with my youngest aunt’s oldest daughter and her husband and son. Good luck following that branch of the family tree. Anyway. We mostly browsed the jewelry district, the shine and glitter of which is enough to leave you seeing spots for several minutes. Later, I found a picnic blanket, which I bought. Everyone here is always ready for an impromptu trip to the park, which includes keeping a water resistant, thatched-type blankie in one’s trunk. And now I have one! I always want to live, in some ways, the way people live here. Bored? Nothing to do? Let’s go to the park! It’s a simple and beautiful way to pass the time with family and friends. I love it. And now I’m totally ready, with the possible exception of perhaps a picnic basket. I will almost certainly invest in one when I get home, since they may be a little difficult to fit into a suitcase.
After a little shopping, we went to a restaurant in the bazaar for lunch, a first for us, surprisingly. It’s tucked away, inside the bazaar, in a little back section, up a flight of stairs and down a short hallway. The inside is decorated in very traditional style. There is a giant mosaic of tiny mirrors that covers the ceiling, and there are no tables, just raised wooden frames with cushions on top. You sit on them, and it’s like you’re eating on the floor—the same as we always do—except high off the ground, and leaning against cushions. The food was absolutely delicious, which surprised me, since it seemed very much like a tourist destination. Indeed, while we were there, we spotted several not-so-tan folk speaking in German, or French, or Italian. Even so, there were also plenty of natives. Each doorway was shaped like an arch, and the servers were dressed in very traditional clothing—super baggy pants, knee-length button down, little vest, pointy shoes, and a little hat on top. I loved everything about it—the food, the atmosphere, the decorations, the fact that it was on an upper level of the market, and the way the food was brought out and cleared away. I am surprised we’d never been there, and I really want to go back one more time before we leave.
Speaking of restaurants, there’s another one I really want to try. It’s in a hotel called Hotel Aseman, or Sky Hotel. It’s aptly named, as it’s a pretty tall building. Situated at the very top is a round floor, with lots of shining lights. I am told that this is a restaurant, and that it rotates, hence the roundness. I don’t know how true that is, but it’s definitely a luxury hotel, and I think it would be fun to eat dinner so high up off the ground, despite my almost-paralyzing fear of heights. I think the best time to go would be right before it gets dark, so that you can see the city in daylight and all lit up during the course of the same meal.
I’m not so sure I’ll be able to fit everything I’ve already gotten into my suitcases—there will definitely be spillover. Even though I haven’t yet gotten around to doing much decorating in the condo (a year later), the home-y things I’ve purchased here will definitely make it feel more lived-in and more like it is actually mine. Tomorrow, my mission is to find a traditional wedding tapestry—a giant square of hand-weaved silk fabric, with tons of intricate beadwork, also done by hand. Even though such things are almost prohibitively costly here, nearly every bride has one. I’m also hoping to find—at the very least—a pretty frame for a mirror, and a fancy little cup for honey, for my sofreh aghd. I know I reject most “traditional” parts of weddings, but I am perfectly okay with continuing the harmless and sweet parts, especially when they come from such a rich place in history.
My dad just walked into the room with a giant cone of sugar—a kalleh ghand, for the wedding. He seemed awfully proud of himself. I love that he actually seems to be excited about the wedding. I think that he likes the fact that, although I am eager to distance myself from most Western traditions, I definitely want to incorporate my culture—and Jordan’s culture—into the ceremony. In addition to the sugar, we also bought some rock candy, some plain and some made with saffron, for the reception. And that was my dad’s idea, even. I remember telling Jordan I couldn’t fathom a circumstance in which my dad would ever be happy for my eventual marriage. I just couldn’t picture him being anything but sad or angry. And he really surprised me. I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.
The election season is in full swing here. Unlike the US, where campaigning happens for 2 years before the presidential election, laws here mandate that campaigns are highly restricted—only a month or two before the election may they begin distributing posters and pamphlets. There will be a series of 6 presidential debates—which is totally unprecedented—and they will occur on 6 consecutive nights, 3 of which are already over. And the election is only a week away. It’s very exciting to see all the young people so electrified for the election. My dad always says that if change is ever going to happen, it will be at the hands of the youth and the women. I think he’s definitely right. If the incumbent gets ousted in this election, it is because he is appealing to the young people and the women. Every night, I see college-aged kids handing out scraps of green fabric, painting giant green checkmarks on the back windows of cars, distributing campaign literature, wearing the flag around their shoulders, and yelling and honking and being excited about the possibility of change. Even the tiniest possibility. It feels like home, 7-ish months ago. Seven months already. Wow. I hope I have something to celebrate in a week, as well.
Today, we are going to a restaurant on the outskirts of town. Their food is pretty good, and we have a tradition of going there at least once every time we come here. And we have never been there with just a small group of people—without fail, my whole family goes every single time. And there are tons of us, and we are very noisy when we’re all together like that. And I actually am being rushed to get around so we can go soon. I’ve been writing for awhile, apparently.
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| 01 June 2009 – 4:35AM (CST) & 2:05PM in Iran
Here I am. We have officially been here for a week. I had hoped to blog daily, but that’s not particularly easy to do here. I do have about a million thoughts bouncing around in my head. Chronologically, though:
The flights here went pretty smoothly. The timing was better this year than it has ever been before. We had no layovers, and usually just enough time between flights to get to our gate, hang out for a few minutes, and then board again. And for the first time ever, I slept through nearly everything. On the transatlantic flight (8 hours), there were so many movies I wanted to watch, and I didn’t even make it through any. I slept, even though take-offs were very difficult for me—for whatever reason those are the scariest parts, and I continue to be terrified of flying in general.
When our first plane took off from KC, I could still see Jordan in the airport, sitting by a window, waiting to watch us leave. It broke my heart, and I stared at him as if my life depended on it. It was so comforting to see his oh-so-familiar shape in that window, but as we took off—my first plane ride in 3 years—I broke down. I cried and shook and hyperventilated, partly from fear and partly from leaving him. Although we’ve been apart before--for even longer than this—we’ve never been so far apart. It has never seemed so impossible. I cried even more when we left the states, knowing that I would not be able to text or call him whenever I felt like it.
And then the longest part of the trip: a 4-ish hour drive from Tehran to Esfahan. At about one o’clock on Sunday morning. Absolutely miserable. By this point, I hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days—not since Chipotle with Jordan on Friday afternoon. It’s always that difficult, though. I’m a terrible traveler.
When I saw my cousins for the first time, I cried again. How did these little boys suddenly turn into little men? With facial hair, even? And attitudes and personalities and all kinds of teenage sass? It’s pretty hard for me, because I remember being able to hold all my first cousins once removed on my lap. Each of the three of them. The youngest…we first met him when he was a teeny tiny baby, just starting to teethe. I used to hold him on my lap and let him gnaw and suck on my little finger to soothe his sore little gums. I remember his baby smell—breastmilk, and powder, and clean. And now he’s ten! And when I tell him he’s still my baby, he tells me no, he’s all grown up now, and he’s too big for my lap anymore. And his brother, who was always my best little buddy, is hanging out with older boys, playing sports, running around and being a teenager. And he’s speaking such amazing English! I can’t even believe it. He’s even taller than me. And that little baby girl I saw growing in my cousin’s tummy is suddenly in the midst of the terrible twos, in all their glory. I just can’t believe it all. It has been only three years, but there are so many changes. It doesn’t seem possible.
In an interesting turn of events, my dad suggested that I even tell my whole family about Jordan. And they all already love him. They begged to see photos, and always ask me “Do you love him? A lot?” They tell me how pretty he is. Trust me, folks, I certainly don’t need to be told about that. Those blue eyes and dimples will entrance anyone. I have been congratulated about a million times, and it feels amazing to finally be open about it. So that means we also get to be open about shopping for the wedding, which is so thrilling. Unfortunately, however, the wedding-industrial complex is as alive here as it is in the states, so that kind of sucks.
Even with all the changes around here, it’s still so familiar to be around my family, with all its noisy drama and zillions of people and always something to do. We’ve been to the nearby park about a million times, but it’s hard to enjoy it as much as I used to. The river here—the reason people go to the parks, what the parks are all built around—is completely dry. You can walk across the dusty riverbed. People play soccer in it. The iconic bridge in Esfahan—33 Bridge, Si-Oh-Se Pol—has no water rushing through it. The photos I’ve taken look so wrong. The river is such a central part of this town, and of the whole country, that everything just feels off. So much of this trip feels unreal.
Speaking of photos, I have taken so many. My brand new camera is standing up incredibly well to some challenging situations—night scenes, action shots, shots taken from a moving vehicle, etc. It starts up so quickly and focuses to take photos just as quickly. It’s so important to me that I get photos of all the things that matter to me. I want Jordan to feel like he is here with us, so I’m even taking photos of our street, of the random pharmacies I pass, of street signs and graffiti, and of the political action going on. I hope to put together a really nice album when I get home. These are things I never want to forget. This is my life, my family, my home. Despite all the idiots in charge of this country, and the patriarchy, I am so in love with this place and these people.
So. Current events. The election is coming up on June 12. I can vote in it if I want, since I’m a citizen, but I haven’t decided if I will yet. It’s a little scary. There was a bombing and a shooting in southern Iran, and a homemade bomb was snuggled onto a domestic flight from the same region. There’s all kind of unrest because of the election. But to be honest, it all feels like the election we just had in the states. All of the young people are wearing green scarves and scraps of fabric tied around their wrists and putting up posters and campaigning for change, all for a particular candidate. Everyone is itching for change, and I may be naïve, but I really think it might happen this time. We’ll see. I just want to see good things happen for my home and my family, and all the people here.
Yesterday, I got onto facebook, and nearly every one of my friends had a status referencing the assassination of Dr. George Tiller in Wichita. I am appalled and terrified. I read the news and felt sick to my stomach. Some sociopath gunned down a local hero at church, even. And as much as the news will spin this as an isolated whackjob, brace yourselves because this is the face of the Republican party. Domestic terrorism is on the rise, and it’s a scary time for progressive-thinking or even moderate folks, even in the good old US of A. I wish I had access to the whole internet at the moment, but I can’t even read much analysis of the situation—most of my favorite blogs are blocked here (thank goodness for Kansas Jackass).
No matter where I am right now, I am scared. Even though change is coming, it will come at a high cost. Obama is doing so many good things, and hopefully good things will start happening here, too, but in the meantime, during the transition, people will be violent and scared, and they will lash out because so many talking heads are telling them to do so. If I was in the states right now, I’d want to be here for the election, and now that I’m here, I don’t want to miss out on what’s happening in the states. It’s hard for me.
I have two weeks left here, and I know they’re going to fly by. It all seems too short. There’s not enough time. Previous years, I’ve felt like time is dragging, and that there’s never anything to do, but I feel like I’ve grown up since then. I really appreciate everything going on around me so much more than I ever have before. Someday, I hope to be able to come here every single summer, or maybe even sometimes for the new year celebrations. But this particular trip is the shortest we’ve ever had. Three weeks is just not long enough. I cannot make up for three years worth of lost time in just three weeks. I just have to try, I suppose.
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