My uncle Ben (yes, just like the rice) lived in Sonoma for part of his life. He had a little house on the farmland with a barn, a horse, and a dog. When I was eight-years-old, I had my birthday party at his place and I remember asking his wife (my aunt) Katya how early they get up in the morning to feed all the animals.

“We rise with the rooster,” she told me. I never forgot that answer because I thought it was so cool that they didn’t set alarm clocks; there wasn’t a set time to get out of bed. It was just whenever the rooster felt like waking up was when they’d get up. Later, I learned that the rooster, like clockwork, would cock-a-doodle-doo every morning at the break of dawn. In Sonoma, that usually meant around 5 or 6 in the morning.

Which is precisely what time I woke up my first morning in Shiraz, to the ear-piercingly loud “cock-a-doodle-doo” call of a rooster. It sounded like it was in the room, it was so resonant. I woke up and stepped out onto the balcony to find the lil bastard and, breathing in the Shiraz air, I noticed it wasn’t as polluted as in Tehran. In fact, the air smelled slightly sweet. Or it might have been the aroma of the sweet breakfast spread that was awaiting me.

Yeah, I awakened to quite the feast…

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Neda and Solmaz, my Shirazi sisters, prepared the breakfeast because they’re the sweetest girls in all of existence.

Afterwards, Hamid agha arranged for the three of us girls to head to the traditional bazaar by getting a family friend — Moshtabah — to be our driver and bodyguard. He was super nice, protective, considerate, and accommodating. Always there with cold bottled water, gum, food (he went to the ice scream store TWICE in one day for me) and helped us navigate around town. The people I met in Shiraz were some of the kindest, most warm-hearted people I’ve met in my entire life.

Moshtabah

More pictures of Shiraz to come. For now, here’s a vid of us driving to Bazaar Vakil

Music.

It is as important to me in life as the breath that flows in and out of my body.

I’ve always loved all music, with specific regard to genres that exist outside mainstream culture, unified through fighting convention and being both politically and socially conscious. I grew up playing piano, playing in a band, performing at ballet recitals and underground hip hop shows, and continue to produce my own music and art. I’ve been blessed to have experienced the thrill and power of performing, creating, and sharing through this expressive art form of making music, both solo and as part of a group.

My aunt is also a musician. She is an accomplished opera singer, piano player, and vocalist for a choir, and it is only through the government choir that she can publicly perform. Though she longs to be a solo artist, this dream of hers is censored in Iran. More on my aunt, her music, and her famous Persian musician husband will come in a later post.

Through my interactions with Iranian women, I learned how exceptionally creative and interpersonal the women of Iran are and how heightened their awareness is of life, love, spirituality and pain. They have so much to say, to express, yet do not fully know the feeling of that freedom — the freedom to release sorrow through singing in front of a crowd as a solo artist. Or even screaming joyous melodies as a group on some dingy nightclub stage. They can’t wear a bikini at a fancy art gallery and have someone throw paint on them as a symbolic expression of post-feminist rage. They can’t smash a guitar and jump into a human sea to crowd surf. They can’t even sing on the street. But some do anyway, especially children:

Women are not freely granted certain rights because they were born and live in post-revolutionary Iran. And it is because they live in post-revolutionary Iran that they have so much to say, about politics, freedom, what it feels like to be a woman, to raise the social consciousness through making art. Instead, they are silenced. Women in the performing arts have a very limited sphere, and musical censorship is something they must always fight against.

Music by itself is a powerful force, and infusing music with even more power through lyrical expression has always been my mainstay, no matter where I drift with my musical tastes. The women in Iran who refuse to surrender their power of expression have found ways to contribute their voices to fight against those forces that imprison them from baring their souls through performance art.

I was fortunate enough to have met these women…

Picking up from where I left off in my last post, the night began with my father and I landing in Shiraz a little after midnight. My father’s friend Hamid agha picked us up with his driver, and immediately announced, “Who’s ready to go to a party?”

Without waiting for an answer, Hamid agha told the driver to step on it and we sped through the streets of Shiraz, through a maze of alleys with tall, crumbling concrete walls, until we reached a large gate. The wall next to the gate had graffiti all over it, and I was just a little concerned about what the hell kinda party this was, but I didn’t ask any questions.

Is this the work of Iranian graffiti artist A1one?

The gate slowly opened, and my dad’s friend called out to an Afghani worker to push the gate back enough for the car to fit, then told him to close it behind us. We drove through, and once inside, my jaw dropped at the sight of a lush, wide open garden of flowers, tables covered with food and drinks, and tall trees with lantern lights hanging from them, glowing across a gathering of women.

Before I even opened the car door to get out, a girl ran up to us, wearing no veil. That was the first thing I noticed. She had no headscarf, just a free-flowing auburn ponytail. Then I noticed her clothing — or lack thereof. She was wearing a skintight black bodysuit, black tights, and black heels. Her eyes were heavily lined with black and her lips were blood red. She was even more of a jaw-dropping sight than the beautiful garden.

“Have fun, we’ll back in a little bit,” said Hamid agha, and with that, the girl opened my side of the door, pulled me out of the car at the same time that she was introducing herself, and escorted me into the party. I turned to talk to my dad, but he was already gone with Hamid and the driver.

I was dizzy with all the excitement and energy, the introductions to all the women, the music, the offerings of food and drinks, girls taking pictures, asking me about America, the mothers pulling off my veil and manteau  — it was all overwhelming and awesome at the same time. I felt totally dazed the whole night.

Two of the best moments of my entire trip also happened this night. One such moment was meeting Solmaz and Neda, who I now think of as my lifelong sisters. More on those angels in a later post. And the other was seeing a female daf player.

After all the introductions had been made and everyone settled down a little, the girl that had pulled me out of the car took out a daf — a huge frame drum, native to ancient Persia — and began to play. I had never seen a woman play a daf before and it took my breath away. I had not anticipated being at a party of this kind at one in the morning in Iran, let alone seeing a woman perform music solo. She played with such power and sang with such emotion, it brought tears to my eyes. Here is a little video of that moment:

Secret garden music

Glowing Shirazi

I wanted to bring her back to America with me — all of them, really — to start a band together. I asked her before she drove home if she would ever come to California. She smiled, one of the many sad smiles I’d grow accustomed to see, and said, “God willing.”

Driving home

Insha’Allah.

I woke up the next morning startled that I wasn’t on a plane. It was my first morning waking up in Iran and I had my first of many butterbread Sangak and feta cheese breakfasts with sour cherry jam. Delicioso! Or xošmazze — which is not the easiest word to pronounce, but it means “delicious” in Farsi. Sangak is a whole wheat sourdough flatbread, considered to be Iran’s national bread, that is traditionally baked on a bed of hot stones in an oven. My pops and I took a trip to Tajrish bazaar one day and got ourselves some freshly made Sangak. Here’s a short video I took that morning:

In addition to my freshly made breakfast, I had piping hot cups of Peet’s coffee, prepared in a French press that I had brought with me. One word about coffee in Iran: Nescafe. That’s all they drink is instant coffee. Coming from San Francisco, I’m spoiled of course by high end artisanal roasters — namely, Blue Bottle and Philz —  but my coffee snobbery was well-appreciated in Iran. My aunt’s guests and my cousins loved the fresh-brewed coffee I made for them, and for many it was the first time they’ve ever had anything other than Nescafe.

After I shook off that morning’s jetlag with my caffeine fix, we walked around Vanak Square for a while, but I didn’t have much time to explore Tehran town. My dad told me that afternoon to pack a bag — we were taking a late flight to go to Shiraz that same day.

The cab ride to Mehrabad airport was interesting, for lack of a better word. First of all, there was traffic up the yin-yang and everyone drives like a maniac. The lack of laws governing driving within the country is crazy; Iranian drivers ignore signs, cross lanes without warning, and generally have a devil-may-care attitude when it comes to traffic lights. Deaths caused by car accidents are cited as the primary cause of unnatural deaths in Iran. I asked the cab driver how in the world can he navigate daily in this craziness he put it this way: “There’s a musical language among drivers — everyone drives the same crazy way, so we understand each other’s crazy movements.” Of course, that’s my translation of what he said — in Farsi, it sounded so much more poetic. I’ll get to the translation problems in a later post. For now, here’s a clip from the cab ride:

Once we arrived at the airport, I had to go through a security checkpoint — in a separate ‘women only’ line. I didn’t have to remove my shoes or headscarf, they just gave me a pat down and let me keep my bottled water. All in all, it was pretty chill. However, it was here at Mehrabad airport that I first discovered the Persian public toilet problem:

Not cool.

I walked into the Mehrabad airport bathroom stall and saw the above. Not one person had informed me of this — that the toilet was going to be a freakin hole! I walked out of the bathroom and found my dad eating corn (they sell Mexican style grilled corn aka “elote” at airports in Iran) chilling near our gate. Me: “You didn’t tell me Iran has no regular toilets!” Dad: “What?” Me: “There’s no toilet seat, just a hole in the floor!” Dad: “Haha. Oh yeah, I thought you knew that. Want some corn?”

Needless to say, I developed strong thigh muscles from all the squatting I had to do to pee (and only pee) in public restrooms. Fortunately, every place I stayed in Iran had toilet farangis (foreign toilets), meaning I had the luxury of American style toilets too while in Iran. Thank God!

Time for take off was around 9 that evening. Our flight on Kish Airlines was delayed and we made it to the beautifully lit-up city of Shiraz a little after midnight…

Yo where you gonna be stayin at? That’s mostly what the inquiring minds of my friends and fam wanted to know when I told them I’m on a mission to bring peace to the Middle East.

Well, here ya go. A quick lil video of my aunt’s apartment in Vanak Square, where I stayed while I was in Tehran. I’d wake up to the sweet sounds of a street vendor’s voice magnified through his megaphone every morning…

My aunt’s kitten Khoshgel. Her name means “pretty” in Farsi and it’s nearly impossible to pronounce correctly so I just called her Simba

It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone. Or to see cars parked on the sidewalk in Tehran.

View from the freeway overpass in Vanak Square.

The “no touching between man and woman” rumor dispelled right before my eyes.

My flight to Iran was arriving early, scheduled to land at Imam Khomeini International Airport at 1:30 in the morning, and I was completely disoriented on Tehran time. After three airports and three chaotic last-minute changes in travel plans, I was exhausted.  Zari, the older women sitting next to me on the flight, was full of energy however, and couldn’t contain her excitement of being able to see the children she had left behind five years ago in Iran. Noticing that I was the only other woman sitting in business class and that I — like her — was traveling alone, she had decided to change her seat and sit in in the empty one next to me. Talk about biting the head off a cricket. She chatted me up nonstop, giving me her life story and the Iranian lowdown for half the flight. During our (mainly one-sided) conversation, I stayed as awake and attentive as I could and she appreciated this. So much, in fact, that she decided right then and there that she liked me enough to consider me like one of her own daughters. Zari gave me her number and her home address, written in both Farsi and English, and told me to call her if I couldn’t find my father at the airport. Persians are pretty loving that way. True to form (Persian culture also involves an elaborate system of ceremonial courteousness known as tarof), Zari also offered her small apartment in Tehran to me in case I ended up alone and stranded in Iran. I smiled and thanked her, though her graciousness did little to reassure me. I sent my dad a quick telepathic message reminding him to pick me up from the airport, forced myself to try and relax, and ended up passing out.

I remember waking up abruptly to the stewardess on the intercom saying the usual: put seats back and tray tables in the upright and locked position. Finally, we’re landing! That was my first thought, because that has always been my first thought whenever I’m finally getting off a freakin plane. “And…” The stewardess paused, and so did my feeling of freedom. I don’t know if the stewardess delayed her next announcement for dramatic effect or because she forgot exactly how to say this: “Because Iran as an Islamic country, women are required by law to cover their heads with a head scarf before exiting the plane, so please be aware of the regulations and comply in the appropriate manner.”

That’s when I instantly tensed up, hit with the sudden realization:

Shit, I’m in Iran (this thought later inspired iminiran.com)

I became anxious, rummaging through my backpack trying to find my scarf and manteau (long tunic, a must-have in Muslim fashion) and feeling the stirrings of an oncoming panic attack.  I started wondering what if my dad really wasn’t at the aiport? I hadn’t been able to get a hold of him for the past two days. What if he didn’t get my updated flight information? What if my phone didn’t work? It probably wouldn’t, even though AT&T assured me iPhones with global plans work in Iran (that turned out to be bullshit) If my phone didn’t work, where would I go? I didn’t have any addresses, and women in Iran are not allowed to book hotel rooms. What would I do then? I could speak the language, but barely read or write it. It didn’t help matters that, to top off all the anxiety I was feeling already for my poorly thought out plans, Zari thought this the perfect time to tell me a little story about her uncle. Apparently, Zari’s uncle made the fatal error of taking out his U.S. Passport while going through customs and the Iranian officials hassled him about it, eventually confiscating his passport and arresting him for mouthing off and backtalking to airport security. She casually mentioned that he was released from jail shortly after (shortly meaning after 6 months time) and made it back to the U.S. I didn’t even ask how he made it back or any questions at all — that conversation needed to end, especially since we were landing and I had to make sure my hijab was put on properly.

I went to the bathroom and wrapped my black hijab tight as can be around my head. I looked so dead seriously Islamic, I felt unfamiliar to myself staring into the blotchy airport bathroom mirror. Fast forward to getting off the plane and arriving at customs.

I quickly surveyed the scene — three solemn-looking old immigration officers stamping passports in three different security lines. Surely they’d hassle my American born ass and confiscate my U.S. passport. I had a slight feeling I was being Black Sabbath style paranoid when I saw  a girl wearing a loose silk scarf, falling practically halfway down her head, with her bright bleached blond bangs exposed walking hurriedly past me to the fourth line. I trailed behind her. Next to this girl, I looked like a Muslim nun! The officer of immigration at this line — a younger guy who looked like Gael Garcia Bernal — asked Blondie in front of me maybe three questions, stamped her passport, and sent her off on her merry way. With a sense of assurance, I walked up to the window and said with a smile, “Salam.” The officer seemed shocked that I dared to smile or speak to him and, in reply, sternly asked to see my documents and passport, which I clumsily provided him. He gave me a suspicious once-over then began logging my information, or some kinda information, into a computer. I felt like saying, “What the hell!” so bad, especially since the other girl got to go through with no problemo whatsoever. Instead, however, I kept my lip zipped and answered all his questions, which he asked in Farsi:

“Farsi balaade?” (Do you understand Farsi?) Me: “Baaleh” (Yes)

“Farsi haarf mizanid?” (Do you speak Farsi?) Me: “Yeh Kam” (Just a little)

“Bareh chee omadee Iran?” (Why did you come to Iran?) Me: “Omadam famil beebeenam.” (I came to see family)

“Khojah meemoonee?” (Where are you staying?) Me: “Vanak” (a central neighborhood in the northern part of Tehran)

“Bah kee memoonee?” (Who are you staying with in Vanak?)

And this is where my deficiency in Farsi competency led to me insulting the officer when I replied:

“To cooneh amat” (In your aunt’s ass)

Yup, I basically told the guy I’m going to stay in his aunt’s ass — which he didn’t find very amusing to say the least.

Almost immediately after, out of the corner of my veil, I saw one of the stern-faced security guards from the other immigration line walking towards me. Did they record my unintentional insult on some kind of hidden microphone? Am I totally and utterly screwed right now? Did they find a Jesus bracelet or the bacon I smuggled in for my aunt in my luggage?

I smuggled bacon into Iran by wrapping the real pork bacon in between two packs of turkey bacon. It worked!

Thoughts of lashings and prison rape and unspeakable terrors filled my head as I got ready to be arrested and hauled off to Iranian prison, never to be seen or heard from again (the U.S. Department of State issues a warning on their site that they cannot protect U.S. citizens once they cross into Iranian border)

That’s when the security guard that was walking towards me stopped, distracted by an angry old man yelling about his passport being stolen. I glanced at the Persian version Gael Garcia Bernal in front of me. Was I scared shitless to see the look of horror on his face after I answered his question with a diss? Heck yeah! I stammered out a nervous”I’m sorry” in English, twice. I couldn’t for the life of me remember how to say it in Farsi, and when I remembered it was maazerat mikhaham, I was too scared to even try and say it. But after his shocked/infuriated expression softened (what felt like an eternity later), he simply corrected me: “You’re staying at your aunt’s house” (“Khooneh ammeh shomah memoonee”) Yeah, yeah that’s what I meant Sorry! I didn’t say a word, however. I just nodded, pleading “please don’t arrest me” with my eyes. He finally cracked somewhat of a smile, stamped me quickly and sent me on my way.

Hallelujah-Allah!

Note: Taking pictures in Iranian airports is illegal and punishable by either death or a large fine. Not sure which.

From that point forward, it was smooth sailing for the most part. Coming down the escalator, I looked to my left at a ginormous crowd of people behind a glass wall gathered around waiting for their loved ones to descend. I couldn’t stop staring at the faces — the first time I’ve ever seen solely all Iranians, everywhere — and noticed that a big group of Tehrani girls were giggling and pointing at me. They were gorgeous — fashionistas with beautifully painted faces, locks of silky hair falling from their silky veils and form-fitting designer tunics showing off their figures. And they were total making fun of me. One of them took her scarf and wrapped it around her head, tucking in any stray bangs, her smiling face taking on a serious, grim expression. She pointed at me again and they all looked back up at me. I might be wrong (though that hasn’t happened thus far in my life), but I think they were having a good laugh over my dorkishly conservative abide-by-Islam-dress-code style — dead giveaway that I was an American tourist. I turned around to make sure it was me (I tend to imagine everything is about me sometimes, behavior typical of a narcissist) and realized there was just a grandma and grandpa couple behind me on the escalator. That’s when I ate shit and tripped on the comb plate at the bottom of the escalator.

My all black errythang airport outfit for my arrival to Iran. It ain’t too bad, right?

Soon after, I spotted my dad with my cousin Homayoun and his new Turkish wifey, Banu. It was the first time I ever met my cousin, but it felt as if we’d known each other our whole lives. It was also the first of many nights I feared for my life in Tehran, as he drove us to his mom’s (my aunt’s) place, speeding like a thief in the night, swerving erratically across lanes, driving so fast and furious (shout out to Vin Diesel!) that he got a speeding ticket, and nearly crashed into the wall of the Tohid tunnel. And not one person in the car, me included, said a word about it. Probably because he was blasting Persian rap through his car’s custom 6-inch subs.

Alas, we made it to my aunt’s apartment a little after 4 in the morning safe and sound. I didn’t get arrested and my aunt had a blast hearing the story about how I thought I would because of my great big mouth.

My first night sleeping in Iran. I dreamt of my dead grandma in America.

The Middle East was always a place confined to my imagination. As a child, Aladdin and his magic carpet rides, exotic bazaars bursting with veiled Persian princess gypsies and fez-wearing genies were ancient mysteries only in my dreams.

The Iran that belonged to American me in adulthood was a terrifying theocracy, war-torn and so far removed from my cultural hemisphere with it’s religiopolitical regime, all realities fed to me by U.S. media, that I took what I knew through my Californian existence as truth. We all know the Iranian government oppresses it’s own people. But Do we truly have insight into what those oppressed people endure?

I soon learned most of what I thought was true was just the Iran of my imagination.

Here is the story of my journey, beginning by my lonesome in Germany…

Landed in Germany. So many places, so little time…

When in Frankfurt, ya gotta have a freakin Frankfurter

Me and the lady sitting next to me — Zari — were the only two females flying business class to Tehran

That’s what she said to me as she placed the chador over my head, wrapping me carefully in the printed fabric. I looked up at her before entering the mosque, Shah Chéragh glowing against the darkness of the night sky.

Sadness appeared all over her face, even as she willed herself to smile.