The bombs, the bombs...
The idea of this blog really came about when I told the story casually of having experience being bombed to some friends of mine in Canada. Truth is I don't consider it that big of a deal. Firstly by no means do I think that I have experienced what people in war torn areas around the world have experienced. And secondly, my brush with danger was sorted of isolated, and I never really gave it much thought because, well, everyone around me went thru the same things and it was just a part of living in Iran during the war years. Years later, telling the story to my friends, I could see how surreal this all sounded to them.
The war when is started devastated the lives of those living near the Iran/Iraq border. My birth city of Abadan pretty much was leveled to the ground. This was a city largely designed and modeled after european cities. It was home to the British when they had control of Iran oil fields.
The images of the dead and injured, the shelled out homes, the fear and horror, was something that filled the pages of the newspapers and was broadcast non stop on TV.
But to those of us living in Tehran, kilometers away from the border, the war was something far far away. The only tangible sense that anything was going on was, was the rationing of food, the coupons and food stamps the long lines, which really had nothing to do with the war and more with sanctions anyways.
That all changed my senior year in highschool. As we were getting ready to write our final exams, the night skies of Tehran suddenly changed and our ears were greeted by the sounds of sirens. The bombs had arrived...
Apparently the Iraqi planes had managed without re-fueling to reach Tehran, drop their cargo of bombs and return home. It was certainly a surprise. I can't even remember if this was something we were even prepared for, and by we, I mean the army. There were anti aircraft missile launchers, but they really were of no use , since the planes flew too high. But the sound of the missile, along with the drone of the sirens sent shivers down my spine.
The first time it happened I was literally paralyzed with fear. In all my life I had never ever experience fear like this. I am not sure why, I doubt that I was afraid of dying. I think it had more to do with becoming an orphan, of being the one that didn't die...
I clung to my parents like a little child shaking like a leaf, eyes closed just hoping for it all to end and when I hear the sirens again, signaling that it was safe I euphoric with happiness. We had survived.
Obviously the next day was spent, bomb proofing the house. All the windows had tape across to prevent the shattered glass. Dark curtains covered every window to prevent any visible light. The basement was rigged as a makeshift bomb shelter.
Word was that the planes would only attack at night, using the darkness for cover and flying high to evade the radars and missiles. So our days were spent as usual but the nights were something completely different.
The next time the attacks came, I heard the sirens and woke up. I ran to my parents room to wake them up and gather everyone to go the basement. I was frantic, and so scared. My Dad, ever the pragmatic, simply stated that the chance of the bomb hitting our house was a million to one and really not worth the effort to get out of bed, so why don't I just go back to sleep. WHAT?!!!! Go back to bed? We could be dead any minute and he wants me to go back to my room, alone? I think I started to cry... because I couldn't see how staying in bed was going to keep anyone safe. We HAD to go to the basement. So I pleaded and pleaded until I got everyone downstairs. The following nights, it became harder and harder to convince the sleepy heads that the threat was real. Pictures of the bombing had shown that the poor Iraqi pilots were so frightened of being shot down that they simply would drop their bombs at the first sign of approaching the city. In the outskirts, and sadly in areas of town were the most poor folks lived. But no where near my side of town with the cover of the mountains protecting us.
The fact is my Dad was right. There was hardly any chance of danger to us, but the fear for me was so real. The sounds of the sirens and missile so horrifying that I would wake up over and over again thru the night thinking I had heard sirens go off. And when they would sound for real, I would simply crawl into my parents bedroom, curl up in a ball at the foot of their bed until it was over.
Yep I was traumatized alright and with exams coming my parents decided that the best thing was to remove me from the city. School was over and I only had to show up to write my exams so we retreated along with my uncle and his family to our cabin the mountains a few hours outside of Tehran.
My Dad and uncle would drive me into the city on the days I had an exam. Wait for me to finish and then drive me back out. The nightmare was over...
Until this one day... I was due to write an exam and I came into town with my uncle Bijan. The plan was for me to go to school write my exam and then come home and wait for him to pick me up. That weekend was supposed to be a big day for the Islamic Republic, and Iraqi radios had announced that Saddam had big plans for that day. That he planned to deliver a might blow. The was panic and mayhem in the city with everyone trying to flee the impending doom.
So I wrote my exam and headed home. While I waited my cousin Azita stopped by. My cousin Azita is like my big sister. She and her brother grew up with me, lived in my home up until a year before when they moved out to place of their own. I had assumed somehow that they, like so many others in the city were leaving town at nights. I was so wrapped up in my own fear that I didn't know what was going on with her. I soon found out. For whatever reason her father refuse to leave town. So every night that I had been resting peacefully in bed, she was waking up to sirens. So she came by to see me. That when everything changed for me. See, my cousin wasn't just visiting to see how I was doing. She was there to say goodbye. So certain she was that she would not live to see me again. And certain that with the horror planned for that weekend and my stubborn uncle refusing to budge, that she would surely die. And the fear of what awaited her had her sobbing uncontrollably in amy arms. Suddenly I was no longer afraid. I mean it. Just like that something in me snapped. Something that said, Marjan, you need to keep it together because Azita is falling apart here and she needs you. She needs you to be strong and help. And I knew what I had to do. Quickly I wrote a hand written note to my parents. I told Azita not to worry because I would not leave her alone. I'd stay with her. And when my Amou Bijan came to pick me up I gave him the letter and said please understand and try and explain to my parents but I have to do this. Her tried to convince us to go with him, but Azita was not going anywhere without her Dad and I was not leaving without Azita. So Amou Bijan reluctantly left, because the road would be closing down and his own family was awaiting him. He made me promise that I was going to be careful...
By now Azita had calmed down somewhat, knowing that I was really going to be there with her. But now I was in full planning mode. There was no way we were going to spend the night in town. We called Azita's Dad and explained what had happened. I told him you may want to risk your own life but I doubt you want to risk mine, so figure out something and get us out fo town. If something happens to me you'll have to answer to my parents. It worked. The guilt trip...
We got a call that he had a car to come and pick us up. By the time we got on the road the skies were darkening. The roads leading out of town were so packed with cars it was like a parking lot. We were headed to Karaj which is only an hour or so away but it took us hours to get there. The fact was we were no more safe on the road than we were if we stayed home. But at least it felt like we were heading to safety. I remember it was almost midnight when we got to our destination. Hungry but relieved. Grateful that there were no bombing while we were on the road. Glad that we had made. Next morning listening to the news it became apparent that the whole thing was a hoax on Saddam's part. There was no shock and awe attack. It was just a scare tactic.
I heard later that when Bijan arrive at my parents cabin and delivered the news, my Mom collapsed into tears. She was inconsolable all night. I am sorry I put her thru that, but truthfully I would have done it again, because like I said, it was the right thing to do. I re-united with my parents the next day. We ended up staying in the city after that. Azita sleeping over in my room. And although I would still wake up to the sound of the siren, and funny enough I have never again been a heavy sleeper, but now I would stay in bed, wide awake, until the green siren adn then roll over and go back to sleep. Somehow that night of separation from my parents taught me that what is meant to happen will happen and you just have to faith that everything will be ok...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, October 19, 2006
My early years were spent in a catholic school. The effect of that upbringing has stayed with me even now in my adult life for better or worse. I have to say unlike most stories of Catholic girls schools, mine was blissfully empty of any nasty memories. In fact those were some of the best years in my life. The innocence and wide eyed wonder that I looked at the world then, has been replaced with a more cynical view of the world we live in today. Well maybe not. I still see the world thru rose coloured glasses.
I suppose I was indoctrinated with certainly principles, ones which I still stand by today, during my time at Sacred Heart. These principles included always looking for the good in anything and anyone. Believing that there is something in everyone worth fighting for. Believing that love can conquer all. Believing in extending a helping hand whenever you can. Believing that each and everyone us has the power to make a difference. Believing that before you find fault with someone to make sure that you are not the cause of the problem. Interesting effect of which is I have many many conversations in my head and outloud with the imaginary other person, whilst playing devils advocate. Yes I know it sounds and looks crazy for someone to talk to themselves, but I swear I'm my own brutally honest and hardest critic. No need to pay for a therapist when you can lay it on to yourself. And somehow this is how I can get myself to see things from the other persons perspective. Oh and I am incapable of lieing. To myself or anyone for that matter. You will always get the truth from me.
So how strong are these convictions of mine? I remember everyday actively planning a good deed and not feeling like my day was complete until I had my deed done. Be it helping someone cross the street, sharing my snacks with a friend, etc
As a child I remember spending an entire summer trying to tame a rabid doberman owned by a relative. This dog was huge, bigger than me and with an insanity in his eyes. He was chained to a tree, because if let loose he would rip the first person he came across to shreds.
But I believed in him. I thought that this was a dog that had not been loved and all I needed to do was show it some affection, showed it I cared and I could reverse it's mental malady. I kid you not, I would spend hours, HOURS, talking to this dog, cooing to it, singing to it, whatever I thought would show my affection towards it. At the beginning it would howl and bark incessantly, growl and show it's teeth, but I prevailed and held strong. After many weeks, it stopped growling when I would show up. I saw this as a validation that my instincts were right. I kept at it, even though everyone now thought I was the crazy one and not the dog!!
Eventually it actually lay on the ground while I talked to it. So one day, gathering up all my courage and thinking to myself that finally love had broken past the barriers that had held this dog trapped in a state of insanity, I decided to approach him and touch him.
He was on the ground, lying there like always. I kept talking in my sing songy voice and slowly stepping towards him. I will never forget the way he looked at me with those eyes. Because in an instant he went from almost docile pose to lunging rabidly at me. I stepped back quickly in a panic, tripped and fell to the ground. He closed his enormous mouth with even more enormous teeth a mere 6 inches away from my neck.
I slowly crawled away and then stood up and broke into a run. My heart was beating so fast, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. That was the last time I ventured near my doggy friend.
And to this day I still terrified to death of big dogs. So much for love conquers all.
So you think I would have learnt my lesson. But noooo. I was not about to quit. That another trait I have. I refuse to give up on someone. So in my life I have continued along that path. And I have met many people, some that others may have moved away from, seen as not a worthwhile relationship etc, But I always looked for that something in them, that something that was worth keeping. I figured it's not always about what you can get from the other person, sometimes it's about what they can get from you. I also believe that anyone that crosses paths with has a part in your life and ultimate destiny. They are there for a reason. So hold on to them, because they are worth knowing. Okay I have never met a mass murderer, and I suppose that would have to the exception to this thought process, but you get my gist.
Anyways nothing makes me happier that being surrounded by the people I know, people who in one way or another have helped shape who I am today. To this end I have tried my best to keep in touch with everyone, in spite of the fact that I have moved around so much. Thanks to the internet I have been able to connect with friends from my days in Japan, with old friends from my school in Iran, and university classmates.
And last week I made contact with a few dear friends I had lost touch with for a long time. It was one of the few instances that I can say I deliberately cut myself off from someone. It's a long story, but sometimes you have to give people their space, to heal and move on. Sometimes the choices we make in life have the unfortunate consequence of hurting those around us, regardless of our intentions. No matter how much you want to fix things, you can't unless they want you to fix it. And so with a heavy heart I closed a chapter of my life thinking that this was the end.
Well I made contact, I decided what the heck. The worst that can happen is I'll get rejected. It never matters to me to be the one to take the first step. I'm never that proud to let that get in the way of resolving a problem. To my utter surprise I got a response back and so after all these years I have the priveledge of having my friends back. Life is good. Yes indeed. And I'm glad I stuck to my principles. Thank you Sister Watanabe. For being my role model all these years...
The dog thing, well I think I may need some serious therapy for that, you just can't win 'em all!!
I suppose I was indoctrinated with certainly principles, ones which I still stand by today, during my time at Sacred Heart. These principles included always looking for the good in anything and anyone. Believing that there is something in everyone worth fighting for. Believing that love can conquer all. Believing in extending a helping hand whenever you can. Believing that each and everyone us has the power to make a difference. Believing that before you find fault with someone to make sure that you are not the cause of the problem. Interesting effect of which is I have many many conversations in my head and outloud with the imaginary other person, whilst playing devils advocate. Yes I know it sounds and looks crazy for someone to talk to themselves, but I swear I'm my own brutally honest and hardest critic. No need to pay for a therapist when you can lay it on to yourself. And somehow this is how I can get myself to see things from the other persons perspective. Oh and I am incapable of lieing. To myself or anyone for that matter. You will always get the truth from me.
So how strong are these convictions of mine? I remember everyday actively planning a good deed and not feeling like my day was complete until I had my deed done. Be it helping someone cross the street, sharing my snacks with a friend, etc
As a child I remember spending an entire summer trying to tame a rabid doberman owned by a relative. This dog was huge, bigger than me and with an insanity in his eyes. He was chained to a tree, because if let loose he would rip the first person he came across to shreds.
But I believed in him. I thought that this was a dog that had not been loved and all I needed to do was show it some affection, showed it I cared and I could reverse it's mental malady. I kid you not, I would spend hours, HOURS, talking to this dog, cooing to it, singing to it, whatever I thought would show my affection towards it. At the beginning it would howl and bark incessantly, growl and show it's teeth, but I prevailed and held strong. After many weeks, it stopped growling when I would show up. I saw this as a validation that my instincts were right. I kept at it, even though everyone now thought I was the crazy one and not the dog!!
Eventually it actually lay on the ground while I talked to it. So one day, gathering up all my courage and thinking to myself that finally love had broken past the barriers that had held this dog trapped in a state of insanity, I decided to approach him and touch him.
He was on the ground, lying there like always. I kept talking in my sing songy voice and slowly stepping towards him. I will never forget the way he looked at me with those eyes. Because in an instant he went from almost docile pose to lunging rabidly at me. I stepped back quickly in a panic, tripped and fell to the ground. He closed his enormous mouth with even more enormous teeth a mere 6 inches away from my neck.
I slowly crawled away and then stood up and broke into a run. My heart was beating so fast, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. That was the last time I ventured near my doggy friend.
And to this day I still terrified to death of big dogs. So much for love conquers all.
So you think I would have learnt my lesson. But noooo. I was not about to quit. That another trait I have. I refuse to give up on someone. So in my life I have continued along that path. And I have met many people, some that others may have moved away from, seen as not a worthwhile relationship etc, But I always looked for that something in them, that something that was worth keeping. I figured it's not always about what you can get from the other person, sometimes it's about what they can get from you. I also believe that anyone that crosses paths with has a part in your life and ultimate destiny. They are there for a reason. So hold on to them, because they are worth knowing. Okay I have never met a mass murderer, and I suppose that would have to the exception to this thought process, but you get my gist.
Anyways nothing makes me happier that being surrounded by the people I know, people who in one way or another have helped shape who I am today. To this end I have tried my best to keep in touch with everyone, in spite of the fact that I have moved around so much. Thanks to the internet I have been able to connect with friends from my days in Japan, with old friends from my school in Iran, and university classmates.
And last week I made contact with a few dear friends I had lost touch with for a long time. It was one of the few instances that I can say I deliberately cut myself off from someone. It's a long story, but sometimes you have to give people their space, to heal and move on. Sometimes the choices we make in life have the unfortunate consequence of hurting those around us, regardless of our intentions. No matter how much you want to fix things, you can't unless they want you to fix it. And so with a heavy heart I closed a chapter of my life thinking that this was the end.
Well I made contact, I decided what the heck. The worst that can happen is I'll get rejected. It never matters to me to be the one to take the first step. I'm never that proud to let that get in the way of resolving a problem. To my utter surprise I got a response back and so after all these years I have the priveledge of having my friends back. Life is good. Yes indeed. And I'm glad I stuck to my principles. Thank you Sister Watanabe. For being my role model all these years...
The dog thing, well I think I may need some serious therapy for that, you just can't win 'em all!!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Fadak highschool. My first real exposure to what life was going to be like post revolution. Until then I had been sheilded from what was going on outside. My international school, run by american principals (Mr. Irvine) was open up to a year before. I finished grade 7 there. By grade 8, we had been sorted into boys and girls, and sent to separate transitional schools meant to get us ready for persian public schools. It wasn't much of a transition given we still did alot of lessons in english. My persian certainly did not improve much. I was still pretty illiterate. The only nice thing was that I was still with familiar faces. English speaking students from Community School, Iranzamin, Rostam Abadian and the TAS were all sent to the transitional school. So in that final year I met students from the other schools I would probably have not met. The Community kids were the most like my own classmates. Rostam abadian was a british school, so they were totally different. And TAS, the Tehran American School had a reputation of slackers and bums. At the end of 8th year according to the iranian school system, a national examination was conducted. The results of this exam would decide what kind of high school you could go to. I was petrified, because this exam was going to be all in persian, and I still sucked at persian. When I finally got my results I was relieved to find out that I made high enough marks to get into a science/technology highschool. The smart kids high school by persian standards. God forbid you didn't get marks high enough for that. You were a total loser then. In iran, very few preofessions are deemed worthy and respectable. Being a doctor or an engineer. I suppose law as well, but after the revolution that was a joke. I never ever understood that narrow-mindedness of iranians. How it never seemed natural to think of nurturing a child for anything other than being a doctor or engineer.
Anyways once we had our results, next came the selection of the high school. As we would be entering the public school system, we could only register at schools in our neighbourhood. That meant we could no longer stay in the same school as all outr classmates. I was fortunate to have 5 of my friends live near enough to me to go to the same highschool. Kathy, Katy, Afrooz, Mary and Irene. Mary and Irene had joined Iranzamin in our final year. Both their father's were political activist against the Shah, and had returned to Iran from the US once the Shah had left. They were the only students we had in iranzamin that wore a veil. That was completely unheard of. And for a long time I think many viewed them with suspicion. Eventually we came to be friends and learned that basically they were just like any other teenage american kid, perhaps more so than most of us, since they had lived in the US most of their lives. However they were now here because of their Dads. I will not get into who their father's were or what their role was in the government of iran post revolution. Let bygones be bygones.
Back to the story. So I started highschool, with a handful of my friends. I remember the first day of school, arriving there with my Mom. The uniform was not as big of a deal. We had the whole year in transitional school to get used to wearing the long manteau and the veil. But the biggest fear was being around so many strangers. There were rumours and stories of parents being arrested, of guards showing up at peoples home, based on reports gleaned from converstaions at schools, work etc. Everyone was a potential spy. You could trust no one. Especially strangers. No one knew any longer who was a secret revolutionist, and who was not. So my first day, I was coached over and over by my Mom, to watch what I said, to keep quiet, to not draw attention to myself and keep to myself. Same went for my other friends.
There were 4 grade 9 classes and we all went to check to see which class we had fallen into. My luck, none of my friends were in my class. I figured I was going to be very lonely. I don't think there were more that 20-25 kids in my class. I was half expecting stepping into the classroom and being faced with a bunch religious zealots. To my surprise the girls seemed normal. except for the fact that we were all in uniform. They were chatting away, guess many of them knew each other from the neighbourhood or middle school. Anyways I soon relaxed, and figured my parents had got it all wrong. I was never one to be shy and I made friends easily.
The first indication my classmates had that I was a bit different from them came during english class. The teacher asked a question and I raised my hand to answer, and I answered in my perfect american accent. All of a sudden all heads turned my way. The teacher then asked me to read a passage. I breezed right thru that. Okay so now it was clear I spoke english. At recess girls wanted to know if I had just come from america, what school I went to etc. One girl that approached me, her name was Azalea turned out to be an english speaker like myself. We were so happy to know we had found each other. Somehow the fact that we came from similar backgrounds, raised outside of iran meant we could trust each other. we were safe.
The other effect of my command of the english language being known, was that I was allowed to skip the class. So me and Leah (short for Azalea) had a break, which was great. We'd walk the grounds, gossip, peek into other classrooms and have a ball while everyone else in school was in class. This exemption from english class was to continue thru out my highschool years.
I remember a few of my teacher that first year. One was our physics teacher. A wonderful woman and an excellent teacher. Universities were closed at this time due to the cultural revolution going on. University were deemed hotbeds of radical thought, and anti islam, decadent, remains of the old regime. So it had to be purged and reorganized. As a result universities were shut down for 3 years. So our physics teacher that was completing a Electrical Eng, degree decided to teach until she could return back to university. In a weird coicidence, I found out years later that she went to the same university that I got accepted to. Anyways in those days there was another kind of purging going on as well. All these radical groups that had banded together along with the islamist groups to overthrow the Shah, were one by one being labelled as enemy of the nation by the new islamic government. The first government post revolution was comprised of the intellectual of iran, the liberals, the democrats, the nationalist, and they fucked things up so badly that no one noticed how smoothly the islamist took over the government positions one by one. All these intellectuals revered Khomeini, saw him as a spiritual guide, meanwhile all he wanted was absolute power. So the idiots lost control to the islamist, and then found themselves being targeted as anti iran and anti-islam. So everyday in newspapers you'd read about another group of rebels that had been captured. I remember one day returning from school and seeing this house in our neighbourhood riddled with bullets. Turned out rebels were holed inside and there had been a bloody gun battle to capture them. This all happening while I was at school!!!
Anyways I digress. You get my drift, that was the atmosphere those days. So I guess we shouldn't have been surprised when our teacher did not return for the 3rd semester. No one would tell us were she was. Meanwhile we had no teacher. Fianlly after weeks they brought in a substitute. An absolute door knob. This womans was so dumb. She had no clue about physics. We missed out old teacher terribly specially knowing finals were coming and we were not getting any help from the dumb newbie. Everyone was angry. By now there had been rumours going around that our old teacher had been arrested. Students in the class loudly commented that it was insane that she had been arrested. She wore a chador even though it was not required. She was religious, she was a fantastic teacher. There must be some mistake. Why would they arrest her. And now because of some stupid mistake we were stuck with an incompetent replacement. this went on, we tried to complain to have the teacher replaced, but the principal would not hear of it. Finally I had enough. I said look we have a right to a proper education. We had a good teacher, we deserve either her or someone as good as her. We should not be accepting substandard education. And the school cannot push us around like this. We will boycott the class until they find us a new replacement. We are going on strike. And just like that, I rallied the class and the next day instead of going to class we all stood outside. The teacher for our first period showed up. Asked us to come to class and we told her no. Not until something is done about our physics class. We are on strike. The vice princicpal came, asked us to go back to class, No, we are on strike. Then the principal came, she threatened to get our parents, she threaten to have each and everyone of us kicked out of school. We said great, call our parents, they will agree with us. We are not going back to class until we get a new teacher.
In the end the threats worked, and they said if we agreed to go back to class they would not let it effect our records. One by one the students went back in. I ended up being the only one that stood out. It was just a matter of principle. I think in a weird way the principal saw that it was something I just had to do, so they let me be. We ended up with a new teacher, so I guess it all worked out in the end.
The Physics teacher that was imprisoned, I heard was held for quite some time. She was released but apparently had lost all her spark and enthusiasm. She also was not allowed back into university to finish her degree. I have no idea what happened to her after that. But I hope that she is okay. I've never forgotten her.
Anyways once we had our results, next came the selection of the high school. As we would be entering the public school system, we could only register at schools in our neighbourhood. That meant we could no longer stay in the same school as all outr classmates. I was fortunate to have 5 of my friends live near enough to me to go to the same highschool. Kathy, Katy, Afrooz, Mary and Irene. Mary and Irene had joined Iranzamin in our final year. Both their father's were political activist against the Shah, and had returned to Iran from the US once the Shah had left. They were the only students we had in iranzamin that wore a veil. That was completely unheard of. And for a long time I think many viewed them with suspicion. Eventually we came to be friends and learned that basically they were just like any other teenage american kid, perhaps more so than most of us, since they had lived in the US most of their lives. However they were now here because of their Dads. I will not get into who their father's were or what their role was in the government of iran post revolution. Let bygones be bygones.
Back to the story. So I started highschool, with a handful of my friends. I remember the first day of school, arriving there with my Mom. The uniform was not as big of a deal. We had the whole year in transitional school to get used to wearing the long manteau and the veil. But the biggest fear was being around so many strangers. There were rumours and stories of parents being arrested, of guards showing up at peoples home, based on reports gleaned from converstaions at schools, work etc. Everyone was a potential spy. You could trust no one. Especially strangers. No one knew any longer who was a secret revolutionist, and who was not. So my first day, I was coached over and over by my Mom, to watch what I said, to keep quiet, to not draw attention to myself and keep to myself. Same went for my other friends.
There were 4 grade 9 classes and we all went to check to see which class we had fallen into. My luck, none of my friends were in my class. I figured I was going to be very lonely. I don't think there were more that 20-25 kids in my class. I was half expecting stepping into the classroom and being faced with a bunch religious zealots. To my surprise the girls seemed normal. except for the fact that we were all in uniform. They were chatting away, guess many of them knew each other from the neighbourhood or middle school. Anyways I soon relaxed, and figured my parents had got it all wrong. I was never one to be shy and I made friends easily.
The first indication my classmates had that I was a bit different from them came during english class. The teacher asked a question and I raised my hand to answer, and I answered in my perfect american accent. All of a sudden all heads turned my way. The teacher then asked me to read a passage. I breezed right thru that. Okay so now it was clear I spoke english. At recess girls wanted to know if I had just come from america, what school I went to etc. One girl that approached me, her name was Azalea turned out to be an english speaker like myself. We were so happy to know we had found each other. Somehow the fact that we came from similar backgrounds, raised outside of iran meant we could trust each other. we were safe.
The other effect of my command of the english language being known, was that I was allowed to skip the class. So me and Leah (short for Azalea) had a break, which was great. We'd walk the grounds, gossip, peek into other classrooms and have a ball while everyone else in school was in class. This exemption from english class was to continue thru out my highschool years.
I remember a few of my teacher that first year. One was our physics teacher. A wonderful woman and an excellent teacher. Universities were closed at this time due to the cultural revolution going on. University were deemed hotbeds of radical thought, and anti islam, decadent, remains of the old regime. So it had to be purged and reorganized. As a result universities were shut down for 3 years. So our physics teacher that was completing a Electrical Eng, degree decided to teach until she could return back to university. In a weird coicidence, I found out years later that she went to the same university that I got accepted to. Anyways in those days there was another kind of purging going on as well. All these radical groups that had banded together along with the islamist groups to overthrow the Shah, were one by one being labelled as enemy of the nation by the new islamic government. The first government post revolution was comprised of the intellectual of iran, the liberals, the democrats, the nationalist, and they fucked things up so badly that no one noticed how smoothly the islamist took over the government positions one by one. All these intellectuals revered Khomeini, saw him as a spiritual guide, meanwhile all he wanted was absolute power. So the idiots lost control to the islamist, and then found themselves being targeted as anti iran and anti-islam. So everyday in newspapers you'd read about another group of rebels that had been captured. I remember one day returning from school and seeing this house in our neighbourhood riddled with bullets. Turned out rebels were holed inside and there had been a bloody gun battle to capture them. This all happening while I was at school!!!
Anyways I digress. You get my drift, that was the atmosphere those days. So I guess we shouldn't have been surprised when our teacher did not return for the 3rd semester. No one would tell us were she was. Meanwhile we had no teacher. Fianlly after weeks they brought in a substitute. An absolute door knob. This womans was so dumb. She had no clue about physics. We missed out old teacher terribly specially knowing finals were coming and we were not getting any help from the dumb newbie. Everyone was angry. By now there had been rumours going around that our old teacher had been arrested. Students in the class loudly commented that it was insane that she had been arrested. She wore a chador even though it was not required. She was religious, she was a fantastic teacher. There must be some mistake. Why would they arrest her. And now because of some stupid mistake we were stuck with an incompetent replacement. this went on, we tried to complain to have the teacher replaced, but the principal would not hear of it. Finally I had enough. I said look we have a right to a proper education. We had a good teacher, we deserve either her or someone as good as her. We should not be accepting substandard education. And the school cannot push us around like this. We will boycott the class until they find us a new replacement. We are going on strike. And just like that, I rallied the class and the next day instead of going to class we all stood outside. The teacher for our first period showed up. Asked us to come to class and we told her no. Not until something is done about our physics class. We are on strike. The vice princicpal came, asked us to go back to class, No, we are on strike. Then the principal came, she threatened to get our parents, she threaten to have each and everyone of us kicked out of school. We said great, call our parents, they will agree with us. We are not going back to class until we get a new teacher.
In the end the threats worked, and they said if we agreed to go back to class they would not let it effect our records. One by one the students went back in. I ended up being the only one that stood out. It was just a matter of principle. I think in a weird way the principal saw that it was something I just had to do, so they let me be. We ended up with a new teacher, so I guess it all worked out in the end.
The Physics teacher that was imprisoned, I heard was held for quite some time. She was released but apparently had lost all her spark and enthusiasm. She also was not allowed back into university to finish her degree. I have no idea what happened to her after that. But I hope that she is okay. I've never forgotten her.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Funny thing about wearing the hejab was that I didn't mind it so much. I mean it would get really hot in the summer wearing a long dark manteau and a scarf, so much so that when I would walk in to my house I couldn't even make it to my room to change in my swimsuit. I would just peel my shoes off and jump right in fully dressed into the pool to cool down. And of course no one can really look attractive wearing the hejab. But in a way it took away some of the anxiety of having to figure out what to wear everyday. I no longer cared how I looked to anyone, particularly boys. It was too stressfull. I was never a girly girl, so it was always an effort for me to try to be what I thought was attractive to guys. I was tom boy, every boys best friend and I was comfortable with that. But being in a co-ed school there are a lot of pressures to be paired up with someone. Well the hejab and going to an all girls school solved that. Everyone looked the same, effortlessly by wearing the same drab uniform. Another added bonus especially for me was how it would cover up everything I was trying to hide.
When I was 11, the first summer after we returned to iran, I got a nasty strep throat. I hardly ever get sick, and I rarely have a fever, but if I do then it's really really bad. The first time I had a fever was when I was one. It landed me in the ICU. Apparently my Mom's effort to bring me up in a protective and sterile environment, didn't really help once I was released to the wild outside of my bubble. My immune system went into shock. The next time I had a fever to the best of my knowledge was when I got my strep throat at the age of 11. Apparently I have a very high pain tolerance so it takes alot for me to get knocked out by anything. Anyways this strep throat was bad and I was battling a fever for a few days. When my fever finally broke, we noticed all these spots all over my arms and back. It looked kinda like chicken pox, but I had already had chicken pox. So we made a trip to my pediatrician, who correctly diagnosised me with psoriasis. Psoriasis for those who don't know is an auto immune disease, that effects the skin. Basically your skin goes into overdrive with it's cell renewing themselves at an accelerate rate of 2-3 days as opposed to 10-15 days for normal skin. It is not life treatening, it is not contagious. It serves mainly to torture it's victims with flaky skin, something that makes them very very self conscious. So it's skin deep but the wounds emotionally can go very very deep. For me, it was horrifying. In one fell swoop I went from beautiful smooth brown skin, to blotchy, flaky patches all over. The spots would move around my body. First it was my arms, them my back, then my torso and finally my legs. Even my scalp was not immune to it. So what was the cure, well there is no cure. Just alot of steriod creams and lotions. Alot of smelly coal tar medication. I was still in Iranzamin when my skin decided to turn against me. And it was tough being a teen, around other kids and specially boys and having to worry about who would see you skin and cry out in horror. I tried everything to try to hide it. From wearing long sleeves shirts and long pants even in the dead heat of summer. And of course I didn't take the word of my pediatrician who told me there was no cure, that this was something that I would have to learn to live with. That in time I would figure out what aggravated my skin to breakout and then maybe I would be able to control it. Noooo. He was wrong. And so started my very long quest of finding the doctor that would make me all better.
Well it was hell. I don't know how many doctors I saw,in how many different countries, and how many different and crazy treatments I allowed myself to go under. To this day I will never know what kind of damage was caused to my system from all the steroids.
But back to my story of the hejab. The hejab was my sheild and protection against wary eyes. They would never have to see what I didn't want them to see, and so I could relax and be myself. The only people who got to see me without the hejab were people I wanted to see me, like my friends and family. People who wouldn't judge me. As for strangers, well the hejab preotected me from their judgements. And it let me let go of looking for a treatment, and let my skin just be. By the time I was older I read enough about it to know that none of the treatments I had gotten were any good. I found out that stress was not good. Great, well what do you think stressed me out, my skin! One doctor told me this is a worriers disease. What does a young girl like you have to be worried about. Ha!! Everything!!! It like my brain never shuts off, it's constantly on the go and with a million different thing popping into it every second. Every once in a while when I would start dating someone, I'd go on a crash course of steriod creams to clear up any spots. Because I was convinced if they saw me any other way they wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. So stupid. Why is it that we accept everyone elses flaws so easily yet we're hardest on ourselves. Eventually that stopped too. I figured if my skin was going to scare anyone off well then I really didn't want to have anything to do with them either. After all, my friends seemed perfectly fine with a less than perfect Marjan. Over the years like my pediatrician predicted, I came to understand my body, and why it behaved the way it did. The same nervous energy that made me full of life, wanting to tackle everything all at the same time, the fast pace of my everyday life, the multitasking that I thrived on, the always on the go, that nervous energy was making all of me rush, rush, rush. Including my skin that was in such a rush that it was renewing itself at light speed.
I figure I have 2 choices. Either stop being me, and slow down, and hope that the rest of me slows down as well, or just accept that this is who I am and get on with my life. I choose the latter. Plus I've learnt thru alternative medeicine and healthy eating and exercise how to keep things in control. I'm almost clear all the time and the few little spots that I have, I regard with fondness because they remind me of how far I've come. They humble me, they remind me that I'm not perfect, they remind me to never judge a person by what's on the outside.
So in a ways the hejab saved my sanity, even if I hated the idea of being told what to wear, the lack of freedom to choose the simplest thing, how you wish to present yourself to others. And in a ways it helped me understand why some women would voluntarily choose to wear the hejab. It offered them a kind of protection from what ever it was that they feared. But eventually we all need to face our fears and come out from under the hejab and face the world in all our glory!! Yes!!!!
When I was 11, the first summer after we returned to iran, I got a nasty strep throat. I hardly ever get sick, and I rarely have a fever, but if I do then it's really really bad. The first time I had a fever was when I was one. It landed me in the ICU. Apparently my Mom's effort to bring me up in a protective and sterile environment, didn't really help once I was released to the wild outside of my bubble. My immune system went into shock. The next time I had a fever to the best of my knowledge was when I got my strep throat at the age of 11. Apparently I have a very high pain tolerance so it takes alot for me to get knocked out by anything. Anyways this strep throat was bad and I was battling a fever for a few days. When my fever finally broke, we noticed all these spots all over my arms and back. It looked kinda like chicken pox, but I had already had chicken pox. So we made a trip to my pediatrician, who correctly diagnosised me with psoriasis. Psoriasis for those who don't know is an auto immune disease, that effects the skin. Basically your skin goes into overdrive with it's cell renewing themselves at an accelerate rate of 2-3 days as opposed to 10-15 days for normal skin. It is not life treatening, it is not contagious. It serves mainly to torture it's victims with flaky skin, something that makes them very very self conscious. So it's skin deep but the wounds emotionally can go very very deep. For me, it was horrifying. In one fell swoop I went from beautiful smooth brown skin, to blotchy, flaky patches all over. The spots would move around my body. First it was my arms, them my back, then my torso and finally my legs. Even my scalp was not immune to it. So what was the cure, well there is no cure. Just alot of steriod creams and lotions. Alot of smelly coal tar medication. I was still in Iranzamin when my skin decided to turn against me. And it was tough being a teen, around other kids and specially boys and having to worry about who would see you skin and cry out in horror. I tried everything to try to hide it. From wearing long sleeves shirts and long pants even in the dead heat of summer. And of course I didn't take the word of my pediatrician who told me there was no cure, that this was something that I would have to learn to live with. That in time I would figure out what aggravated my skin to breakout and then maybe I would be able to control it. Noooo. He was wrong. And so started my very long quest of finding the doctor that would make me all better.
Well it was hell. I don't know how many doctors I saw,in how many different countries, and how many different and crazy treatments I allowed myself to go under. To this day I will never know what kind of damage was caused to my system from all the steroids.
But back to my story of the hejab. The hejab was my sheild and protection against wary eyes. They would never have to see what I didn't want them to see, and so I could relax and be myself. The only people who got to see me without the hejab were people I wanted to see me, like my friends and family. People who wouldn't judge me. As for strangers, well the hejab preotected me from their judgements. And it let me let go of looking for a treatment, and let my skin just be. By the time I was older I read enough about it to know that none of the treatments I had gotten were any good. I found out that stress was not good. Great, well what do you think stressed me out, my skin! One doctor told me this is a worriers disease. What does a young girl like you have to be worried about. Ha!! Everything!!! It like my brain never shuts off, it's constantly on the go and with a million different thing popping into it every second. Every once in a while when I would start dating someone, I'd go on a crash course of steriod creams to clear up any spots. Because I was convinced if they saw me any other way they wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. So stupid. Why is it that we accept everyone elses flaws so easily yet we're hardest on ourselves. Eventually that stopped too. I figured if my skin was going to scare anyone off well then I really didn't want to have anything to do with them either. After all, my friends seemed perfectly fine with a less than perfect Marjan. Over the years like my pediatrician predicted, I came to understand my body, and why it behaved the way it did. The same nervous energy that made me full of life, wanting to tackle everything all at the same time, the fast pace of my everyday life, the multitasking that I thrived on, the always on the go, that nervous energy was making all of me rush, rush, rush. Including my skin that was in such a rush that it was renewing itself at light speed.
I figure I have 2 choices. Either stop being me, and slow down, and hope that the rest of me slows down as well, or just accept that this is who I am and get on with my life. I choose the latter. Plus I've learnt thru alternative medeicine and healthy eating and exercise how to keep things in control. I'm almost clear all the time and the few little spots that I have, I regard with fondness because they remind me of how far I've come. They humble me, they remind me that I'm not perfect, they remind me to never judge a person by what's on the outside.
So in a ways the hejab saved my sanity, even if I hated the idea of being told what to wear, the lack of freedom to choose the simplest thing, how you wish to present yourself to others. And in a ways it helped me understand why some women would voluntarily choose to wear the hejab. It offered them a kind of protection from what ever it was that they feared. But eventually we all need to face our fears and come out from under the hejab and face the world in all our glory!! Yes!!!!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Okay so I need to tell you the story of my Dad almost getting arrested for making moonshine in Iran. It was the summer. At the time my cousins were living with us. My cousin Hormoz like most young folk his age was into all the revolutionary books etc. He was 7 years older than me. Him and his sister had been living with us for the past couple years, mainly because they couldn't live with my uncle and his new wife anymore. In a ways Hormoz and and his siter Azita that was a year older than Hormoz were the answer to my prayers. I had always wanted older siblings. I had been told that I had lost a beautiful looking older brother when he was only 6 months in the womb. I was born a couple of year later. I used to fantasize about what it would have been like to have had an older brother. Anyways Hormoz was the answer to that. So he was hotheaded like most youths and had a bunch of books that were banned and fancied himself a young rebel. I forget if it was that summer or the summer before, but my Dad finally decided to put a pool in our yard. The summers in Tehran were intolerably hot. I used to hang out by the pool pretty much all day. Anyways, one of these days, I hear the doorbell. I don't what made me run indoors instead of going to the door to see who it was. As it turned out it was a bunch of the revolutionary guards. With big machine guns, asking to come to see our basement. They had a station setup one street away from where we lived. My Dad being a chemical engineer had set up a small distillery in the basement and had started to pretty much extract alcohol from anything he could ferment. We had a little orchard up in the mountains, some remote place that no one knew about unless you were from there. It took years before the Islamic revolution even became aware that this little place even existed. Anyways we had all kinds of fruit growing there. And since it was remote, there was no chance of getting anyone out there to buy the fruit. We had tried to pass the stuff to friends and family but we were still left with crates and crates of apples, plums and cherries. So my Dad did the only natural thing. Ferment them and turn it into excellent vodka. So he had this whole setup right there in our basement. We also had a whole bunch of damask roses growing in our orchard. They had been in bloom only a few weeks ago and we had plucked the roses and brought them back with us. That week my Dad had been experimenting with extracting rose essence. So the guards show up. My Mom answered the door properly attired in the hejab. They asked specifically to inspect the basement. So my Mom said of course and showed them to the basement. There was no time to do anything. We had a spare room in the basement that was were my cousin Hormoz stayed. They knew exactly what they were looking for. The went straight to the back room were the still was set up in all it's glory. They asked my Mom what the setup was. Ans she answered, my husband is a chemist and this is for his work. One of the guards went to a sniff to the still. Of course it smelt only of roses. Then they started to check the room. There was a closet in that room that my Dad kept all his creations. It was unlocked and of course they opened it. The leader of the pack picked up a bottle sniffed it and then put it down then he picked another bottle sniffed it and let his other buddies take a whiff. Then he turned to my Mom and said well everything appears to be in order, thank you for cooperating. And then they left. That's when the shit hit the fan. My Mom called her best friend and told her to come over. She called my Dad and in encoded speech tried to tell him of what had transpired. Did I mention our phones were tapped. Then started the frantic rush of cleansing the house of any incriminating evidence. All the bottles of alcohol were flushed down the toilet. the my cousins banned bookjs were attacked. They were piled into a garbage bag and buried in the back of the yard. We were all hysterical. We thought any minute they would be back and they would have us all arrested. Anyways my Dad shows up. He's all cocky about how dare they come into my house, what right do they have. I'll have to give them a piece of my mind. Part of his fury had to do with the fact that precious bottle of alcohol ahd been flushed down the toilet! Anyways he goes down to the staion all indignant, demanding to see the officers that had the audacity to storm his house. He created quite the calamity. Anyways finally the leader of the group that had visited our house shows up. He pulls my Dad and says to him, look lets not be too self righteous afterall both you and I know what was going on in the basement. I saw your bottles of booze, but passed them as rosewater, so why don't you get off your high horse, go back to your home and thank God that I didn't take any actions that would have found you in a very compromising situation. At that my Dad, thanked the man and turned and came home. That first bottle that the guard had sniff from the closet was the finest plum vodka in Tehran. After that we went to great lengths to hide our stash of moonshine lest we have another surprise visit. It never happened. To this day we have no idea how they knew what was going on in our basement. If someone ratted us out or what. But we were very lucky that particular revolutionary guard spared us the fate of so many others guilty of possessing alcohol in the Islamic Republic.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
It's funny how under the direst of circumstances you find ways to have fun. Although my year in Soroush Azadi was a signal of an end to many happy care free days, we still tried to make the most of it. I remember one day bringing in all my pastel crayons to school and with the rest of my classmates decorating the walls of our classroom with drawings and caricatures. I had this one caricature, of a slutty ditzy girl that was everyone's favorite. I used to draw her in different getups. Anyways the walls didn't stay decorated for long. We ended up having to paint over them ourselves as a punishment. I think our only concession was that we got to choose the colour. Other classes decided they wanted to do the same. This one class ended up painting their walls a lavendar colour. As it turned out, lavendar is not a good colour to live in. It makes you vomit literally. We found this fact out when we had to write an exam in this classroom. One by one students left complaining of nasea!! Painting classrooms became a theme in my life. Later when I went to Fadak public school we pulled the same stunt of drawing on the walls and again got punished. I was the head of class at the time (mobser) so I was held responsible. I spent a weekend with a couple of other girls painting the walls. It was weird afterwards walking the streets with our paint covered gowns. But I remember that day feeling really good because I thought we showed the school admin that we had the last laugh. They thought is was cruel punishment, instead it was really fun. Other pranks that I pulled while at Fadak included hiding the prayer rug. It was a long piece of carpet that was laid out around lunch for the noon prayer attended by all the islamist and of course the school admin. They ended up doing the prayers on the bare ground. Another time a watermelon truck was passing by our school. We bribed the school janitor to go outside and buy us a watermelon and some bread and cheese and then we went to this little room in the school yard and had a feast on the the prayer rug. Did I mention that Fadak was set up in the confiscated home of Farah( the Queen)'s uncle. It was a great home with a huge pool that remained empty. We used to play dodgeball in the pool. Since we couldn't leave the school grounds, we used to get pizza delivered to our classroom. The we'd close the doors and windows and have the pizza and later draw giutars on the back of the pizza boxes and jam on our air guitars. As I was always the class clown and had a nack for mimic everyone, I used to put on shows imitating the teachers and administrators. We were a very close knit bunch, my classmates and I. In Iran by 9th grade you more or less have made a determination of what you'll be studying in university by attending different highschools. Fadak was a Science highschool. In grade 10 there was another level of separation between those studying natural sciences and those studying applied science. I was in the latter group. Natural sciences was by far the most popular. There were 3 classrooms of natural science to the one small classroom of applied science. There were no more than 20 students so we all stayed together for the 4 years of highschool. Most of our teachers remained the same thru the years as well. So by the time we were in our senior year we had gotten to know them well. A favorite was our Physics teacher, Mrs Madarshahi. She was incredibly smart and funny at the same time. She had a way of making you want to do well in her class. One of the students lost a bet to her one time, can't remember over what. The result was that she had to cook soup (Ash) for everyone and bring it to school. The day of the soup, there was some kind of a celebration going on. I don't remember what, but school let out early but we all stayed behind and waited for the soup, which arrive in a giant pot. We invited a select few of our teachers to join us. Then my classmates had me get up in front of everyone and imitiate the very teachers that were present. My physics teacher was laughing so hard at my imitation of her that she kept slapping the English teacher knee and crying out, it' true, it's true. It was a really memorable day. I still have pictures of that day. Another favorite teacher was my math teacher, Ms Shahbakhti. Another very smart lady. She was unusual in that she never could keep her veil on her head. It would always slip off her head and she had these beautiful long fingernails. She was a single working girl which was unusual for those days. She didn't take any crap from the school principal, a born again islamist ( rumour had it that during the Shah's time she and her sister well known party girls, now she wore the strictest hejab with a heavy black chador and made her poor son stand in front of the school assembly every day and recite the Koran). I liked her for her guts. They couldn't touch her because she really was a fantastic teacher. In our final year, my school scored the highest grades in the entire district. We beat all the boys school who where supposed to have the best teachers, male of course. Go girl power!!
The best part of speaking english fluently, was that I got to skip all my english classes mainly because I was better at english than the teacher that taught it. I loved my free time. I used to spy on all the other class rooms with my friend Afrooz. She was also fluent in English. I had met her in Soroush Azadi. She used to attend the British school Rostamabadian. Afrooz and I would spend the time waking around the school and talking out loud to our hearts content in english about everything that bothered us, since no one was around to hear us. That was one of the biggest fears of being in a public school with all these islamists around. You never knew who was an islamist, so we had been warned by our parent never ever to say anything to incriminate ourselves. There were stories of children talking in school about their parents only to find revolutionary guards at their home the next day ready to arrest the parents. Me and four of my friends from Soroush azadi all ended up going to Fadak. For the longest time they were the only people that I trusted. It took a while to finally figure out who was who. At the end I met my best friends that I have to this day in Fadak.
Speaking of parents getting arrested it reminds me of the story of how my dad narrowly escaped arrest for making moonshine. I'll get to that soon ....
Oh and reminder to myself to tell the story of the school play with a gay character!!
The best part of speaking english fluently, was that I got to skip all my english classes mainly because I was better at english than the teacher that taught it. I loved my free time. I used to spy on all the other class rooms with my friend Afrooz. She was also fluent in English. I had met her in Soroush Azadi. She used to attend the British school Rostamabadian. Afrooz and I would spend the time waking around the school and talking out loud to our hearts content in english about everything that bothered us, since no one was around to hear us. That was one of the biggest fears of being in a public school with all these islamists around. You never knew who was an islamist, so we had been warned by our parent never ever to say anything to incriminate ourselves. There were stories of children talking in school about their parents only to find revolutionary guards at their home the next day ready to arrest the parents. Me and four of my friends from Soroush azadi all ended up going to Fadak. For the longest time they were the only people that I trusted. It took a while to finally figure out who was who. At the end I met my best friends that I have to this day in Fadak.
Speaking of parents getting arrested it reminds me of the story of how my dad narrowly escaped arrest for making moonshine. I'll get to that soon ....
Oh and reminder to myself to tell the story of the school play with a gay character!!
Monday, November 08, 2004
The first real hint that life as I knew it would never be the same came in the summer of 1980. We were told our school, Iranzamin International School would close it's doors. There were many tearful goodbyes that summer, as we knew there would be friends we would probably not see in a long time. Many of my friends had already left Iran. As it was that last year at Iranzamin was less like an international school as most foreigners had left Iran. Most of the students were iranians. To make matters worse we were told that our school and others like it were seen as decadent, the remains of the old regime. Everyone was equal under the Islamic revolution so there would be no more private schools. We all had to go to public school. Our only saving grace was that they allowed us one year to transition from an english school to a persian public school. A special transitional school was setup, one for girls (in the Rostamabadian building) and one for boys (in Iranzamin building).
We were taught the public school texts although we had teachers who would help us along in English. This was the worst year academically for me. I hardly knew how to read and write in persian and now all of a sudden I had to do everything in persian. The year I arrived in Iran, I was tested for my persian language proficiency. I was given a grade 2 proficieny simply because I knew the persian alphabet. Iranian kids in my school studied persian for an hour a day, so while my grade 5 classmates studied grade 5 persian, I went off to my 2nd grade persian class. Grade 5 is a crucial year in persian public school system. You take national exams and are awarded a certificate. All the persian kids in my grade 5 class were taking the exam. I obviously could not. My mom really fretted about the fact that I was so far behind all my classmates, so she figured during the summer I would catch up on grade 3, 4 and 5 and take the national exam at summers end. Did I mention that did not know how to read and write? That summer I was shipped off to my aunts house. She was a teacher and she was going to tutor me. It was hell. I hated every minute of it. I could do the science and math stuff since I already knew them from having studied them in english, although answering questions when you can't spell can be a problem. The hardest lessons were Persian literature and history. All my cousins pitched in to help me learn to read an write. It was overwhelming. The only silverlining was that my aunt lived in a bustling part of town and I got to go out into the streets and buy persian ice cream and roasted corn from street vendors. I lived a very sheltered life at home since returning from Japan. My mother didn't feel like we were prepared for life in the dangerous streets of Tehran. We were only allowed out in front of the house to play with neighbouring kids.
My aunt had arranged for me to take the exam in some downtown district, were mostly underpriveledge folk were registered. Grade 5 certificate is the minimum degree you need for many menial jobs, so there were plenty of adults in that district taking the exam with me. As it turned out, it was a blessing. The proctors knowing most folk just want this certificate for a job, were very very helpful. They read out most of the answers. I was astonished. I'd never cheated or seen anyone cheat before in my life. I was so shocked I didn't realize for sometime that I was being given the answers. So I cheated a bit, specially during dictation. I still hadn't learnt to spell. The only part of the exam that I could get no help on was the composition essay. I don't remember what the topic was. Something about trees I think. I know what I wrote was God awful, it just had to be. All I know is I got a passing grade on it. My overall grade was 13/20, that's like a C-/D+. I didn't care. I'd satisfied my Mom that I had caught up with my other classmates. Didn't matter that I really hadn't and I still couldn't read and write. I had the certificate, so I would be placed in the same class as my classmates once the new school year started. I could finally go home.
So when I started 6th grade, I was placed in 6th persian. The first day of class our teacher decided to give us an impromptu dictation quiz from the grade 5 textbook. She marked the papers right there in class and handed them back. I was so happy to see that I hadn't flunked out. I had gotten 5/20. It was an F but still it was better than zero. Later I found out I had actually gotten zero. In persian zero and five can look similar. You get a zero mark if you have more than 20 spelling mistakes. I think I had 40. I somehow got thru the persian class. There wasn't a big emphasis on it in our school curriculum. And the teacher were very lenient. No one expected that we would need to use our perisan language skill in the future. The expectation was we would graduate from Iranzamin and end up abroad going to a nice college.
Again I digress. So having told the tale of my illiteracy, you can imagine my horror of now having to study everything in persian. The thing I dreaded the most was being called on in class to read. No offense to retarded folk, but that is what I sounded like. I couldn't read, and I hated the fact that everyone in my class had to hear how bad I was. I would devise all kinds of schemes, so I wouldn't catch the teachers eye and get called on. I think that was about the time my palms started to sweat profusely. I was petrified of looking like an idiot everytime I was called to read. This in spite of the fact that I was a popular student and all. Eventually I ended up practicing every text in advance at home in preparation for being called on. Slowly I progressed, but I had a terrible time with it. The transitional school had it's owm drama. We had some militant teachers there. These were revolutionary women, who despised us because we represented the decadence of the Shah regime. Us rich folk who really had no rights in the new republic, they thought. Boy did they hate us. One in particular comes to mind. She was our PE teacher. She wore a very strict hejab and was always after us to wear the hejab even though it was not yet mandatory. I don't think in regular public school they had yet to wear the hejab. But this was our punishment for being decadent. Forcing us into a school uniform and hejab. This lady was butt ugly too. She had an underbite, a nice thick black mustache and a unibrow. A right vision of a persian beauty!! She was so mean and vicious to us that we were scared shitless by her. One time we were so scared to meet her for PE, we locked ourselves in our classroom. We pretended the lock had jammed. We kept this charade up for an hour. By this time the janitor had been brought in to open the door. We were so scared of her wrath when the door opened that we piled all our desks behind the door and pushed at the door so they could not get in. By this time the gig was up. She knew we weren't locked in. She was threatening us with explusion. The principal finally came and negotiated with us to open the door. I don't remember what happened after that, I think we got sent home. We were in big trouble with the school. Parents got called in, but I think they realized their children had acted the way they had out of sheer fright. Needless to say not too many were happy that a place that is supposed to protect and nurture their kids was tramatizing them so. I think their indignation saved us collectively from getting expelled.
We were taught the public school texts although we had teachers who would help us along in English. This was the worst year academically for me. I hardly knew how to read and write in persian and now all of a sudden I had to do everything in persian. The year I arrived in Iran, I was tested for my persian language proficiency. I was given a grade 2 proficieny simply because I knew the persian alphabet. Iranian kids in my school studied persian for an hour a day, so while my grade 5 classmates studied grade 5 persian, I went off to my 2nd grade persian class. Grade 5 is a crucial year in persian public school system. You take national exams and are awarded a certificate. All the persian kids in my grade 5 class were taking the exam. I obviously could not. My mom really fretted about the fact that I was so far behind all my classmates, so she figured during the summer I would catch up on grade 3, 4 and 5 and take the national exam at summers end. Did I mention that did not know how to read and write? That summer I was shipped off to my aunts house. She was a teacher and she was going to tutor me. It was hell. I hated every minute of it. I could do the science and math stuff since I already knew them from having studied them in english, although answering questions when you can't spell can be a problem. The hardest lessons were Persian literature and history. All my cousins pitched in to help me learn to read an write. It was overwhelming. The only silverlining was that my aunt lived in a bustling part of town and I got to go out into the streets and buy persian ice cream and roasted corn from street vendors. I lived a very sheltered life at home since returning from Japan. My mother didn't feel like we were prepared for life in the dangerous streets of Tehran. We were only allowed out in front of the house to play with neighbouring kids.
My aunt had arranged for me to take the exam in some downtown district, were mostly underpriveledge folk were registered. Grade 5 certificate is the minimum degree you need for many menial jobs, so there were plenty of adults in that district taking the exam with me. As it turned out, it was a blessing. The proctors knowing most folk just want this certificate for a job, were very very helpful. They read out most of the answers. I was astonished. I'd never cheated or seen anyone cheat before in my life. I was so shocked I didn't realize for sometime that I was being given the answers. So I cheated a bit, specially during dictation. I still hadn't learnt to spell. The only part of the exam that I could get no help on was the composition essay. I don't remember what the topic was. Something about trees I think. I know what I wrote was God awful, it just had to be. All I know is I got a passing grade on it. My overall grade was 13/20, that's like a C-/D+. I didn't care. I'd satisfied my Mom that I had caught up with my other classmates. Didn't matter that I really hadn't and I still couldn't read and write. I had the certificate, so I would be placed in the same class as my classmates once the new school year started. I could finally go home.
So when I started 6th grade, I was placed in 6th persian. The first day of class our teacher decided to give us an impromptu dictation quiz from the grade 5 textbook. She marked the papers right there in class and handed them back. I was so happy to see that I hadn't flunked out. I had gotten 5/20. It was an F but still it was better than zero. Later I found out I had actually gotten zero. In persian zero and five can look similar. You get a zero mark if you have more than 20 spelling mistakes. I think I had 40. I somehow got thru the persian class. There wasn't a big emphasis on it in our school curriculum. And the teacher were very lenient. No one expected that we would need to use our perisan language skill in the future. The expectation was we would graduate from Iranzamin and end up abroad going to a nice college.
Again I digress. So having told the tale of my illiteracy, you can imagine my horror of now having to study everything in persian. The thing I dreaded the most was being called on in class to read. No offense to retarded folk, but that is what I sounded like. I couldn't read, and I hated the fact that everyone in my class had to hear how bad I was. I would devise all kinds of schemes, so I wouldn't catch the teachers eye and get called on. I think that was about the time my palms started to sweat profusely. I was petrified of looking like an idiot everytime I was called to read. This in spite of the fact that I was a popular student and all. Eventually I ended up practicing every text in advance at home in preparation for being called on. Slowly I progressed, but I had a terrible time with it. The transitional school had it's owm drama. We had some militant teachers there. These were revolutionary women, who despised us because we represented the decadence of the Shah regime. Us rich folk who really had no rights in the new republic, they thought. Boy did they hate us. One in particular comes to mind. She was our PE teacher. She wore a very strict hejab and was always after us to wear the hejab even though it was not yet mandatory. I don't think in regular public school they had yet to wear the hejab. But this was our punishment for being decadent. Forcing us into a school uniform and hejab. This lady was butt ugly too. She had an underbite, a nice thick black mustache and a unibrow. A right vision of a persian beauty!! She was so mean and vicious to us that we were scared shitless by her. One time we were so scared to meet her for PE, we locked ourselves in our classroom. We pretended the lock had jammed. We kept this charade up for an hour. By this time the janitor had been brought in to open the door. We were so scared of her wrath when the door opened that we piled all our desks behind the door and pushed at the door so they could not get in. By this time the gig was up. She knew we weren't locked in. She was threatening us with explusion. The principal finally came and negotiated with us to open the door. I don't remember what happened after that, I think we got sent home. We were in big trouble with the school. Parents got called in, but I think they realized their children had acted the way they had out of sheer fright. Needless to say not too many were happy that a place that is supposed to protect and nurture their kids was tramatizing them so. I think their indignation saved us collectively from getting expelled.
Okay so just to keep track of things I'm going to post a timeline:
1977-1978 Year I returned to Iran, this would be 5th grade
1978-1979 6th grade
demonstrations
Jan 16 1979 Shah left Iran
Feb 1 1979 Khomeini returned to Iran
March 1979 referendum
April 1 1979 Islamic republic proclaimed
1979-1980 7th grade, last year at Iranzamin
Jan 25 1980 Banisadr president
May 1980 cultural revolution, universities close for 2 years
July 27 1980 Shah died
1980-1981 8th grade, Soroush Azadi transitional school
Sept 1980 Iran Iraq war started
Nov 4 1980 American Embassy was taken
Nov 6 Bazargan resigned
Start of arrest of dissident groups
Talleghani died
1981 -1982 9th grade, Fadak public highschool, definately had to wear the hejab at school, but not out in the public
1982 -1983 10th grade, Fadak public highschool, hejab had become madatory for everyone in public
1983 -1984 11th grade, Fadak highschool
1984 -1985 12th grade, Fadak highschool, tehran bombings
1985- 1986 1st year university
1986-1987 2nd year university
1987 -1988 3rd year university, missile attack on tehran, missed an entire semester of school
July 18 1988 ceasefire
1988-1989 4th year
1989 Khomeini died
Nov 1990 left Iran
1977-1978 Year I returned to Iran, this would be 5th grade
1978-1979 6th grade
demonstrations
Jan 16 1979 Shah left Iran
Feb 1 1979 Khomeini returned to Iran
March 1979 referendum
April 1 1979 Islamic republic proclaimed
1979-1980 7th grade, last year at Iranzamin
Jan 25 1980 Banisadr president
May 1980 cultural revolution, universities close for 2 years
July 27 1980 Shah died
1980-1981 8th grade, Soroush Azadi transitional school
Sept 1980 Iran Iraq war started
Nov 4 1980 American Embassy was taken
Nov 6 Bazargan resigned
Start of arrest of dissident groups
Talleghani died
1981 -1982 9th grade, Fadak public highschool, definately had to wear the hejab at school, but not out in the public
1982 -1983 10th grade, Fadak public highschool, hejab had become madatory for everyone in public
1983 -1984 11th grade, Fadak highschool
1984 -1985 12th grade, Fadak highschool, tehran bombings
1985- 1986 1st year university
1986-1987 2nd year university
1987 -1988 3rd year university, missile attack on tehran, missed an entire semester of school
July 18 1988 ceasefire
1988-1989 4th year
1989 Khomeini died
Nov 1990 left Iran
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