Perspective, Fall 2018

PERSPECTIVE

fall 2018

university of california, berkeley

letter Dear Reader, It is with great honor that we present to you the Fall 2018 issue of Perspective Magazine. When I learned about Perspective three years ago on Berkeley’s campus, it was one of the first times I felt that an organization adequately represented my interests: a mix of a cultural publication and community for diasporic Iranians to openly express themselves has been an authentic outlet for students at UC Berkeley since 1995.

We are excited to introduce new initiatives this semester such as the inclusion of more works in Farsi which gives a more layered representation of the Iranian-American voice. To further the development and proliferation of our publication, we now have sponsorship opportunities for those who share our mission to engage with us. We would like to thank our staff, donors, sponsors, and readers who have helped us continue our publication for 23 years and go beyond the magazine with these new developments mentioned.

Last year, our magazine unidentified itself as an “apolitical” publication because we believe that as Iranian-Americans our very existence is politicized; this makes the perception of “apolitical” misleading and restraining to our readers and writers. Nevertheless, we recognize the diverse political, social, and cultural values of Iranian-Americans and remain an impartial organization bereft of affiliation with any outside interests.

If you are interested in becoming involved with our student-run publication in any aspect (such as writing, design, photography, finance, or outreach), please send an email to info@perspective.berkeley.edu. We accept new applications each semester and always accept potential sponsors and donations for future editions. Please enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed writing, designing, and presenting our voices into its composition.

Saalar Aghili Editor-in-Chief

PERSPECTIVE We Skate to Survive Anahita Ghajarrahimi 6 From the Cassette Deck to the iPhone Anonymous 8 Santoor, Meet Soundpad Mattin Delavar 9 Googoosh in Cyberspace Bahaar Ahsan 10 The Assyrians of Turlock Sean Adibi 12 Iran, Women & The Sciences Negin Amouei 13

‫از زﯾﺮزﻣﯿﻦ ﺗﺎ اوج‬

Golbou Rahbari 14

untitled poem Azin Mirzaagha 15 Far From Home Mahshad Badii 16 Destigmatizing the Stigmatized Janan Mostajabi 18 Tehran Stars Sara Zoroufy 19 Remembering Dr. Ehsan Yarshater Kayla Fathi 20

In the Belly of the Beast Saba Moussavian 25 A Conversation with Nasim Pedrad Niki Monazzam 26 Living Like a Shah Bardia Barahman 27 A Twenty-First Century Praise of Taarof Mina Shahinfar 28

‫ﻣﺸﺎﻋﺮه‬

1+1=3 Brandon Berookhim 29

‫ﻣﱰﺳﮏ‬

An Artistic Dissocation Nasim Ghasemiyeh 30

Sam Ghaffari-Kashani 21 Marzieh Mirmobiny 22

‫داﺳﺘﺎن ﺣﺎج آﻗﺎ و ﺧﺎﻟﻪ ﺳﻮﺳﮑﻪ‬ Ariana Dideban 24

References 31

fall 2018 Editor-in-Chief Saalar Aghili Assistant Editor-in-Chief Bahaar Ahsan

Assistant Designers Donna Fotoohi Anahita Ghajarrahimi Head Copy Editor Donna Fotoohi Director of Outreach Nasim Ghasemiyeh Outreach Assistant Ryan Dehmoubed Directors of Finance Mina Aslan Amir Ebtehadj

Copy Editors Sean Adibi Dorrin Akbari Mahshad Badii Kayla Fathi Charlotte Laurence Azin Mirzaagha Dorna Movasseghi Ali Setayesh Staff Writers Negin Amouei Bardia Barahman Brandon Berookhim Mattin Delavar Ariana Dideban Sam Ghaffari-Kashani Marzieh Mirmobini Niki Monazzam Janan Mostajabi Saba Moussavian Golbou Rahbari Mina Shahinfar Sara Zoroufy

we'd like to thank…

Associated Students of the University of California Persian Center Middle Eastern North African Recruitment and Retention Center The Nayebaziz Family The Shahiar Family The Ellini Family Maryam Sasaninejad Hossein Shirinabadi Sogole Tabatabaiepur Amir Kolahdouz-Isfahani

We Skate to Survive Benjamin Aryani’s We Skate In Iran uses the subject of skateboarding to shed a new perspective on the strength of character in Iranian youth.

T

by ANAHITA GHAJARRAHIMI

he documentary opens with an interview with Ali Tavasol to provide viewers an understanding of just how integral skateboarding has become to Iranian society.

Tavasol, who moved to Tehran in 1970, started to skateboard as soon as he got there. In the film’s first interview, the audience grasps how intertwined skateboarding is to Tavasol’s life, which sets a framework for how the film proceeds to explore Iranians’ experiences with the sport on a larger scale.

The film portrays multiple shots of groups of children skating down busy streets, in between cars, and besides buses. Mathias Zwick, a French photographer who observed Iran’s skating community, suggests that there are “2,000 skaters in the country, majority 15 to 25” years old, which provides the audience with an appreciation of how widespread this sport has become.

In the film, Aryani includes individual interviews with Iranian boys, from small children to young men in their twenties and older. Even though We Skate In Iran focuses on only a handful of

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Iranians in the film, Zwick’s data demonstrates how skateboarding has permeated the culture and taken root in Iranian society.

The film considers skateboarding through a lens of generational difference. An interview of a father explaining his son’s activities provides a different perspective—that of the parent—on the sport and its effect in the community. Aryani also interviews a small boy, Erfan, who recounts his family’s views on his activities. Erfan mentions that even though his family disapproves of his skating and dislikes that he is always injured, he continues to skate at whatever the financial cost or cost on his “soul.” The utter dedication of the interviewed children and young adults exemplifies how the youth of Iran have clung on to skateboarding—and that it has given their life meaning.

Zwick also states that he saw more girls on skateboards in one month in Iran than he did in fifteen years skateboarding in France, which speaks to young Iranian women’s defiant attitudes. In Aryani’s documentary, he interviews only one girl—

as opposed to the eight boys—but Andishe’s story speaks volumes to the overall Iranian women’s experience. She discusses the common misperceptions and misogyny associated with girls who skate; people mention to her that skating is a boy’s sport and that she should do more ladylike things instead.

These complaints are not uncommon for girls who skateboard in America, but in Iran, women face more obstacles when trying to participate in sports in general, constantly feeling unwelcome. However, by creating a space for herself among the rest of the kids, Andishe breaks arbitrary boundaries of gender and is able to participate in something she loves. Her experience serves as an example of how Iranian women defy expectations through their involvement in skateboarding. Even more touching is that her feelings regarding skateboarding are along similar lines to that of the boys—that it has “saved” her. The documentary uses various styles of music, from traditional Iranian folkloric music to modern Persian rap, which seem like apparent opposites of each other. The film’s music mirrors how skateboarding, a Westernized sport that began in the mid-20th century, has entered a country directly against those very ideas of Westernization. Aryani’s effort to musically incorporate both traditional and modern styles of Iranian music in a uni-

fied fashion connects to his cinematographic vision of showing audiences how skateboarding bridged the gaps in some realms of Iranian life. The Iranian government supports the growth of skateboarding; in fact, the government has approved six skateparks to date. Additionally, in the mid 2000s, Alireza Ansari established “Tsixty,” the first skateshop in Iran, which imports supplies and distributes nationwide. The success of Tsixty is not without its challenges, for economic sanctions hinder the process of importing supplies and merchandise to Iran.

Ultimately, the film highlights perseverance in the Iranian community through the subject of skateboarding in Iran.

The sport is a small but substantial part of modern Iranian culture, and the film portrays how people in Tehran specifically make an active effort to create a foundation for the sport to flourish citywide by building more skateparks and places to form a community. The youth of Iran have taken it upon themselves to create opportunities for their generation to pursue skateboarding, demonstrating their strong will and dedication to do something they love. Aryani’s film delivers the hopeful message that these kids and young adults, through all trials and challenges, are defying the odds and pursuing an activity that gives them joy and a reason to live.

“…the youth of Iran have clung on to skateboarding… it has given their life meaning.”

PERSPECTIVE 7

From the Cassette Deck to the iPhone Modern Iranian Music in the Contemporary West by anonymous

T

his past June I recall coming to a sudden halt in my daily procrastination on Instagram when I saw Kanye West in the midst of a crowd of people headbanging to an awfully familiar song—a soulful instrumental from the song “Gole Yakh,” produced by the Iranian singer and songwriter, Kourosh Yaghmaei. My parents played the song in the family SUV when I was a toddler half-asleep in the car seat. I knew this song, but I had completely forgotten it since I grew older and my parents stopped driving me places. At the time I heard it on my Instagram feed, I couldn’t recall what the song’s title was or who sang it; to be quite honest, I had stopped listening to Iranian music altogether since moving out for college. But I knew it was something I grew up on and that I had to find out what it was immediately.

A few quick Google searches later, and I was able to find the song. I listened to it at least ten times in a row, and now that my understanding of metaphors and poetry has come a long way since I occupied a car seat, a newfound appreciation for Iranian music grew in me. I called my parents right after about it. “That song you always played in the car? I just saw it on

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Instagram!”

Who would’ve thought that Kanye West, contemporary American hip-hop mogul whom I praise at least weekly for his work on My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, reconnected me to the music my parents listened to in Iran as young adults? The rapper had stated in the past that he is originally more of a producer at heart and is widely known for his unique choices of sampling in his music. He helped produce fellow hip-hop artist Nas’ latest summer release, Nasir, which featured Kourosh Yaghmaei’s “Gole Yakh” in the track “Adam and Eve.” Yaghmaei, who is now in his late 60s, was a popular name in Iran in the early 70s. He was best known for being a rockstar that could fuse the then popular Western psychedelic rock sound with Persian lyrics and stylistic elements. Unfortunately, his music career was brought to a long halt when the Islamic Republic gained control of the state after the Revolution in the late 70s. Consequently, any music with Western influences were censored, making it clear that in the times

of Western globalization and neoliberal agendas, Iran, like many other countries, would try to steer clear of such impacts. As a result, Yaghmaei could not obtain permits to perform or release his work in the public eye in Iran for years. People still enjoyed what had been previously released— my parents being just two of such people.

They passed it down to me by playing it on long car rides. But it was only until I heard it sampled in a contemporary American hip-hop song on Instagram that I remembered it.

Forty years later, the musical legacy of my parents’ generation, once shared with me through cassette decks in the car, has come full circle on my iPhone.

Santoor, Meet Soundpad

by MATTIN DELAVAR

M

odern electronic dance music festivals like Electric Daisy Carnival or Ultra all have some common motifs: colorful “kandi” bracelets made of beads, homemade “totems” to help attendees find their friends, and backpacks filled with water to keep everyone hydrated. In the center of rave and festival culture, perhaps the last thing one would expect to see is one of the most recognizable icons of Persian nationalism: the Farvahar.

The unlikely became reality during Electric Forest 2017, an annual music festival spanning two weekends in Michigan, during ASADI’s set.

Daniel Asadi, known by his stage name “ASADI,” is blazing a trail in a niche genre of music that he has coined “Persian Trap Music.” The style combines elements of Iranian music with contemporary trends in trap and EDM. Such syncretism of these

elements and its transmission through platforms like SoundCloud and Spotify is more than a unique musical product of Iranian diaspora culture; this kind of integration into the mainstream American music scene has the potential to shed a different kind of light on Iran, Iranians, and the rich Iranian culture.

Persian Trap Music, referred to as “PTM” in many tracks, has many defining features that make it a syncretic musical genre. ASADI uses many traditional Persian instruments, such as the setār and tār, and incorporates classic songs that evoke feelings of nostalgia. Googoosh’s 1970 love song, “Man o To,” is the center of gravity for the track “Persian Queen,” and ASADI’s Jahan is an homage the eponymous late singer, Jahan Ghashghaei. Musical elements aren’t the only sources that the DJ pulls from, though. The beginning of Nazeri, for example, starts with a line from the Rumi’s 302nd ghazal in the Divān-e Shams: jaan o del rā misepāram rooz o shab. With these examples from the shared Iranian cultural consciousness, ASADI adds core elements of modern trap music: catchy beats, intense build-ups, and bassheavy drops. At its heart, this process is a revision of Iranian culture in a Western environment. In a broader context, it’s a project that reflects the uniqueness of Iranian diaspora culture.

I do not mean to say that such a development could not have happened within Iran itself. Iranians love and listen to foreign music despite the restrictions that the government imposes to find and listen to Western music. And in a country of 80 million, it would be naïve to assume that nobody produces remixes of Persian music. The story of Beard&Blade, however, demonstrates that contemporary Iran is not fertile ground for DJs and producers of dance music. The duo, consisting of Arash Shadram and Anoosh Raki, hosted unauthorized and illegal raves in the desert near Tehran and were limited to playing to private audiences. Eventually, they chose to seek asylum in Europe to pursue their musical passions because of the obstacles they faced in Iran. The political apparatus in Iran is, at its best, not conducive to non-traditional, non-religious forms of expression and revision; at its worst, it is an active restrictor of the right to artistic

expression. And for that reason, the art that ASADI produces—its syncretism, its harkening to the old greats, and in particular its publicness—is emblematic of the Iranian diaspora.

The DJ’s presence on popular music streaming platforms such as Spotify and SoundCloud puts him in an ideal position to diffuse Persian culture to audiences who may not otherwise come into contact with it. The political relationship between the United States and Iran has taken a particularly contentious turn since the 2016 election. And while the burden of combating racism should not be forced upon artists who may want to primarily pursue their passions, ASADI’s music has the capacity to change American perceptions of Iranians. To show them that Iranians and Iranian-Americans are not the anti-Western, hyper-religious monolith that the media and both governments portray; to show that Persian culture is not fundamentally incompatible with Western trends; to show that Iranians are nuanced and like to dance, too—as if that wasn’t already obvious—these are all small but powerful changes that PTM can effect.

Streaming platforms enable this kind of cultural exchange in the absence of actual person-to-person dialogue. And though ASADI’s numbers aren’t topping the charts or ubiquitous on the radio as of now, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not reaching a substantial audience. According to Tirgan, a Iranian-Canadian cultural organization, ASADI’s track “Throne” upon release reached #3 on Spotify’s Viral 50 charts in the United States, surpassing established artists like Steve Aoki.

And with ASADI opening for popular DJs like Seven Lions and Black Tiger Sex Machine—artists with massively different styles and clienteles—it’s safe to assume that ASADI’s syncretic blend of East and West is reaching a substantial audience.

“Persian Trap Music” represents a unique musical phenomenon and a new development in Iranian diaspora culture.

In a time where Iran is increasingly cast as a nuclear-obsessed pariah state, any avenue to reverse these depictions can be particularly valuable. The next time you wish Leila Forouhar had just a little more bass—a little more hype—in her music, look no further than ASADI. PERSPECTIVE 9

Googoosh in Cyberspace Reflections on Feminine Iconography and Pahlavi Nostalgia in the Collective Memory of the Iranian Diaspora

by BAHAAR AHSAN

I

t is the fourteenth of April 2018. My mother and I are at Cupertino’s Flint Center seated amongst a crowd consisting mostly of middle aged Iranian women and their families, all of whom are dressed in formal gowns and suits. The occasion which has called for the convergence of such a large segment of the Bay Area’s Iranian community is Googoosh’s Mosalas-e khatereha (Memory Makers) tour. The opening of the final song of Googoosh’s set, “Talaaq,” quickly activates an uproar of applause from the audience.

The resounding reaction of the crowd is indicative of a certain kind of nostalgia, a collective longing for some imagined homeland which is understood as no longer existing in its material form. As the initial applause dies down, the energy in the room shifts dramatically as the attention of everybody in the room goes to the images being projected onto the theater’s large screens. Unlike videos accompanying songs earlier in the night, which consisted mostly of old televised performances of Googoosh, this video is made up of seemingly documentarian footage of key cultural and political actors and events in the time leading up to and following Iran’s 1979 Revolution. As images of Farah and Mohammad Reza Pahlavi appear on the screen the crowd once again bursts into roaring applause. The video continues to show clips of the revolution and then of recent protests in Iran, constructing a narrative that suggests an impulse to return to the imagined glorious days of the Pahlavi dynasty. The energy in the room is palpable. Regardless of political orientation, nearly everybody in the room was activated by the bold and unexpected politicization of Googoosh’s performance.

While it certainly provoked reaction, this moment in which Googoosh expressed her allegiance to the Pahlavi regime wasn’t particularly surprising.

While Googoosh, in accordance with the

10 PERSPECTIVE

apolitical tendencies of much of the Iranian-American community, hadn’t made any explicit political stance prior to this tour, her oeuvre and public persona have always had close ties to Iran’s pre-revolutionary monarchy. That is to say, this moment simply made visible the work Googoosh has always been doing in service of a larger project of forming an Iranian diasporic identity in line with Pahlavi-era ideas of nation, ethnicity, and gender. It is important to mention that when I speak of Googoosh I am referring not simply to an individual artist, but rather to Googoosh as an idea and persona which exists institutionally and in the collective memory of Iranians both in Iran and in diaspora. In turn, I am also referring to the work that this idea is doing both with and without agency and intention on the part of Googoosh as an individual.

When examining critically the position of Googoosh in the collective memory of diasporic Iranians, as exemplified by the virtual spaces1 of Iranian diaspora, it becomes clear that Googoosh is a signifier of the Iranian impetus to employ Pahlavi-era cultural production in negotiating diasporic identity. The persona that is Googoosh reifies a particular idea of Iranian womanhood which is in line with the gendered and ethnocentric ideals which characterize Pahlavi cultural production and is distinguished within the virtual spaces of the Iranian diaspora as such.

Donna Arkee’s thesis “Nostalgic Nationalism Online: Constructing the Iranian Diaspora Through Visual Texts and Affect” articulates not only the centrality of virtual space in the negotiation of Iranian diasporic identity, but also the ways in which these processes of virtual place-making are defined and informed by projects of nation building, particularly those projects of nation building carried out by the Pahlavi dynasty. Digital spaces have been central to the negotiation of

identity for Iranians in diaspora. These forums are used by diasporic Iranians not only as a sort of archival tool but also as spaces in which Iranians globally negotiate identity and position themselves in relation to one another and to other peoples and institutions. Thus Googoosh’s position in the collective memory of diasporic Iranians is well demonstrated by the way in which her persona is represented in such spaces. A remark made in the comments section of a YouTube video of the Los Angeles performance of the aforementioned tour aptly and succinctly embodies the reverence for Googoosh as an embodiment of Iran’s past. YouTube user hani pashiman comments “Googoosh is a symbol of art, of poise, of order and discipline, of humanity and personability, of patriotism, and of the golden age of Iran in the time of the royal family. She is a beautiful and complete example of a proper upbringing in an ancient culture…”

This comment articulates the understanding of Googoosh as a representative of not only the art of a particular time and place but of an entire system of values and qualities attributed to that time and place.

Googoosh’s poised, secular, femininity, according to this comment, renders her exemplary of an ideal culture and upbringing. It is worth noting the reference to an ancient culture, an idea reflective of the discourse of the Pahlavi state, which was so insistent on this idea of antiquity as to host a lavish celebration of 2,500 years of Persian civilization. The YouTube user continues, “This is the difference between this fanatic regime and that of the Pahlavi dynasty. Long live Googoosh!” This renders Googoosh not only representative of the graceful, secular, and modern Pahlavi regime but antithetical to the vulgar and religiously fanatic Islamic Republic.

A digital commemoration of a more immediate encounter between Googoosh and the Pahlavi state can be found

in a video of Googoosh’s performance at the Niavaran Palace on the occasion of Reza Pahlavi’s birthday which was uploaded by YouTube channel Free Iran Network. What is most notable about the content of this video is its gendered undertones. The trope of woman as nation, and the weaponization of womanhood in service of the construction of national identity, is something which has been observed across temporal, geographical, and political contexts. As mentioned briefly earlier, the metonymic relationship in the Iranian diasporic imaginary between Googoosh and the Pahlavi state is imbued with gendered ideas of nation.

In this video, deemed significant enough to be memorialized by the virtual space of the Iranian diaspora, Googoosh is seen performing the feminized labor not only of creating cultural product for the state, but of supporting in the upbringing of the next generation of the royal family. That is, Googoosh’s performance is rendered an act of mothering to the heir to the Pahlavi throne and, by extension, the dynasty’s future. This gendered relationship is central to the positioning of Googoosh as an iconographic symbol for pre-Revolutionary Iran. The circulation of such a gendered image steeped in nostalgia by way of a presumably royalist YouTube channel, then, is indicative of the space Googoosh continues to occupy in diasporic memory.

Even digital spaces assumed to be at least tangentially left of center are invested in the work of producing nationalist nostalgia, and employing feminine figures such as Googoosh in doing so. A personal essay written by Joobin Bekhrad, published on Reorient, an online publication of which he is the founder and editor, articulates that diasporic Iranians’ “notions of Iran as a country, for the most part, are based on rosy-hued memories of the idyllic 60s and 70s during the reign of the Shah, the nostalgic sound of Googoosh records, and the flowery splendour of our classical poetry.” The idea of diasporic longing for the Pahlavi era and the idea of Googoosh as a signifier of nostalgia are both part of the same thought for Bekhrad. That is, one cannot exist without the other. It is through both of these ideas that Bekhrad negotiates his relationship to homeland as a diasporic subject.

The affective relationship be-

tween Googoosh and Iranians in diaspora is one which signifies broader impulses in negotiations of identity. Googoosh has come to be understood in diaspora as an embodiment of nostalgia for the Pahlavi era. The persona that is Googoosh is one which is understood through lenses of social constructs such as gender, modernity, secularism, and the nation.

This persona does the work of carrying on the legacy of Pahlavi cultural production well after the dynasty’s demise in the collective memory and identity formation of Iranian diasporic subjects.

That is, the Iranian diasporic subject’s relationship to a homeland of the past is mediated not only by the virtual spaces of Iranian diaspora but also by necessarily feminine pop culture iconography.

I use the term “virtual spaces of Iranian diaspora” to refer to the nebulous assortment of modes of digital communication through which Iranians in diaspora communicate with one another as well as tertiary parties. This includes but is not limited to forums such as Telegram, Facebook, and YouTube. I am particularly interested in the ways these forums are used by diasporic Iranians to negotiate identity and position themselves in relation to one another and to other peoples and structures of power and identity.

1

PERSPECTIVE 11

The Assyrians of Turlock

O

riginating from the ancient Kingdom of Assyria, the modern Assyrian people once identified their homeland as the borderlands region between present-day Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey. As one of the only Christian minorities in the Middle East, Assyrians stood in stark contrast to their predominantly Muslim Persian, Arab, Kurdish, and Turkish neighbors. The 20th Century ushered in genocide, revolution, and political strife instigated by prevailing states, which resulted in this stateless minority’s exodus to Europe, North America, and Australia.

While many Assyrians initially settled in the Midwest as low-grade laborers, successive generations of immigrants relocated to California’s Central Valley to pursue agricultural work. Assyrian settlers consolidated an ethnic enclave in the city of Turlock by the early 1920s and progressively shed their agricultural past in favor of urban occupations.

By the early 1980s, Assyrians dominated Turlock’s service and professional sector, in fields like real estate and hospitality. According to the 2000 census, Assyrians comprise 4.9 percent of Turlock’s total population, however, local residents suggest that this number may be as high as 25 percent.

Although Turlock’s lush, planar geography starkly contrasts the arid, rugged mountains of northern Iraq and northwestern Iran, looks are deceiving. Six ethnic churches, a statue of legendary Queen Shamiram in Turlock City Hall, and a myriad of fine dining and fast food Assyrian joints throughout the city’s northern suburbs are a few of many fixtures that suggest the group’s prominence as financial assets to the city’s small-scale economy.

However, an Assyrians’ method of immigration— whether they arrived as sponsored immigrants or sought asylum as refugees—automatically relegates them to a pre-set social hierarchy within the Turlock community. Iranian-born Assyrians, who by and large arrived post-Islamic Revolution, head most professional businesses. In contrast, Iraqi-born Assyrians, who have sought refuge more recently after facing religious persecution by ISIS, continue to hold the bulk of service jobs.

This discordance—between Iranian old-timers and Iraqi newcomers—demonstrates why an all-encompassing Assyrian Festival was only organized for the first time in 2014. Although various religious and cultural organizations regularly assemble for events, Assyrians rarely united for a single event that honored their shared experiences as a single ethnic enclave in California. This emergent social hierarchy, however, is not fortuitous; Turlock serves as one of the only places where Iranian- and Iraqi-born Assyrians live side-by-side. As such, Turlock Assyrians are faced with the challenge of consolidating a culturally-dissimilar ethnicity that was divided by political boundaries for centuries. They are confronted with variations in linguistic dialects, cuisine, and religious sect affiliations—issues that never arose in provincial settlements within Iran or Iraq. Assyrian-Americans are challenged two-fold as immigrants; not only must they adjust to the United States, but they are also taxed with the responsibility of accommodating fellow Assyrians they

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by SEAN ADIBI

are disconnected from, both culturally and linguistically.

While civic organizations have attempted to bridge linguistic gaps, only recent revisions to archaic social structures have contributed to marked community consolidation.

Founded in 1947, the Assyrian-American Civic Club strives to promulgate a pan-Assyrian identity beyond the homeland through concerts, Assyrian language classes, scholarship programs, and holiday banquets. Nonetheless, concerts typically feature Persian-language performers and cater to a Persianate Assyrian identity. Recently-elected president Sam David promises to abide by the organization’s preamble in “[instilling] a sense of obligation for the Assyrian community.” As such, he has focused the organization’s attention toward events that cater to all Assyrians, such as the Gregorian and Assyrian New Year’s celebrations. In an interview, David expounded the “happy medium” that Iranian- and Iraqi-born Assyrians have cultivated through community organizations, despite originating from disparate historical backgrounds.

Nonetheless, David was born in Urmia, Iran, and affirmed the organization’s primary concentration on what he perceives to be an Iranian-born majority Assyrian population.

In 2017, administrators at local California State University, Stanislaus strived to document the Assyrian-American experience in the Central Valley. Upon observing the present divergences within the Turlock community, Dr. Stacy Fahrenthold headed the Sarguis Heritage Project, which funded the collection of over 1,000 Assyrian works in the campus library, in addition to Assyrian history and language courses. According to Fahrenthold, Assyrian history classes often required students to interview key community members, such as local bishops and organization leaders. She suggested that active participation in the community provided Assyrian-American youth with an avenue to not only become acquainted with modern institutions, but also to interact with cross-national channels that family ties would typically prevent them from accessing.

Regardless, the project has since been put on hold, and many Assyrian-American students again remain in familial social circles, in which old and new immigrants rarely correspond.

Assyrians often laud the rural city of Turlock as their unexpected haven. After experiencing decades of revolution, economic crises, and religious persecution, Assyrian-Americans frequently discuss the urgency for communal unity in order to pursue justice in the historical homeland. However, underlying socioeconomic, linguistic, and ideological disparities between Iraqi- and Iranian-born Assyrians have precluded unbridled harmony. While civic organizations aspire to foster unity, long-time Iranian-born residents inadvertently dominate the city on a social and organizational level. Educational initiatives, like CSU Stanislaus’ heritage project, are a critical asset in disbanding Turlock’s archaic social hierarchies that perpetuate an Iranian-Iraqi dichotomy.

In turn, sustained external support will extend the bounds of the Assyrian identity beyond national constraints and aid the Assyrians of Turlock in achieving greater cohesion.

IRAN, WOMEN & THE SCIENCES

by NEGIN AMOUEI

H

aving established itself as a highly conservative theocratic state, Iran has gained an infamous reputation for the disparity it has fostered among its female and male citizens, from mandatory veiling to restrictions on divorce. Yet, according to Quartz, nearly 70% of university graduates in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) in Iran are women, a higher percentage than in any other country. This seemingly defies the typical notion of Iranian women as individuals who have limited prospects in regards to cultural, social, and economic mobility—the notion of Iranian women as second-class citizens. A deeper look, however, reveals a much more complex relationship between such statistics and the incentives of Iranian women in pursuing STEM. To understand the circumstances abroad, it is necessary to first understand the intricacies of gender roles found here in the United States. American women are indeed disproportionately represented across STEM fields. In fact, only 18% of Computer Science degrees in the United States belong to women, a shockingly low percentage for a country that is often seen as a trailblazer for equality. Consequently, many initiatives in the US, such as Girls Who Code, aim to close this gap and empower girls to deconstruct traditional roles and reconstruct a more equal vocational future.

Why is it, then, that Iran, a country where women make up a mere 17% of the workforce, seems to have achieved more in representing women in traditionally male-dominated fields than Western welfare states? According to a paper published in Psychological Science, the answer comes down to one reason: motivation. Women in countries with greater gender inequality, as reported by the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Index, are simply seeking the clearest path to financial freedom and stability, and that often translates to more technical fields. In a country like Iran where the state of social security leaves little room for risky pursuits of the heart, women must act more strategically with their career choices and are frequently deprived of the freedom of choice so richly enjoyed by their American counterparts.

In an interview with Sara Amiri (name changed to protect privacy), a masters student studying chemical engineering with a focus in biotechnology at Babol University of Technology in Iran, she shared her experiences witnessing this very discrepancy in student gender ratios on a daily basis. Her technical school, unsurprisingly, consists of a majority female population. Amiri believes this stems from efforts by women to prove to employers, through an academic route, that they have the skills and capacity necessary to take on more challenging and complex roles in the workplace and in society as a whole. Men, on the other hand, know that paths with higher levels of financial security are waiting for them in the job market, so many forgo higher education degrees and directly enter the workforce. Nevertheless, even with a degree in hand, women still are subject to an array of discriminating forces. Before starting her master’s degree, Amiri attempted for an entire year to find a job related to her major, but was repeatedly turned down for interviews, especially by private companies. Apparently, a predefined condition for the jobs was to be a male “due to the challenging working conditions.” It seems, then, that the statistics are deceiving without context. A higher percentage of STEM graduates are indeed women in Iran, but unlike men, their success relies solely on obtaining their degree, a degree which does not even necessarily open more doors unless employers adopt gender-blind policies.

Reflected across countless stories like Amiri’s is a certain resilience found among Iranian women. This young generation of women works tenaciously in areas which bring about the highest return on their investment, as opportunities to advance their social status are otherwise scarce. They do so in hopes of establishing the importance of women not only in the economy but also in Iranian society altogether, despite the traditional roles often still expected of them such as childcare or household work. Beyond producing a high output of graduates, taking a step further and openly integrating them into the workforce would dramatically vitalize the region.

In fact, equalizing workforce participation between genders would produce an estimated 47% economic growth in the Middle East, a region in desperate need of invigoration and feminine resolve. More importantly, it would award Iranian women students the one commodity besides a degree that they work so hard to obtain: hope.

PERSPECTIVE 13

‫ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ رپ در اﯾﺮان‪ ،‬درﺳﺖ ﺷﺒﯿﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻫﺮ ﺳﺒﮏ و ﺳﯿﺎق ﻧﻮﯾﯽ در ﻋﺮﺻﻪ ﻫﺎی ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ ﻫرن‪ ،‬ﻣﺸﮑﻼت و ﺟﻨﺠﺎل ﻫﺎی ﻣﺘﻌﺪدی را ﭘﺸﺖ ﴎ ﮔﺬاﺷﺘﻪ ﺗﺎ ﺑﻪ‬ ‫ﺟﺎﯾﮕﺎﻫﯽ ﮐﻪ اﻣﺮوز دارد ﺑﺮﺳﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﺎ اﯾﻦ ﺣﺎل ﻫﻨﻮز در ﺑﯿﻦ ﺑﻌﻀﯽ ﮐﺴﺎﻧﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﺳﻨﺘﯽ و ﮐﻼﺳﯿﮏ اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ را ﻣﻮرد ﺳﺘﺎﯾﺶ و ﺗﺤﺴﯿﻦ ﻗﺮار ﻣﯽ دﻫﻨﺪ‪،‬‬ ‫اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ از ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﻗﺎﺑﻞ ﭘﺬﯾﺮش ﻧﯿﺴﺖ و ﺑﺴﯿﺎری از ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ داﻧﺎن و ﻫرنﻣﻨﺪان ﮐﺸﻮر ﺑﻪ ﺣامﯾﺖ و ﺗﺸﻮﯾﻖ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ منﯽ ﭘﺮدازﻧﺪ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ رپ )ﺑﻪ اﻧﮕﻠﯿﺴﯽ ‪ (“rap” :‬در دﻫﻪ ‪ ۱۹۶۰‬ﺗﻮﺳﻂ ﺳﯿﺎﻫﭙﻮﺳﺘﺎن آﻣﺮﯾﮑﺎﯾﯽ در ﻧﯿﻮﯾﻮرک ﺑﻪ وﺟﻮد آﻣﺪ و ﻫﺪف و ﻣﻘﺼﻮد اوﻟﯿﻪ اش اﻋﱰاض ﺑﻪ‬ ‫ﺗﺒﻌﯿﻀﺎت ﻧﮋادی ﺑﻮد ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﭽﻨﺎن زﻧﺪﮔﯽ اﯾﻦ ﻗﴩ ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ را ﺗﺤﺖ ﺗﺎﺛﯿﺮ ﻗﺮار ﻣﯽ داد‪ .‬ﺑﺎ ﮔﺬﺷﺖ زﻣﺎن و آﺷﻨﺎﯾﯽ ﺟﻮاﻣﻊ دﯾﮕﺮ ﺑﺎ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ‪،‬‬ ‫ﺑﺴﯿﺎری از ﺟﻮاﻧﺎن و ﻧﻮﺟﻮاﻧﺎن ﺑﻪ ﺣامﯾﺖ و ﻃﺮﻓﺪاری از اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﺑﺮﺧﺎﺳﺘﻨﺪ و آن را راﻫﯽ ﺑﺮای رﺳﺎﻧﺪن ﺻﺪا و ﺧﻮاﺳﺘﻪ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن ﺑﻪ ﻧﺴﻞ ﻫﺎی ﭘﯿﺸﯿﻦ‪،‬‬ ‫ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ‪ ،‬و ﺧﺼﻮﺻﺎ ﺣﮑﻮﻣﺖ ﻫﺎ دﯾﺪﻧﺪ‪ .‬اﯾﻦ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﮐﻪ اﺑﺘﺪا ﺑﻪ ﻋﻨﻮان ﯾﮏ ﺳﺒﮏ اﻋﱰاﺿﯽ و ﺳﯿﺎﺳﯽ‪/‬اﺟﺘامﻋﯽ ﻣﺤﺴﻮب ﻣﯽ ﺷﺪ رﻓﺘﻪ رﻓﺘﻪ ﻣﻮﺿﻮﻋﺎت و‬ ‫ﻣﺴﺎﺋﻞ ﺑﯿﺸﱰی را در دل ﺧﻮد ﺟﺎ داد و آزاداﻧﻪ و ﺑﯽ ﺗﺮس ﺑﻪ ﻣﺴﺎﺋﻠﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺻﺤﺒﺖ درﺑﺎره ی آن ﻫﺎ در ﺟﻮاﻣﻊ ﻣﺘﺪاول و ﻣﻌﻤﻮل ﻧﺒﻮد ﭘﺮداﺧﺖ‪ .‬ﴏاﺣﺖ‬ ‫و ﻣﺴﺘﻘﯿﻢ ﮔﻮﯾﯽ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﺑﻮد ﮐﻪ ﺑﺴﯿﺎری از ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯿﺪاﻧﺎن و ﻣﺘﻌﺼﺒﺎن ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ را ﺑﻪ ﻣﺨﺎﻟﻔﺖ ﺑﺎ آن ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ وادار ﮐﺮد‪.‬‬ ‫ﺑﺎ وﺟﻮد متﺎم ﻣﺨﺎﻟﻔﺖ ﻫﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺑﺰرﮔﺎن ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ و ﺟﻮاﻣﻊ ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ ﻫرنی ﺑﺎ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ رپ داﺷﺘﻨﺪ‪ ،‬اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﺑﻪ ﴎﻋﺖ در ﻣﯿﺎن ﺟﻮاﻧﺎن ﭘﯿﴩﻓﺖ ﮐﺮد و‬ ‫ﮐﻢ ﮐﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺗﻨﻬﺎ در زﺑﺎن اﻧﮕﻠﯿﺴﯽ ﺑﻠﮑﻪ ﺑﻪ زﺑﺎن ﻫﺎی ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ دﻧﯿﺎ آﺛﺎری ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﺗﻮﻟﯿﺪ ﺷﺪ‪ .‬در ﻫﺮ ﮐﺸﻮر ﺑﺎ ﺗﻮﺟﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻧﻮع ﺳﺎﺧﺘﺎر زﺑﺎﻧﯽ آن ﮐﺸﻮر و‬ ‫ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ ی ﻣﺨﺎﻃﺒﺎن‪ ،‬اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ دﺳﺘﺨﻮش ﺗﻐﯿﯿﺮ ﻣﯽ ﺷﺪ و ﭼﯿﺰی ﺑﻪ آن اﻓﺰوده و ﯾﺎ از آن ﮐﺎﺳﺘﻪ ﻣﯽ ﺷﺪ‪ .‬اﯾﺮان ) اﻟﺒﺘﻪ ﺑﺎ ﭼﻬﻞ ﺳﺎل ﺗﺎﺧﯿﺮ از ﮐﺸﻮر ﻫﺎی‬ ‫ﻏﺮﺑﯽ( ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ ﺟﺮﯾﺎن ﭘﯿﻮﺳﺖ‪ ،‬ﺑﻪ ﻃﻮری ﮐﻪ اﻣﺮوزه ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ رپ ﻋﻀﻮی ﺟﺪاﻧﺸﺪﻧﯽ از ﺟﻮاﻧﺎن اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ اﺳﺖ‪ .‬ﺑﺴﯿﺎری از ﺧﻮاﻧﻨﺪﮔﺎن ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﭘﺎپ اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ‪،‬‬ ‫ﺧﺼﻮﺻﺎ ﺧﻮاﻧﻨﺪﮔﺎن ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﭘﺎپ ﻟﺲ آﻧﺠﻠﺴﯽ ﺗﻼش ﺑﺮ اﯾﻦ داﺷﺘﻨﺪ ﺗﺎ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ را در ﻣﯿﺎن ﮐﺎرﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن ﺟﺎ ﺑﺪﻫﻨﺪ و ﻧﻈﺮ ﺗﻌﺪاد ﺑﯿﺸﱰی از‬ ‫ﻣﺨﺎﻃﺒﺎن ﺟﻮان را ﺑﻪ ﺧﻮد ﺟﻠﺐ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﺎ اﯾﻦ ﺣﺎل ﻫﯿﭻ ﯾﮏ از اﯾﻦ ﺗﻼش ﻫﺎ مثﺮﺑﺨﺶ ﻧﺒﻮد و ﻣﯽ ﺗﻮان ﮔﻔﺖ ﻫﯿﭻ ﮐﺪام از ﮐﺎرﻫﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻪ اﺳﻢ و ﻋﻨﻮان‬ ‫رپ ﻣﻨﺘﴩ ﻣﯽ ﺷﺪ‪ ،‬ارزش و وﯾﮋﮔﯽ ﻫﺎی اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ را ﻣﺎﻧﻨﺪ ﺑﯽ ﭘﺮواﯾﯽ‪ ،‬ﺳﺎﺧﺘﺎرﺷﮑﻨﯽ‪ ،‬آزاداﻧﻪ ﮔﻮﯾﯽ )ﺣﺘﯽ ﺗﺎ ﻣﺮز ﻓﺤﺎﺷﯽ ( و ﺳﺎﺧﺘﺎر ﮐﺎﻣﻼ ﻣﺘﻔﺎوت‬ ‫ﮐﻠامت و ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﺑﺎ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﭘﺎپ در ﺧﻮد ﻧﺪاﺷﺖ‪.‬‬ ‫در ﺣﺪود ﺳﺎل ‪ ۲۰۰۲‬ﻣﯿﻼدی ﻃﻼﯾﻪ داران اﺻﻠﯽ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ در زﯾﺮزﻣﯿﻦ ﻫﺎی ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻫﺎی ﺗﻬﺮان و ﺷﻬﺮﻫﺎی دﯾﮕﺮ اﯾﺮان ﻣﺸﻐﻮل ﻓﻌﺎﻟﯿﺖ ﺑﻮدﻧﺪ‪.‬‬ ‫از ﻫﻤﯿﻦ روﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ رپ ﻓﺎرﺳﯽ ﺗﺎ ﻣﺪت ﻫﺎ در اﯾﺮان ﺑﻪ ﻋﻨﻮان »ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ زﯾﺮزﻣﯿﻨﯽ« ﺷﻨﺎﺧﺘﻪ ﻣﯽ ﺷﺪ‪ .‬ﭼﻨﺪﯾﻦ ﻓﯿﻠﻢ ﻧﯿﺰ از ﺟﻤﻠﻪ »ﮐﺴﯽ از ﮔﺮﺑﻪ ﻫﺎی‬ ‫اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ ﺧﱪ ﻧﺪارد« ﺳﺎﺧﺘﻪ ی ﺑﻬﻤﻦ ﻗﺒﺎدی راﺟﻊ ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ ﮔﺮوه ﻫﺎ و ﻓﻌﺎﻟﯿﺖ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن ﺳﺎﺧﺘﻪ ﺷﺪ ﺗﺎ ﺳﺨﺘﯽ و ﻣﺸﮑﻼﺗﯽ ﮐﻪ اﯾﻦ ﮔﺮوه ﻫﺎ ﺑﺎ آن دﺳﺖ و ﭘﻨﺠﻪ‬ ‫ﻧﺮم ﻣﯽ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ را ﺑﻪ ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮ ﮐﺸﺎﻧﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﯽ ﺷﮏ ﭼﻨﯿﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ آزاداﻧﻪ و ﺑﯽ ﺑﻨﺪ و ﺑﺎری در ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ ی ﺑﺴﺘﻪ و ﻣﺘﻌﺼﺐ اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ منﯽ ﺗﻮاﻧﺴﺖ ﺑﻪ آﺳﺎﻧﯽ ﺑﻪ راه‬ ‫ﺧﻮد اداﻣﻪ دﻫﺪ و ﺗﻨﻬﺎ راه ﻣﻮﻓﻘﯿﺘﺶ ﻃﺮﻓﺪراﻧﯽ ﺑﻮدﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻧﯿﺎز ﺑﻪ ﻣﺤﯿﻄﯽ ﺑﺎز و رﻫﺎ از ﻫﺮ ﮔﻮﻧﻪ ﺗﻌﺼﺐ داﺷﺘﻨﺪ ﺗﺎ ﺣﺮف ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن را آزاداﻧﻪ ﺑﺎزﮔﻮ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻣﯽ ﺗﻮان ﺑﻪ ﻫﯿﭽﮑﺲ‪ ،‬زدﺑﺎزی‪ ،‬ﭘﯿﴩو و ﯾﺎس ﺑﻪ ﻋﻨﻮان اوﻟﯿﻦ رﭘﺮ ﻫﺎی ﺣﺮﻓﻪ ای اﺷﺎره ﮐﺮد ﮐﻪ ﻫﺮ ﮐﺪام ﺗﺎﺛﯿﺮ ﺑﻪ ﺳﺰاﯾﯽ در ﺗﻮﻟﯿﺪ‪ ،‬ﭘﯿﴩﻓﺖ و ﻣﺤﺒﻮﺑﯿﺖ اﯾﻦ‬ ‫ﺳﺒﮏ ﺟﺪﯾﺪ و ﺟﻨﺠﺎل ﺑﺮاﻧﮕﯿﺰ داﺷﺘﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﻫامن ﻃﻮر ﮐﻪ از ﻫﺮ اﺛﺮ ﻫرنی اﻧﺘﻈﺎر ﻣﯽ رود ﺗﺎ ﻫﺪﻓﯽ ﻣﺘﻔﺎوت ﺑﺎ آﺛﺎر دﯾﮕﺮ داﺷﺘﻪ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ‪ ،‬آﺛﺎر اﯾﻦ ﻫرنﻣﻨﺪان ﻫﻢ‬ ‫اﮔﺮﭼﻪ ﻫﻤﻪ در ﯾﮏ ﺳﺒﮏ ﺑﻮدﻧﺪ اﻣﺎ ﻣﻨﻈﻮر و اﻫﺪاف ﻣﺘﻔﺎوﺗﯽ را دﻧﺒﺎل ﻣﯽ ﮐﺮدﻧﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﻌﻀﯽ از اﯾﻦ ﻫرنﻣﻨﺪان ﺗﻨﻬﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺗﻮﻟﯿﺪ ﮐﺎرﻫﺎی ﺳﯿﺎﺳﯽ و اﺟﺘامﻋﯽ ﻣﯽ‬ ‫ﭘﺮداﺧﺘﻨﺪ‪ ،‬ﺑﻌﻀﯽ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺨﺎﻟﻔﺖ ﺑﺎ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﺗﮑﺮاری و ﺑﯽ ﻣﻌﻨﺎی ﭘﺎپ اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ ) ﺧﺼﻮﺻﺎ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﭘﺎپ ﻟﻮس آﻧﺠﻠﺴﯽ(‪ ،‬ﻋﺪه ای از ﺣﺎﻻت و ﻋﻮاﻃﻒ ﺷﺨﺼﯽ‬ ‫ﺧﻮد ﻣﯽ ﺧﻮاﻧﺪﻧﺪ و ﮔﺮوه ﻫﺎﯾﯽ ﻫﻢ ﺑﺪون ﻫﯿﭻ ﮔﻮﻧﻪ ﻗﺼﺪ ﺳﯿﺎﺳﯽ و اﻋﱰاﺿﯽ آﻫﻨﮓ ﻫﺎﯾﯽ در ﺗﻮﺻﯿﻒ زﻧﺪﮔﯽ ﺟﻮاﻧﺎن و آﻫﻨﮓ ﻫﺎﯾﯽ ﺑﺮای ﻣﻬامﻧﯽ ﻫﺎ‬ ‫و ﻟﺬت ﺑﺮدن ﻣﯽ ﺳﺎﺧﺘﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ ﻧﮑﺘﻪ ﺗﻮﺟﻪ داﺷﺖ ﮐﻪ منﯽ ﺗﻮان ﺑﻪ ﻫﯿﭻ ﯾﮏ از اﯾﻦ آﺛﺎر ﺑﺮﭼﺴﺐ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ رپ ﺧﻮب و ﺑﺪ ﭼﺴﺒﺎﻧﺪ زﯾﺮا ﻫﺮ ﯾﮏ‬ ‫از اﯾﻦ آﺛﺎر ﺗﺎﺛﯿﺮ ﺑﻪ ﺧﺼﻮﺻﯽ در ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ ی ﺟﻮاﻧﺎن اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ داﺷﺘﻪ اﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺷﺎﯾﺴﺘﻪ ﺑﺮرﺳﯽ و ﺗﻮﺟﻪ اﺳﺖ‪.‬‬ ‫اﻣﺮوزه ﻫﻤﭽﻨﺎن ﺑﻌﻀﯽ از ﻣﺘﻌﺼﺒﺎن و ﻣﺪاﻓﻌﺎن ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﺳﻨﺘﯽ اﯾﺮاﻧﯽ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻫرنی ﻧﻮ را ﻧﭙﺬﯾﺮﻓﺘﻪ اﻧﺪ و از ﮔﻮش ﮐﺮدن و ﺣامﯾﺖ از آن اﻣﺘﻨﺎع ﻣﯽ‬ ‫ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﭘﺬﯾﺮﻓﺖ ﮐﻪ ﻫﺮ اﺛﺮ ﻫرنی ﮐﻪ ﻣﻮرد اﺳﺘﻘﺒﺎل ﻋﺪه ی زﯾﺎدی از ﺟﺎﻣﻌﻪ ﻗﺮار ﻣﯽ ﮔﯿﺮد ﺑﯽ ﺷﮏ دارای ارزش اﺟﺘامﻋﯽ و ﻗﺎﺑﻞ ﺗﻮﺟﻪ ای اﺳﺖ‪.‬‬ ‫اﻣﺮوز وﻗﺖ آن اﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ اﯾﻦ ﺳﺒﮏ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ﮐﻪ در دﻧﯿﺎ ﭘﺬﯾﺮﻓﺘﻪ ﺷﺪه را ﺑﭙﺬﯾﺮﯾﻢ و ﺑﻪ ﺟﺎی اﻓﺰودن ﺳﺨﺘﯽ ﻫﺎ و ﻣﺸﮑﻼت ﺑﯿﺸﱰ ﺑﻪ ﮐﺎر ﻫرنﻣﻨﺪان رپ‬ ‫ﻓﺎرﺳﯽ‪ ،‬ﺷﺠﺎﻋﺖ و ﺑﯽ ﭘﺮواﯾﯽ ﺷﺎن را در ﺑﯿﺎن ﻣﺸﮑﻼت و وﻗﺎﯾﻌﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻫﯿﭻ ﺳﺒﮏ و ﺳﯿﺎق دﯾﮕﺮی ﺗﻮان و ﻇﺮﻓﯿﺖ ﺑﺎزﮔﻮﯾﯽ ﺷﺎن را ﻧﺪارﻧﺪ‪ ،‬ﺑﺴﺘﺎﯾﯿﻢ‪.‬‬ ‫‪14 PERSPECTIVE‬‬

untitled poem

by AZIN MIRZAAGHA

Times of injustice, Filled with inequality and violence Those holding the seats of power Refusing sympathy for mankind A world far from commitment, Far from understanding and support This is a time that we remain hopeless Until humanity is accompanied by generosity and goodness PERSPECTIVE 15

Far From Home To be an Afghan refugee in Iran

by MAHSHAD BADII

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sk any Iranian to describe Tehran’s famed Tajrish Square and you might get answers describing syrupy-sweet yakh-dar-behesht drinks sold on street-side shops or skyhigh malls displaying the latest trends from Europe. But Tajrish’s glamour, high fashion, and affluence come at a price—one that is paid by the same, often forgotten, group of people. They are the ones who build the skyscrapers, staff its dairy farms, and drive the economy’s manufacturing sector. They take pay and hours most Iranians would reel at, and live each day unsure if it will be their last waking up under the Tehrani skyline. They are Iran’s 3 million-strong Afghan refugee population. This is their story.

Mass Afghan migration into Iran began in the 1980s, when civil war and instability in Taliban-ridden Afghanistan drove thousands of refugees across the border. Iran’s relatively relaxed migration policy permitted Afghans to register as mohajerin, or involuntary migrants, which, although not “refugee” status per se, gave Afghans access to basic healthcare and government-provided subsidies on gas, food, and electricity. By 1990, Iran was still the largest host of Afghan refugees in the world, despite increasing fiscal pressures from the Iran-Iraq War and international isolation. As one Iran-born Afghan refugee recalled, “During the Iran–Iraq war, everybody was hit by the war. But we were treated like normal people. A government hospital operated on my brother for free when he was injured. Life was that nice.”

The welcoming refugee climate was not meant to last. Starting in 1992, Iran began halting all registration of Afghan migrants, and in 2000, the passage of Article 48 established plans for the repatriation of refugees back to Afghanistan. By the turn of the century, Afghan refugees who had once enjoyed the same rights and social benefits as native Iranians were now denied the right to move freely in the country and faced other restrictions in health care, employment, and education. Even Afghan refugees who had been granted permanent residency in the 1980s were forced to re-register under the Amayesh system, which only offers short-term residency permits that must be renewed annually. To make matters worse, the complex bureaucracy of navigating Amayesh and the high cost of renewal have caused many Afghans to forfeit their residency status. The final nail in the coffin came in 2007 when Iran ceased issuing new registration cards altogether. A lack of means to obtaining legal documentation and residency has thus pushed the over 2 million remaining Afghan refugees in Iran into a precarious existence: because they are undocumented, they are unable to access major services.

But if discovered and deported, they risk losing everything.

An overview of Iran’s refugee policy toward Afghanistan paints a grim picture. Iranian law limits Afghan refugees to manual labor jobs and bars the granting of citizenship—which can

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only be passed down by Iranian fathers—through marriage. Anyone who’s been to Tehran can comment on how common it is to see Afghan children working on the streets alongside their parents in carpet-weaving, agriculture, or garbage collection. Exclusion from the formal sector often results in Afghan workers entering contracts without social protection: in fact, more than 95% of Afghan employees lack contracts with their employers or access to benefits like sick leave. To make ends meet, many Afghans attempt to find loopholes in the law. One Afghan businessman in Mashhad, for example, has lived in Iran for 22 years and owns a business, but only under an Iranian friend’s name. He laments, “No matter how much money we have, our lives are valued less here. Without citizenship rights, doors to opportunity are closed.”

Still, the refugee narrative isn’t so black-and-white.

Amayesh grants each registered refugee continued access to free healthcare and other national services. While poverty among Afghan families is still prevalent, since 2015, all Afghan children have had the right to primary and secondary education. In fact, according to aid workers, compared to all other host countries, Iran has continuously invested more in Afghan refugees with much less international aid. Take the United States as an example: while Iran is a nation of 80 million that has taken in roughly 3 million refugees, the US, a nation of 325 million with arguably more industrial capability, has issued fewer than 18,000 visas to Afghans seeking refugee status.

Such a feat is even more impressive considering Iran has continued to host Afghan refugees through its current economic crisis. With the rial hitting a historic low of 170,000 to the dollar in September 2018, unemployment has soared and the manufacturing sector— the main employer of Afghans—in particular, has taken a hit.

And yet, on a September 2018 visit to Tehran, UN High Commissioner for Refugees Filippo Grandi hailed Iran for setting “a global example through its progressive and inclusive refugee policies.”

Iran’s immigration policy toward Afghanistan isn’t perfect. Less than 1% of Afghan workers have any social protection. But, importantly, only 23% of Iranians in the same jobs are covered by insurance, by comparison, due to the ease at which employers can cut corners in informal sectors. Such nuances to the Iranian welfare state and refugee policy thus demand that any analysis of Afghan refugees in Iran—whether by an internationally-acclaimed NGO or by Iranians within Iran—must be treated with a fair hand that avoids applying a double standard to a crumbling economy while Western nations get off scot-free.

Nevertheless, as an Iranian who enjoys my once-a-year sips of yakh-dar-behesht, I now know I can enjoy my drink and appreciate my country while also remembering who it was who made my drink in the first place—and what they lost along the way.

PERSPECTIVE 17

Destigmatizing the Stigmatized A Look at Mental Illness in Iran

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by JANAN MOSTAJABI

rowing up in a community that, more often than not, swept my emotional distress under the rug instead of giving me the courage to voice it was, perhaps, what initially sparked my interest in psychology, much to my parents’ dismay.

Living in Iran, I don’t remember once being asked how I was feeling—neither at school nor at home. What others seemed to care about really was how I was doing: how my grades were and whether my class presentations went well. There was, however, no talk of mental and emotional health. Even the school counselor’s primary job was to help foster academic success, arguably one of the most important hallmarks of personal achievement for Iranian families. The over-emphasis on productivity and outward, tangible achievements that is startlingly common in Iranian society is one barrier to improving mental and emotional health, which are, ironically, the prerequisites for success. Therefore, this approach is only self-destructive, as it undermines its own fundamental pillars.

Over-valuing outward achievements at the cost of personal well-being is not the sole barrier to mental health, though.

Stigmas around mental illness are just as prevalent among Iranians as is the obsession with competition and achievement, and for good reason. The primary unit in Iranian society, unlike in most Western societies, is the family. In fact, as social psychologist Hofstede argues, familial bonds have a crucial significance in the Iranian collectivist culture, and one’s self-image is defined in terms of a collective ‘We’ as opposed to an individualistic ‘I’.

Although not unique to Iran, this collectivistic worldview has important implications for individuals who suffer from mental illness in Iran. According to this mindset, when a person is grappling with a psychological disorder, the entire family, the ‘We’, is seen as mentally ill since the primary family members are thought to have also played an active role in provoking the mental condition. Considering the deciding role that one’s perceived reputation plays in social relationships, face-saving is an essential technique to help preserve one’s dignity within such a tightly-knit society. Thus, it is not surprising that the entire concept of ‘mental illness’ is considered taboo: talking about it, experiencing it, and even seeking help for it.

What makes the situation even more onerous is the issue of internalized stigma—the patient comes to see themself as an alienated and dysfunctional object and, in a way, becomes their own worst enemy. This leads to a loop of internalized negative thoughts and attitudes about the illness, resulting in a tendency to catastrophize the condition through self-fulfilling prophecy.

The patient then views the disparaging looks and remarks of relatives and family members as unquestionable evidence that validates the patient’s self-sabotaging beliefs, thereby intensifying them further. This continues in a vicious cycle. Being a mentally ill patient in Iran can sometimes be challenging—so much so that Iranian-American journalist Mehrnaz Samimi describes the

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experience as a “struggle with stigma.” Due to the general lack of acceptance and acknowledgement of mental illness, psychiatric medication has become the go-to treatment in Iran. This is partly because pills are relatively cheap and convenient compared to psychological therapy, but most importantly, because taking prescribed medication somaticizes the abstract notion of mental disorder, which is often wrongly believed to exist ‘only in the patient’s head.’ Unfortunately, taking psychiatric medication alone merely alleviates the symptoms but leaves the underlying causes of the mental illness unchanged.

Nevertheless, despite the less-than-ideal state of mental health, the Iranian community has not been sitting idly. In the past 15 years, there has been a revolution that has significantly raised the public’s awareness about the existence of mental illness, especially with regards to promoting an open discussion about mental and emotional health. This wave of openness owes much to the influence of external media; foreign websites, TV channels, and social media have all helped Iranian society slowly move beyond its stigma-stricken schema and engage in global conversation about mental and emotional well-being. Similarly, the education system has gradually recognized the crucial need to demystify mental illness, and consequently, Iranian schools have recently started conducting regular mental health assessments in order to track the students’ wellness. Therefore, it would be fair to argue that the overall state of mental illness in Iran, along with its stigmas and stereotypes, has improved over the past decades, but there is still potential for more improvement if we are to fully overcome the barrier of stigmatization.

In an interview with Dr. Sara Nasserzadeh, an Iranian-American social psychologist and award-winning author, she emphasized that simply acknowledging the realness of mental illness and its tangible consequences both for individuals and for society at large is the first, key step to a mentally healthier community. The second step is providing resources to Iranian society, particularly with the current sociopolitical climate where the lives of most Iranians in Iran are marked by uncertainty and isolation. Dr. Nasserzadeh argues that at this stage it is partly the responsibility of individuals living outside Iran, who have access to a wider range of resources, to create campaigns, blogs, and videos with the main aim of catalyzing the mental health revolution that sparked over a decade ago in Iran.

Looking back, I now better understand why my parents, who were raised in the Iranian culture that has often understated mental health concerns, gave me a look of disapproval when I first mentioned that I was going to become a psychologist. Yet, it is exactly in these instances of friction that a small act of resistance can lead to a dialectical acceptance of a previously unacknowledged notion. My parents eventually agreed that I become a psychologist; hopefully Iran, too, will soon embrace a destigmatized notion of mental illness.

TEHRAN STARS

by Sara zoroufy

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s we descend through the jet-black sky, the lulling purr of the plane’s engine is startlingly interrupted by the mechanical whir of the landing gear settling into place.

I press my nose against the cold window and feel the condensation forming on the plexiglass. Underneath us is nothing but darkness, until suddenly, there are stars. A long winding row of warm, yellow stars beckons to me. Anticipation courses through the tips of my fingers and settles in my stomach, the fluttering energy warms me just underneath my skin. Slowly, my row of stars is joined by others, green and red, bright white, sometimes blue. They begin to move and create dimension, illuminating the world beneath me. These artificial stars slowly, then all at once, outline the city that every year welcomes me home.

As we cross the threshold of the suffocating aircraft, I am hit with a familiar gust of air too hot to be considered warm, yet not uncomfortable. It blankets my frozen muscles, making every part of me more relaxed and fluid. At once, I am at ease.

The sweet smell of cigarette smoke fills me with so much joy that I ignore the acrid undertones of smog and pollution that threaten to sting my lungs. As we dash through the airport, my eyes catch signs written in the beautiful loops and curves of the

Persian alphabet. The announcer’s voice is soft; the perfectly round vowels compliment the crisp consonants that linger and slowly blur. Everything is comforting. Everything is just right.

For two months every summer, I live in a city where I almost belong. Where my culture, identity, and beliefs are not only acceptable, but normal. And yet, I don’t quite belong in Tehran because it is not my permanent home. Tehran inscribes indelible paragraphs into my story, yet my momentary presence there leaves almost no lasting impact of its own. I’m welcomed as a guest, a weary traveller to whom hospitality is extended for a few nights.

Yet, for those two months, I can almost forget that I am different. Everything around me is so familiar: the heavy air, the incense burned by sweet grandmothers, the light cotton prayer robes. The store clerks who know your name and ask after your aunt, the taxi drivers who will tell their life stories on a trip across town. Everywhere I go, everything is so perfectly, softly human. The juxtaposition of a bustling city and a deeply intimate culture make me feel invisible and free, known and loved all at once. It is this that I feel every year as the plane descends through the darkness and the yellow lights lining the highway create a starry sky beneath my feet.

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Remembering

Dr. Ehsan Yarshater 1920 – 2018

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rowing up in a Western society, unbiased sources of information on Iran and Iranian history have always been a rarity. Much of what I know about Iranian culture and history I have learned through my parents, be that through the stories of their personal experiences through revolution and war, to the proper spread of the haftsin for Norouz. I have always had a fear that the tales that I am unable to remember will never be passed down to children of my own someday, slowly filtering intimate knowledge on Iran that has not been skewed by a foreign scope to oblivion for future generations to come. That fear was put to rest when I discovered the many contributions made by Dr. Ehsan Yarshater. Yarshater was an eminent Iranian historian, linguist, and trailblazer in the realm of Iranian studies. Yarshater dedicated the majority of his 98 years of life to his work on Persian language, philology, and history. He was the first full-time Iranian professor at an American university post World War II, was awarded a multitude of awards for his work, and founded the Center for Iranian studies at Columbia University. Simply knowing Professor Yarshater’s work is a permanent addition to classrooms and history books allows me to comfortably say that those who wish to learn about their roots in Iran will be able to do so for many years to come.

Professor Yarshater was the founding editor of Encyclopædia Iranica—a project made with the intent to create a comprehensive English language encyclopedia about the history, culture, and civilization of Iranian people ranging from prehistory to modern times, originally published in 1982. “I had this ideal in my mind,” he told NPR in 2011, “that there would be an encyclopedia which would respond to all possible legitimate questions about Iran and its history and its civilization.” This ideal is exemplified by the fact that the encyclopedia includes entries on everything from ancient Persian Philosophy to fruits and vegetables.

No stone was left unturned in his meticulous pursuit to record each detail of the vast history of Iran and the Iranian diaspora.

Professor Yarshater started his project at age 52 and worked for 12 hours a day until his mid-90s, retiring in 2017, at the letter K of the alphabet. The new editor-in-chief, Elton Daniel, spoke of Yarshater’s wider effect stating, “He reminded a lot of people in different disciplines that there is an Iranian facet to what falls within their field.” Today, Encyclopædia Iranica has published 15 volumes, consisting of 7,300 entries by 1,600 authors, and plans are set for there to be 45 volumes in total.

These texts go beyond the scope and borders of modern Iran and encompass the entire Iranian cultural sphere. They shed light on Iranian civilizations in the wider Middle East, the Cau-

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casus, Europe, Central Asia, and the Indian Subcontinent, documenting Iran’s relationships with other world cultures along the way. Most of the published volumes are available in full online, with no cost. This decision is inspired by the necessity of access to such resources for anyone attempting to dive into the history of Iran. Abbas Amanat, a professor of History at Yale, said Professor Yarshater’s philosophy was “to show the complexity of [Persian] culture and fuse pre-Islamic with Islamic Iran to see a sense of continuity, without a naive glorification of ancient Iran.” It was of great importance to Yarshater to publish unbiased texts, neither seeking approval from Iran nor America, where he primarily worked, while bringing Iranica to fruition.

As an Iranian-American, I am indebted to Dr. Ehsan Yarshater and his work. It is with a heavy heart that I say Dr. Ehsan Yarshater passed away on September 2, 2018, at 98 years of age. The Center for Iranian Studies at Columbia University has been renamed “Ehsan Yarshater Center.” His life’s work will surely be utilized and celebrated for many generations to come.

by Kayla Fathi

Moshaereh

by SAM GHAFFARI-KASHANI

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addened by the end of summer, the start of fourth grade at my private school in Tehran brought much of the same back-to-school normalities I was accustomed to, including yet another boring Farsi teacher. However, unknown to my friends and I at the time was the fact that he was a famous Persian language scholar, and it would be awhile before we came to appreciate his wealth of knowledge. At first, having him as a teacher was even worse than we thought. Every Saturday, the first school day of the week, he would have arranged a meeting for all the kids to gather in the cafeteria during break so he could talk about poetry. To a bunch of 10-year-old boys the wise sayings of Hafez or the Shahnameh (Book of Kings) by Ferdowsi not only was meaningless but taking away time that could be spent playing cops and robbers in the playground didn’t seem to be the best idea.

But whether it was his overly exuberant description of the poems or his engaging reenactment of every single line, Aghaye Tajabor somehow made some of the most crucial parts of classic Persian culture interesting to us. Although I have long forgotten about most of the things he taught us about, one thing has remained with me 8 years later after moving away from Iran. Moshaereh is a game in which each individual has to recite a verse that begins with the letter that ended the last verse. Being in a rather competitive private elementary school, this game soon became the center of attention with everyone using any of their free time to sharpen their skills in the hopes of outperforming fellow students. I even made a notebook, which I

still have all these years later, containing the verses I knew in alphabetical order alongside strategies like memorizing poems that ended with letters that were used less in poetry.

While this might seem like I was going above and beyond, I wasn’t alone. There was even a series on the local education channel called chekame where kids ages 6-18 would compete in a game show with multiple categories all revolving around moshaereh. For myself, however, I had gotten so involved in the game that I would ask the older people at parties if they knew any poems hoping they would be willing to play with me. At the end of the school year, there was even a school wide competition where all my time spent playing paid off. I ended up tying for first alongside a friend of mine, simply because neither of us would back down. The game had continued until our break had ended.

Reflecting on this time, I realize how important it is for one to maintain a strong connection to their culture and for me, it was through moshaereh. That strong sense of heritage and passion that I feel when reading these poems constitutes an integral part of who I am. Here in the United States, however, I would meet kids who not only couldn’t name a single Persian poet, but whose knowledge of the culture was limited to having tasted kabob or locating the country on a map. It was disappointing to see kids so oblivious to one of the essential and ingrained parts of the Persian identity. And granted it is difficult to pursue learning more about that identity when you are thousands of miles away from Iran, there are ways. Whether it be through understanding more about the traditions, learning how to write or simply speaking Farsi, it is important, especially for those living away from Iran, to maintain that connection to the rich and vibrant Persian culture. It is a part of you that you cannot lose.

Granted I don’t play the game anymore, I still try my best to read as much poetry possible, and with a much more critical eye to try further understanding the underlying messages containing valuable life lessons that offer insights into my culture and myself.

I will always be grateful for what Aghaye Tajabor did for me all those years ago: laying the foundations and sparking the flames for what has become a truly rewarding journey in understanding more about where I have come from and the splendor of my Persian heritage. I am sure others, too, will find great value in embarking on this journey.

PERSPECTIVE 21

‫ﻋﻘﻞ دارد و ﻗﺪرت اﻧﺘﺨﺎب اﯾﻨﻬﺎ ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﻪ ﻣﺎﻧﻨﺪ ﻣﱰﺳﮑﻬﺎﯾﯽ‬ ‫ﻣﯽﻣﺎﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻓﻘﻂ ﺑﺮای ﭘﺮاﻧﺪن ﮐﻼغ ﻫﺎ ﺑﻪ درد ﻣﯽ ﺧﻮرﻧﺪ‪،‬‬ ‫اﻣﺎ ﺧﯿﻠﯽ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ درد ﻫﻢ منﯽ ﺧﻮرﻧﺪ اﯾﻨﻬﺎ ﺣﺘﯽ منﯽ‬ ‫ﺗﻮاﻧﻨﺪ ﺑﺮای ﺧﻮد ﺗﺼﻤﯿﻢ ﺑﮕﯿﺮﻧﺪ و ﻓﻘﻂ ﻋﺎدت ﻫﺎ را دﻧﺒﺎل‬ ‫ﻣﯽﮐﻨﻨﺪ و از ﻫﻨﺠﺎرﻫﺎ ﭘﯿﺮوی ﻣﯽﮐﻨﻨﺪ و دﯾﮕﺮ ﻫﯿﭻ‪ .‬منﯽ‬ ‫ﺗﻮاﻧﺪ ﮐﺎری ﺑﻪ ﺟﺰ اﯾﻦ اﻧﺠﺎم دﻫﻨﺪ ﻫﺮ ﺣﺮﮐﺘﯽ ﺑﻪ ﺟﺰء اﯾﻦ‬ ‫دﯾﻮاﻧﮕﯽ ﺗﻠﻘﯽ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮد‪ .‬اﻣﺎ ﮐﺎش ﻫﻤﻪ دﯾﻮاﻧﻪ ﺑﻮدﻧﺪ ﺑﻪ ﺟﺎی‬ ‫اﯾﻨﮑﻪ اﯾﻨﻘﺪر ﻋﺎدی ﺑﺎﺷﻨﺪ‪ .‬اﯾﻦ ﻣﱰﺳﮏ ﻫﺎ از ﻋﺎدی ﺑﻮدن‬ ‫ﺧﺴﺘﻪ منﯽ ﺷﻮﻧﺪ؟ از ﻋﺎدﺗﻬﺎ ﺧﺴﺘﻪ منﯽﺷﻮﻧﺪ؟ از ﭘﯿﺮوی‬ ‫ﮐﺮدن ﺧﺴﺘﻪ منﯽﺷﻮﻧﺪ؟ از ﺧﻨﺪه ﻫﺎی ﺑﯽ دﻟﯿﻞ‪ ،‬از ﮔﺮﯾﻪ‬ ‫ﻫﺎی ﭘﺮ ﻓﺮﯾﺐ ﺧﺴﺘﻪ منﯽ ﺷﻮﻧﺪ؟ ﭼﻄﻮر ﻣﯽﺗﻮاﻧﻨﺪ در ﻣﻘﺎﺑﻞ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﻧﺎﺣﻘﯽ و ﺑﯽ ﻋﺪاﻟﺘﯽ ﺳﺎﮐﺖ مبﺎﻧﻨﺪ و ﻓﻘﻂ ﺑﮕﻮﯾﻨﺪ ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮ‬ ‫اﺳﺖ‪ .‬ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮ؛ ﮐﺪام ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮ وﻗﺘﯽ ﻫﻤﻪ ﯾﮏ ﺷﮑﻞ و ﯾﮏ ﺟﻮرﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﭘﺲ اﯾﻦ ﭼﻪ ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮی اﺳﺖ؟ اﯾﻦ ﭼﻪ دﻧﯿﺎﯾﯽ اﺳﺖ؟ آﯾﺎ ﻫﻤﻪ‬ ‫ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮی ﯾﮑﺴﺎن دارﻧﺪ؟ ﻣﮕﺮ ﻧﻪ اﯾﻨﮑﻪ ده ﻫﺎ ﺑﺎر ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﮐﺲ دﺳﺖ ﺧﻮدش اﺳﺖ ﭘﺲ ﭼﺮا اﯾﻦ ﻣﱰﺳﮏ ﻫﺎ ﻫﻤﻪ‬ ‫ﻣﺜﻞ ﻫﻢ اﻧﺪ ﻧﮑﻨﺪ اﯾﻦ ﺗﻘﺪﯾﺮ ﮐﻪ ﻣﯿﮕﻮﯾﻨﺪ ﺑﺮای ﻫﻤﻪ ﯾﮏ‬ ‫ﺟﻮر اﺳﺖ ﯾﺎ ﺷﺎﯾﺪ اﯾﻨﻬﺎ ﻣﯽﺧﻮاﻫﻨﺪ ﯾﮏ ﺟﻮر ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﭼﻮن‬ ‫اﯾﻨﻄﻮر راﺣﺖ ﺗﺮ اﺳﺖ ﻻاﻗﻞ ﻣﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ ﮐﻪ آﯾﻨﺪه ﺷﺎن ﭼﻪ‬ ‫ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮد‪ .‬ﻣﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ ﭼﻪ ﻟﺠﻦ ﻫﺎﯾﯽ در اﯾﻦ ﻣﺮداب ﺧﻮاﻫﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺷﺪ اﻣﺎ ﺷﺎﯾﺪ اﯾﻦ ﺑﻬﱰ از اﯾﻦ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻣﺎﻫﯽ ﺑﺎﺷﻨﺪ و در‬ ‫ﻣﺮداب ﻣﺪﻓﻮن ﮔﺮدﻧﺪ ﺷﺎﯾﺪ از ﺑﯿﺮون از ﻣﺮداب ﻣﯽ ﻫﺮاﺳﻨﺪ‬ ‫و ﻓﻘﻂ ﻣﯽﺧﻮاﻫﻨﺪ در آﻧﺠﺎ ﺳﮑﻨﺎ ﮔﺰﯾﺪﻧﺪ و در آﺧﺮ ﻫﻢ در‬ ‫ﻫامﻧﺠﺎ ﺑﭙﻮﺳﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﻪ ﻧﻈﺮ آﻧﻘﺪرﻫﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺑﺪ منﯽ آﯾﺪ ﺑﻪ درد‬ ‫اﯾﻦ ﻣﺪﻋﯿﺎن ﺑﯽ ﺗﻔﮑﺮ ﻣﯽﺧﻮرد‪ .‬اﯾﻨﻬﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺣﺘﯽ منﯽﺗﻮاﻧﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺑﺮای از ﺟﺎ ﺑﻠﻨﺪ ﺷﺪ ﻧﺸﺎن ﺗﺼﻤﯿﻢ ﺑﮕﯿﺮﻧﺪ ﻫامن ﺑﻬﱰ ﮐﻪ در‬ ‫ﻣﺮداب مبﺎﻧﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﻣﺮداﺑﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻫﺮ ﮐﺪام ﺑﺮای رﺳﯿﺪن ﺑﻪ ﭼﯿﺰی‬ ‫ﮐﻪ ﻣﯽ ﺧﻮاﻫﻨﺪ دﺳﺖ و ﭘﺎ ﻣﯽ زﻧﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﮔﺎﻫﯽ ﭘﯿﺮوز ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮﻧﺪ‬ ‫و ﺑﺎ ﮔﺮﻓنت ﺟﺸﻨﯽ ﴎ و ﺗﻪ آن را ﻫﻢ ﻣﯽ آورﻧﺪ و ﮔﺎﻫﯽ‬ ‫ﺷﮑﺴﺖ ﻣﯽ ﺧﻮرﻧﺪ و ﺑﺪون آﻧﮑﻪ ﺑﺪاﻧﻨﺪ ﭼﺮا و ﭼﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﻣﯽ‬ ‫ﮔﻮﯾﻨﺪ ﺗﺎ ﺑﻮده ﻫﻤﯿﻦ ﺑﻮده ﺗﺎ ﻫﺴﺖ ﻫﻤﯿﻦ اﺳﺖ و از ﭼﯿﺰی‬ ‫ﮐﻪ ﻣﯽ ﺧﻮاﻫﻨﺪ دﺳﺖ ﻣﯽﮐﺸﻨﺪ و ﺑﻌﺪ ﺑﻪ زﻧﺪﮔﯽ در ﻣﺮداب‬ ‫اداﻣﻪ ﻣﯽدﻫﻨﺪ و روزﻫﺎ را ﻣﯽ ﮔﺬراﻧﺪﻧﺪ و ﺑﻪ آن اﻫﺪاف‬ ‫دﺳﺘﻪ ﺟﻤﻌﯽ ﺧﻮد ﮐﻪ ﭼﯿﺰی ﺟﺰ ﺧﻮردن و ﺧﻮاﺑﯿﺪن و ﺣﺮف‬ ‫ﻣﻔﺖ زدن و ﻧﯿﺎزﻫﺎی ﺟﺴامﻧﯽ و ازدواج و ﺑﭽﻪ داری و ﻣﺮگ‬ ‫ﻧﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﯽﭘﺮدازﻧﺪ ‪ . . .‬اداﻣﻪ دارد‬ ‫‪22 PERSPECTIVE‬‬

‫ﺗﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺣﺎل ﺷﺪه ﺑﻪ ﯾﮏ ﻣﺎﺷﯿﻦ ﻣﺪل ﺑﺎﻻ ﺑﺮ ﺑﺨﻮرﯾﺪ ﮐﻪ ﯾﮏ ﺑﭽﻪ ﺑﯿﺴﺖ‪ ،‬ﺑﯿﺴﺖ و ﯾﮏ ﺳﺎﻟﻪ راﻧﻨﺪه آن ﺑﺎﺷﺪ و ﯾﺎ ﺗﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺣﺎل ﺷﺪه ﮐﻪ ﺑﺎ‬ ‫ﯾﮏ ﺑﭽﻪ ﻓﺎل ﻓﺮوش ﺑﺮﺧﻮرد ﮐﺮده ﺑﺎﺷﯿﺪ ﮐﻪ ﴎ و وﺿﻌﺶ ﺣﺎﮐﯽ از آن اﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ ﻫﻔﺘﻪﻫﺎ و ﯾﺎ ﻣﺎه ﻫﺎ ﺣامم ﻧﮑﺮده و ﻟﺒﺎﺳﯽ ﺗﺎزه ﺑﺮ ﺗﻦ‬ ‫ﻧﮑﺮده اﺳﺖ ؟ ﺗﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺣﺎل ﺑﻪ ﯾﮏ ﺳﺎﺧﺘامن ﭼﻨﺪﯾﻦ ﻃﺒﻘﻪ ﮐﻪ ﮔﻮﯾﯽ ﺑﺮج ﻧﺎم دارد ﻧﮕﺎه ﮐﺮده اﯾﺪ؟ ﺳﺎﺧﺘامﻧﯽ ﮐﻪ از ﺷﻤﺮدن ﻃﺒﻘﺎت آن‬ ‫ﴎﮔﯿﺠﻪ ﻣﯿﮕﯿﺮﯾﺪ! و ﯾﺎ ﺑﻪ ﯾﮏ آﻟﻮﻧﮏ ﮐﻮﭼﮏ ﮐﻪ ﺧﺮاﺑﻪ ﺗﻠﻘﯽ ﻣﯽﺷﻮد و دهﻫﺎ ﻧﻔﺮ اﻋﻢ از ﮐﻮﭼﮏ و ﺑﺰرگ ﯾﮏ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده در آن ﺟﻤﻊ‬ ‫ﻫﺴﺘﻨﺪ ﻧﮕﺎه ﮐﺮده اﯾﺪ؟‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده راﺳﺘﯽ ﺷام ﻣﯽداﻧﯿﺪ اﯾﻦ واژه ﺑﻪ ﭼﻪ ﻣﻌﻨﺎﺳﺖ؟ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده؛ واژه ای ﺑﺲ ﮔﺮم و ﺻﻤﯿﻤﯽ اﺳﺖ و در ﻋﯿﻦ ﺣﺎل ﴎد و ﺧﺸﻦ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺑﻪ ﻧﻈﺮ ﻣﻦ واژه ای ﭘﯿﭽﯿﺪه اﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ در ﺗﻼﻃﻢ آن اﻓﺮادی را ﺑﻪ ﺻﺤﻨﻪ روزﮔﺎر دﻋﻮت ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ‪ .‬اﻣﺎ ﺑﻪ ﻧﻈﺮ ﺷام ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده ﻓﻘﻂ ﯾﮏ واژه‬ ‫اﺳﺖ؟ ﯾﮏ ﮐﻠﻤﻪ ‪ ،‬ﯾﮏ ﻟﻐﺖ‪ ،‬ﯾﮏ ﺳﺎﺧﺘﻪ دﺳﺖ ﺑﴩ؛ ﭘﺲ اﮔﺮ اﯾﻨﮕﻮﻧﻪ اﺳﺖ ﭼﺮا ﮐﻮدﮐﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺣﺘﯽ ﺟﺎی ﺧﻮاﺑﯽ و ﻏﺬاﯾﯽ ﺑﺮای ﺧﻮردن‬ ‫و آﺑﯽ ﺑﺮای آﺷﺎﻣﯿﺪن ﻧﺪارد را ﭘﺪﯾﺪ ﻣﯽآورد و در آﺧﺮ و اﻋﻀﺎﯾﺶ ﻣﯽ ﮔﻮﯾﺪ‪ :‬ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده‪.‬‬ ‫و ﮐﻮدﮐﯽ را ﻣﯿﺒﯿﻨﯽ ﮐﻪ از ﺑﺲ ﺧﻮرده و ﻧﻮﺷﯿﺪه آﻧﻘﺪر ﻓﺮﺑﻪ ﺷﺪه ﮐﻪ ﺑﺮای ﺣﺮﮐﺖ ﮐﺮدن ﻧﯿﺰ از ﻣﺎﺷﯿﻦ ﻫﺎی ﮔﻮﻧﺎﮔﻮن اﺳﺘﻔﺎده ﻣﯽ ﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﮐﻪ اﻓﺮاد ﺑﻪ او و دﯾﮕﺮ اﻋﻀﺎی ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده اش ﻣﯽ ﮔﻮﯾﻨﺪ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده‪ .‬واژه ﻫﺎ ﺑﺮاﺑﺮ اﺳﺖ ﻫﺮ دو ﺑﺮای ﺗﻮﺻﯿﻒ ﺧﻮد و ﻫﻢ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن از‬ ‫واژه ای ﺑﻪ ﻧﺎم ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده ﺑﻬﺮه ﻣﯽ ﮔﯿﺮﻧﺪ اﻣﺎ اﯾﻦ ﮐﺠﺎ و آن ﮐﺠﺎ!‬ ‫ﻣﯽ داﻧﯿﺪ از ﻫﻤﻪ ﺟﺎﻟﺐ ﺗﺮ ﭼﯿﺴﺖ اﯾﻨﮑﻪ ﻫﺮ دو در ﻫﻤﺴﺎﯾﮕﯽ ﯾﮑﺪﯾﮕﺮ زﻧﺪﮔﯽ ﻣﯽ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﮔﺎه ﺑﭽﻪ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن ﺑﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺑﺎزی ﻣﯽ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ ‪،‬ﮔﺎه‬ ‫ﺑﺎ ﻫﻢ دوﺳﺖ ﻣﯿﺸﻮﻧﺪ و ﺷﺎﯾﺪ روزی ﻫﺮ دو ﻋﻀﻮ ﯾﮏ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده دﯾﮕﺮ ﺑﻮدﻧﺪ اﻣﺎ آﻧﻘﺪر ﺑﯿﻨﺸﺎن ﻓﺎﺻﻠﻪ اﻓﺘﺎده ﮐﻪ ﺣﺘﯽ ﻧﺎم ﯾﮑﺪﯾﮕﺮ را‬ ‫ﻧﯿﺰ ﺑﻪ ﯾﺎد ﻧﺪارﻧﺪ‪ .‬آﻧﻘﺪر در ﺑﯿﭽﺎرﮔﯽ و ﺳﺨﺘﯽ و ﯾﺎ در راﺣﺘﯽ و آﺳﻮدﮔﯽ ﻏﻠﻄﯿﺪه اﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺣﺘﯽ ﻧﺎم ﺧﻮد را ﻧﯿﺰ منﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ‪ .‬اﺻﻠﺸﺎن را‬ ‫ﻧﯿﺰ از ﯾﺎد ﺑﺮدهاﻧﺪ‪ ،‬ﺧﻮدﺷﺎن را ﻫﻢ از ﯾﺎد ﺑﺮدهاﻧﺪ؛ ﺣﺘﯽ اﻧﺴﺎن ﺑﻮدن را ﻫﻢ از ﯾﺎد ﺑﺮدهاﻧﺪ‪ .‬آﯾﺎ منﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ از ﺧﺎﮐﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺑﺮ روﯾﺶ ﻗﺪم‬ ‫ﻣﯽﮔﺬارﻧﺪ ﺗﺸﮑﯿﻞ ﺷﺪه اﻧﺪ؟ آﯾﺎ منﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ ﮐﺎﻟﺒﺪﺷﺎن ﻣﺘﺸﮑﻞ از روح ﻫامن ﺧﺪاﯾﯿﺴﺖ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻨﮑﺮش ﻫﺴﺘﻨﺪ؟‬ ‫ﭼﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺗﻮاﻧﺴﺘﻨﺪ ﺧﻮدﺷﺎن را ﻓﺮاﻣﻮش ﮐﻨﻨﺪ؟ ﭼﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺗﻮاﻧﺴﺘﻨﺪ ﭼﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺷﺪ ﮐﻪ اﯾﻨﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺷﺪ؟ ﭼﻪ ﭼﯿﺰ ﻣﻮﺟﺐ ﻓﺮاﻣﻮﺷﯽ اﯾﻦ ﻣﻮﺟﻮدات‬ ‫ﺑﻮد؟ ﺑﮕﺬارﻧﺪ ﻫﻤﺴﺎﯾﮕﺎﻧﺸﺎن ﮔﺮﺳﻨﻪ مبﺎﻧﺪ؟ ﮔﺮﺳﻨﮕﯽ؛ ﻧﻪ ﻣﻨﻈﻮرم ﻏﺬا ﻧﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﻨﻈﻮرم ﺑﯽ اﻧﺪﯾﺸﻪ و ﺗﻔﮑﺮ ﺑﻮدن اﺳﺖ‪ .‬ﻣﻨﻈﻮرم ﻧﺎدان‬ ‫ﺑﻮدن اﺳﺖ‪ .‬ﺑﻌﻀﯽ از آﻧﻬﺎ آﻧﻘﺪر ﮐﺘﺎب ﻣﯽﺧﻮاﻧﻨﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻣﯽﺗﺮﺳﻢ ﭼﺸامﻧﺸﺎن از ﺣﺪﻗﻪ ﺑﯿﺮون ﺑﺰﻧﺪ اﻣﺎ ﻣﯿﺒﯿﻨﯽ ﺣﺘﯽ ذره ای ﻫﻢ از‬ ‫اﻧﺴﺎﻧﯿﺖ در ﺑﺮ ﻧﺪارﻧﺪ اﻣﺎ ﺑﻌﻀﯽ ﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن از ﺧﻮاﻧﺪن ﯾﮏ ﮐﺘﺎب ﻫﻢ درﯾﻎ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﻨﺪ ﻧﻪ ﺑﻪ ﺧﺎﻃﺮ ﻧﺨﻮاﺳنت ‪،‬ﺑﻪ ﺧﺎﻃﺮ ﻧﺪاﺷنت ﺧﯿﻠﯽ ﺑﯿﺸﱰ‬ ‫ﻣﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ‪ .‬از اﻧﺴﺎﻧﯿﺖ دم ﻣﯽ زﻧﻨﺪ‪ ،‬از ﺟﻮامنﺮدی‪ ،‬از آزادی‪ ،‬از ﻋﺸﻖ‪ ،‬از ﭘﺎﮐﯽ‪ ،‬از ﺻﺪاﻗﺖ‪ ،‬از …‬ ‫ﭼﺮا اﯾﻦ ﻣﺸﮑﻼت ﺑﻪ وﺟﻮد آﻣﺪ؟ ﺷﺎﯾﺪ ﯾﮑﯽ از دﻻﯾﻠﺶ اﯾﻦ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﮐﻪ آدم ﻫﺎ ﺧﻮد را از ﯾﺎد ﺑﺮدهاﻧﺪ و آﻧﻘﺪر دﭼﺎر روزﻣﺮﮔﯽ ﻫﺎ و‬ ‫ﻋﺎدتﻫﺎ ﺷﺪهاﻧﺪ از دﯾﮕﺮی ﮐﻪ ﻫﯿﭻ‪ ،‬از ﺧﻮد ﻫﻢ ﺑﯽ ﺧﱪﻧﺪ‪ .‬ﻓﻘﻂ ﻣﯽ داﻧﻨﺪ ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﻫﺮ ﺻﺒﺢ ﺑﯿﺪار ﺷﻮﻧﺪ ﺻﺒﺤﺎﻧﻪ ﺑﺨﻮرﻧﺪ و ﯾﺎ ﺑﻪ ﻗﻮل‬ ‫آدم ﻫﺎی ﺷﯿﮏ و ﻣﺪرن ﺻﺒﺤﺎﻧﻪ ﻣﯿﻞ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ؛ ﺳﺎﻋﺖﻫﺎ وراﺟﯽ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪ ،‬داد ﺑﺰﻧﻨﺪ‪ ،‬ﻓﺨﺮ ﺑﻔﺮوﺷﻨﺪ‪ ،‬ﮔﺪاﯾﯽ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‪ ،‬ﺑﻪ ﭘﺎی اﯾﻦ و آن ﺑﯿﺎﻓﺘﺪ ﺗﺎ‬ ‫ﻇﻬﺮ ﻓﺮا رﺳﺪ‪ .‬ﺑﻌﺪ از ﺧﻮاﻧﺪن منﺎزی ﮐﻪ ﮔﻮﯾﯽ در ﻣﺪرﺳﻪ ﺑﻪ آﻧﻬﺎ ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﺑﺨﻮاﻧﯿﺪ‪ ،‬اﻣﺎ دﻟﯿﻠﺶ را ﻧﭙﺮﺳﯿﺪﻧﺪ ﭼﻮن ﯾﮏ ﮐﺎری اﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﯾﺪ اﻧﺠﺎم ﺷﻮد و دﻟﯿﻞ ﻫﻢ ﻧﺪارد‪ .‬آن ﻫﻢ از روی رﯾﺎ و ﺑﺎ ﻫﺰاران دل ﻣﺸﻐﻮﻟﯽ و ﺧﻮردن ﻏﺬاﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺷﺎﯾﺪ ﺳﺎﻋﺘﻬﺎ ﺑﺮای آﻣﺎده ﮐﺮدﻧﺶ‬ ‫وﻗﺖ ﴏف ﺷﺪه اﻣﺎ ﺗﻨﻬﺎ در ﻋﺮض ﯾﮏ ﺛﺎﻧﯿﻪ ﺗﻨﺎول ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮد ﺑﻪ ﮐﺎرﻫﺎی ﻋﺎدی و روزﻣﺮه ﺧﻮد اداﻣﻪ ﻣﯽدﻫﻨﺪ و ﺑﻌﺪ ﺑﻪ ﺧﺎﻧﻪﻫﺎﯾﺸﺎن‬ ‫ﻣﯽروﻧﺪ ﺑﻠﻪ ﻫامن ﺧﺎﻧﻪﻫﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ اﻋﻀﺎﯾﺶ ﺧﺎﻧﻮاده ﺗﻠﻘﯽ ﻣﯽﺷﻮد و ﺷﺐ را ﺑﻪ ﺻﺒﺢ ﺑﺮﺳﺎﻧﻨﺪ‪ .‬ﻫﺮ روزﺷﺎن ﺑﻪ ﻫﻤﯿﻦ ﺷﮑﻞ ﻣﯽﮔﺬرد اﯾﻦ‬ ‫آدم ﻫﺎ ﺑﻪ ﭼﻪ ﻣﯽاﻧﺪﯾﺸﻨﺪ؟ اﺻﻼ ﻣﯽ اﻧﺪﯾﺸﻨﺪ؟ ﺑﻌﯿﺪ ﻣﯽداﻧﻢ! ﭼﻮن اﮔﺮ اﯾﻨﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺑﻮد ﻗﺪری ﺑﻪ ﺧﻮد ﻣﯽ آﻣﺪﻧﺪ و ﺗﻨﻬﺎ ﺑﻪ اﯾﻦ روزﻣﺮﮔﯽ‬ ‫ﻫﺎ منﯽ ﭘﺮداﺧﺘﻨﺪ‪ .‬آدم؛ راﺳﺘﯽ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮد ﺑﻪ اﯾﻨﻬﺎ ﮔﻔﺖ آدم ﻣﮕﺮ ﻫﺰاران ﺑﺎر در ﮐﺘﺎبﻫﺎ ﻧﺨﻮاﻧﺪه اﯾﻢ و از اﯾﻦ و آن ﻧﺸﻨﯿﺪه اﯾﻢ ﮐﻪ آدم‬ ‫‪PERSPECTIVE 23‬‬

Hajj Agha & Khaleh Sooskeh by ariana dideban

I

first discovered my favorite flavor of ice cream when I was four years old.

It was a humid summer day and sweat glistened on my face. My mother decided to take me down bustling Westwood Boulevard to buy ice cream. She guided me down the sidewalk past Iranian cafes, music shops, and bookstores, until we arrived at a store sandwiched between a traditional restaurant and a cigar shop.

It had old white tiling and weathered carpets, and the walls were tinged a yellow hue. The shelves were filled to the brim with a variety of commonplace household items, from nuts to dried fruit, to tea. But my innocent eyes were averted elsewhere; a broad ice cream refrigerator grabbed my attention, and I dashed to pursue its contents. Upon arrival, I was intrigued by the three distinct flavors. They looked nothing like anything I had ever seen in the ice cream stores of my past, like Baskin Robbins or Haagen Dazs. The colors were pale, and the textures varied.

Some ice creams had chunks and others were composed of long strands that looked like rice.

I peered above the ice cream case and saw an older Iranian man, with a white beard and brightly-lit eyes. He smiled down at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

My mother’s soothing voice beckoned me. She proceeded to describe each flavor to me, and that the flavors were unique to my heritage. I was accustomed to flavors like strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla, so she helped me pick out a flavor from the three not-so-typical types—saffron ice cream with pistachio pieces and

24 PERSPECTIVE

cream chunks. The elderly man scooped the ice cream and bent down to hand me the cup. When my mother pulled out her wallet to pay, he shook his head, insisting on giving me the ice cream free of charge.

After a few minutes of debate, my mother surrendered.

The first spoonful of the foreign concoction was life-changing.

With every bite, a burst of flavor flooded my mouth. I began to actively search through the ice cream, scavenging for bite-sized cream chunks. Once they were discovered, I pressed my tongue against them to melt them in my mouth, grinning as they dissolved.

Thereafter, I became a regular customer; my mother brought me weekly to satiate my saffron ice cream obsession. She addressed the old man as Hajj Agha—a label that entailed high esteem— and I began to address him by Hajj Agha as well.

When I grew older, I learned that Hajj Agha had been selling ice cream for decades and even created his own brand called “Golo Bol Bol.” Each container depicted Hajj Agha in a suit and tie; whenever the label would appear in my home, I couldn’t help but smile.

From then on, Hajj Agha instantly recognized my mother and I when we would walk into the store.

“Salaam Ms. Khaleh Sooskeh!

What would you like?” he would ask calmly.

Khaleh Sooskeh is a part of an old Iranian fable about a beautiful cockroach.

My four-year-old self was instantly offended, even though my mother attempted to clarify that the old man meant this as a term of endearment.

Hajj Agha continued to call me “Khaleh Sooskeh,” and I continued to tell him what flavor of ice cream I wanted.

Even at a young age, I understood that Hajj Agha aspired to grant me a small piece of Iran through saffron ice cream.

His kindness gave me a sense of comfort and allowed me to become more familiar with my Iranian heritage.

Hajj Agha was more than just a grandfather figure to me. He was respected by the entire community. Regardless of the event, from family gatherings to community banquets, “Golo Bol Bol” made an appearance. It became Westwood Iranians’ staple.

Years later, Hajj Agha passed away, and his son took over his ice cream brand and shop. The store’s location moved and opened with obscure, all-too-American flavors like “cotton candy” and “mocha chocolate chip,” which attracts crowds from the entire Los Angeles region. The original elements that made the brand famous within Westwood’s Iranian community were thereafter overpowered by the colorful new flavors. Nonetheless, my favorite flavor, saffron ice cream with pistachio and cream chunks, still remains.

When I pass by the new store, an overwhelmingly bittersweet sensation floods my chest. I am reminded of how Hajj Agha helped me understand that Iran, just like the United States, hosts an abundance of its own distinct cultural practices—for me, that manifested in my discovery of saffron ice cream with chunks. While the old store is gone, Hajj Agha’s face on the “Golo Bol Bol” container serves as a permanent reminder of his utmost generosity and my childhood innocence.

“E

nemy,” “attack,” and “sanctions” are all words that appear the advantage of being more connected to the Iranian commufrequently in the headlines of U.S. news articles about nity and diaspora—providing her access to a greater breadth Iran. American audiences have grown accustomed to encoun- and depth of first- and second-hand information. And while tering Iran’s name solely in regards to news of war or looming the LA Times often relies on a ‘stringer’—a freelance jourpolitical conflict, according to Dr. Persis Karim, professor and nalist—in Iran, Etehad says speaking Farsi is a major advandirector of the San Francisco State University Center for Irani- tage to her. “[If] it's 3:00 a.m. Iran time and there [is] a major an Diaspora Studies. Dr. Karim moderated a conversation with breaking event, who do you depend on?” Etehad said. “You Los Angeles Times journalist Melissa Etehad on September 27 depend on people in the newsroom, not our stringer. And so at the UC Berkeley Center for Middle Eastern Studies titled if I need to find a source, I can only talk to them in Farsi.” Ete“Covering and Uncovering Iran in the Age of Trump.” After- had finds many of these sources on Twitter, through which ward, Etehad and I sat down to discuss her role as an Irani- she can verify Twitter handles to ensure they are not bots. an-American journalist in shaping the media’s portrayal of Iran. But Twitter is not the only place journalists go for news sourcSomething Etehad feels is missing from es. Etehad also shared that she uses information the media’s portrayal of Iran is how current from think tanks or research organizations events are personally affecting the Irathat often derive revenue from consultnian diaspora. “What better way to ing work related to their projects. learn about Iranians than to talk to However, she also expressed rethe diaspora community here?” gret about how this reliance of Etehad remarked. However, journalists on think tanks may she suggests that the decline contribute to the media’s negin the journalism industry ative portrayal of Iran: “I rely has limited what journalists on analysts that a bunch of are able to cover. “We can't other people rely on and it afford to send out four recomes from the same think porters to do what I would tanks in Washington D.C., love to,” Etehad shared like Brookings Institution. at the talk. “Whenever I You get that same rhetoric pitch stories to my editor all the time and I think to about [the Iranian diaspomyself, well, if I wasn't on ra], there’s just not interest.” a deadline, who would I talk An Iranian-American Journalist in the Mainstream Press Nevertheless, Eteto? That’s something I wish had has been able to incorwe had more time as journalporate a more intimate voice ists to do and it’s unfortunate bewith Iranians in her journalism. cause you just get the same stories.”

Some of her favorite stories to write Dr. Karim elaborated on how this

by SABA MOUSSAVIAN have been about journalists imprisoned unchanging portrayal of Iran affects her in Iran and Iranian women’s nose jobs. These role as an academic: “The way that we look at seemingly different topics have, for Etehad, the unithe Middle East through the lens of the news media is fying force of being in touch with people’s personal lives. just over and over the same recycled images and stories,” shared While Etehad has struggled to find the opportuni- Dr. Karim. “For anybody who studies the Middle East, it can ty to write on the everyday lives of Iranians and the Iranian be really frustrating because you're trying to educate people diaspora, a few major pieces on the quotidian experiences of . . . but you have to undo so much of this negative portrayal.” people in Iran have provided American audiences a more huFor Dr. Karim, the Trump administration’s handling manizing perspective of the country. One such piece is Front- of the press has signaled a large shift. “One of the things that line’s recent documentary series “Our Man in Tehran,” which is so disheartening is how much latitude Trump’s voice has follows New York Times journalist Thomas Erdbrink as he had in attacking journalism and journalists,” Dr. Karim said. explores the people and daily life within in Iran. Etehad feels “We’re in this very hostile climate towards the truth tellers.” that Thomas Erdbrink provides a unique perspective of Iran as Nevertheless, Etehad feels hopeful about the fusomeone who did not grow up immersed in the culture. And ture of journalism. According to her, the election of Trump although the Rick Steves and Thomas Erdbrinks have stolen signals the importance of giving the voice to marginalized our hearts, the white men of journalism covering Iran have communities, such as the Iranian-American diaspora. Holdalso presented a limited viewpoint of the country to American ing the powerful accountable is one reason Etehad cites for audiences. Instead, Etehad suggests that there should be more going into journalism and we can only hope to see how IraIranian-American reporters in the diaspora covering Iran. nian-American journalists in the mainstream press will conAs an Iranian-American journalist, she says she has tinue to shape the American media’s portrayal of Iran.

in the

Belly

Beast of the

PERSPECTIVE 25

Niki Monazzam in conversation with Iranian-American actress

N

NASIM PEDRAD

asim Pedrad is a prominent Iranian American actress and comedian. Before hitting the big screen, Nasim graduated from UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television, and now is best known for her five-season run on Saturday Night Live from 2009 to 2014, which fueled a career co-starring on TV series such as Mulaney, Scream Queens, People of Earth, and New Girl. She was recently cast in the live-action Aladdin film, which is set to release in May 2019. Nasim was born in Tehran, Iran, and emigrated to the United States with her family in 1984 at the age of three.

Her accomplishments speak for themselves, and the impact she has made on the Iranian-American community—especially young Middle Eastern girls—is immeasurable and continues with her work today. While Pedrad is now a successful Hollywood actress, her origin story is one that many in the Iranian-American community can relate to: a Persian girl from Irvine, California, who grew up in a loving community, took ghormeh sabzi to school for lunch, and, fueled by her pas-

26 PERSPECTIVE

sion and her parents’ sacrifice, became a success story.

I interviewed Nasim on her success, Middle Eastern representation in Hollywood, and her hopes for the future.

Do you ever feel a responsibility to the Iranian or Middle Eastern community in the roles you take? Have you ever been in a position where you have turned down roles you felt were too type casted or racially inaccurate? If so, what were the circumstances?

Pedrad: My parents clearly sacrificed to come to this country with the hopes of raising me and my sister in a place where we’d be less limited in our opportunities.

Much like any immigrant kid living in America, I felt a desire and self-imposed pressure to make something of myself, make them (and our community) proud, and live up to that sacrifice. When I first started auditioning after I graduated from college, I noticed a lot of the available roles were like “Female Afghan Insurgent” or “Middle Eastern Terrorist Wife #1”— for us Middle Eastern actors, there really wasn’t much else out there. I had just graduated from a pretty rigorous theatre program where I was able to play a wide range of roles in a variety of genres—so the parts I was suddenly up for in Hollywood did feel a little reductive to me.

I understood why those parts existed (24 was one of the most popular shows on TV at the time), but it bothered me that they were all that existed. I was especially interested in focusing on comedy at the time, and in the Venn diagram of comedy and terrorism, there happened to be exactly zero crossover! I did feel like this narrow perception of Middle Easterners and Middle Eastern culture would eventually change, but I also knew it would take time. So I encouraged my agents back then to convince casting directors to see me for other roles— ones that weren’t necessarily

ethnic specific—and while I didn’t work much that first year, one of the first jobs I eventually did book was as a nurse on ER. At the same time, I began to write on my own role as well. One of the things I wrote and performed during this time was a one-woman show called “Me, Myself and Iran”—Tina Fey eventually saw that, which became the real turning point in my career and led to me being cast on Saturday Night Live.

Growing up as a first-generation Iranian immigrant in the United States, did you feel you were pushed or assumed to go down a certain career path?

Pedrad: I was really lucky to have been raised by parents who, while they of course wanted me to go to college and ultimately succeed at my chosen profession, were incredibly supportive of me—even in my pursuit of an industry relatively unfamiliar to them. They wanted me to be happy and trusted that I’d make sound decisions along the way. I’m sure it would have been a lot less terrifying to them had I chosen to go to law school, but they never once discouraged me from studying theatre or ultimately pursuing the arts as a career.

That being said, I can’t begin to imagine the sense of relief they experienced once it all worked out, and they could see that I was actually going to be able to support myself doing this long-term. It’s not enough to just want to be an actor—luck and timing definitely play a role—and as prepared as I was with all my training, I was fortunate enough to have had those two things on my side as well. My parents extended this same level of support to my younger sister Nina, who graduated from Columbia and now works as a TV comedy writer and producer herself. My family has no idea how the two of us ended up here, in comedy specifically—but it happened—and now my parents can be asked about it from a place of both delight and confusion at every Persian gathering they attend.

Living Like A Shah I

ranian-Americans hold some of America’s most high-ranking positions, whether it be leading as business executives or serving as some of the most prominent doctors, scientists, and academics. And yet, the show that has come to popularize Iranian-Americans in mainstream media, Shahs of Sunset, portrays Iranian-Americans as nothing more than materialistic, petty, and self-absorbed drama queens. It serves as a shallow representation of Iranian culture, but yet as bad as some Iranian-Americans may view the show, is it really as bad as we make it out to be?

Having debuted in 2012, the show has now dragged onto its 7th season, following a group of Iranian-Americans balancing their work life with social life, while simultaneously trying to uphold the demands of their families and traditions. Set in “Tehrangeles,” better known as Westwood in Los Angeles, California, the cast is shown flaunting their wealth with luxury cars, shopping at expensive boutiques, and strutting down the street with their Chanel purses and Tom Ford sunglasses. The majority of the cast sell real estate for living; absent are any doctors, scientists, engineers, or business executives. To the average American viewers, watching just a few episodes would be enough to convince someone that Iranian-Americans are nothing more than a group of self-absorbed individuals.

Being an Iranian-American born and raised in Los Angeles, the Shahs with-

out a doubt live a life far different from the young successful Iranian-Americans I always aspired to be. The characters’ discourse frequently sustains Western misconceptions of Iran in terms of the Revolution of 1979, Islam, or tradition.

Watching Shahs evokes a series of cringes at how ridiculous the cast go on about their day to day lives, but is it really any different from any other reality tv show?

To those unfamiliar, the show, perhaps not in the most ideal format, offers an introduction to Iranian-American culture that mainstream media has failed to represent.

As Shinan Govani puts it, “diversity in storytelling does not necessarily mean whole cultures need only be shown in a positive light, but depicted in many shades.” The reality show does exactly that, by showing a niche of Iranian culture that may not be the best representation, but still offers a deeper insight into a culture that has up until previous years been only shown in an extremely negative light, framing Iranians as terrorists or made to feel like savages in films such as Argo.

Beyond the casts’ egotistical attitudes, American viewers are exposed to a meaningful expression of Iranian culture.

Although they may fight, misbehave, and be downright cruel to one another, the cast does all these things while allowing their cultural heritage to bleed through. No matter whether the Shahs are fighting or gossiping, they switch seamlessly between

by BARDIA BARAHMAN English and Farsi, exposing viewers to a language many had never heard before watching the show. When a Reddit user heard the clue “This Arabic phrase translates to ‘God Willing’,” on Jeopardy, they were able to correctly answer “Inshallah” because they had heard it on Shahs of Sunset. Not all reality TV shows can take credit for exposing people to another language, and this is just one of the many ways that the Shahs serve to spread Iranian culture.

While they may not be the best representation of Iranian-American culture, it is exposing a niche of Iranian-American culture nonetheless. Similar to other reality TV shows, despite their cultural background, what remains constant is that drama is encouraged for the sole purpose of boosting the entertainment factor. The fact that this is no different from other reality TV shows like Real Housewives of Bel Air, shows that Iranian-Americans might after all not be so different from the very communities they were originally ostracized from. Seven seasons later, viewers are hooked for the entertainment value that the show provides, and the added exposure of cultural insight the Shahs deliver serves only as a benefit. While it would be great to tackle these misconceptions through representation of the entire spectrum of the Iranian-American community, starting from one end is progress nonetheless.

PERSPECTIVE 27

a twenty-first century praise of taarof

by MINA SHAHINFAR

“B

efarmaeed,” my mother states with an imperative hand gesture that commands our dinner guests to eat more.

I can see in their eyes that they desperately want some more of the mouth-watering sabzi polo mahi (herbed rice dish served with fish) on the table, but before saying yes, everyone is prepared to convincingly say a few nos. The rest of the evening proceeds as a subtle dance of communication, where participants step back and forth and over and over, never taking over the stage.

We have all been there—situations that call for us to refuse when we want to accept, say what is not meant, express what is not felt, invite when it is not intended, and replace bad news with false hope. By doing so, we try to say what we “wished it were”—without ever admitting that it isn’t.

As an Iranian-American, I act upon such impulses almost entirely as second nature, without thought. Although my parents adopted a new lifestyle upon arriving in the United States, they never

28 PERSPECTIVE

abandoned the Iranian traditions of social reality that characterized their identities.

Values such as taarof, or mannerly politeness, along with emphasis on familial unity and mutual respect have remained intact throughout my upbringing. I am eternally grateful for this web of politeness and now believe it is my duty to preserve it.

Taarof—the fine art of hiding what you mean to say—embodies a quintessential part of our Iranian culture. It is a form of ritual indirectness deeply ingrained in many of us as part of the development of our earliest interactions.

Symbolism and vagueness are inherent in our language. The beauty of taarof is its manifestation in a plethora of day-to-day interactions. In plain words, it represents the kind essence of Iranian people.

I find it particularly interesting growing up as a devout taarof-er in our straightforward, direct American society.

In the West, we know that “yes” generally means yes. We don’t even question it. In Iran, “yes,” can also mean yes, but it often can mean a plethora of other things.The ambiguous nature of taarof isn’t meant to be disorienting but rather serves as a charming basis for mutual goodwill. It is not surprising that this decorous system of interaction might disturb an American who prizes efficiency, frankness, and informality.

I find myself at a crossroads sometimes. I see this stark contrast of habit when I observe my non-Iranian friends’ amazement at my automatic hospitable charms that urge me to feed them when they come over to my house. As soon as I assume the role of impeccable host, I unleash a side of me that is a product of learned behaviors in my home. Sometimes

taarof really feels extra: why should I feel obliged to serve my friends when they come over? Why do I not accept a snack given to me when I know I’m hungry?

Why do I find myself waiting to invite my peers to enter a house first when we’re in a group? Moments like these, though seemingly illogical and unnecessary, make it pretty hard for me to hide my Iranian nature. Taarof is in my blood. And I must stay true to my values.

The practice of taarof might take time to develop as an ingrained habit, especially for those who grew up without its presence. I believe every effort put forth is worth it. The world of Persian etiquette is a defining element of our cultural identities. Humility, modesty, and companionship hold deep meanings for many Iranian households. As Iranian-Americans, we should never lose sight of our artful interpersonal system.

You don’t need to be Hafez to be a poet in our rich linguistic culture. You just need to taarof.

1+1=3

by BRANDON BEROOKHIM

1

+ 1 = 3. When I first heard this I was too young to understand its value and, instead, thought about the Fairly OddParents episode that said 2 + 2 = 5.

As I got older, I saw many instances of “the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.” I could identify this phenomenon everywhere, but it took some time for me to identify its role in my life. Naturally, I first recognized it in food.

I start off some days with kareh-morabah (butter and jam), all sorts of dairy products, and the aroma of browning butter before the tokhmemorgh-gojeh (tomato omelette) starts cooking. I eat too many cucumbers, usually like a carrot, with salt and lemon. Fruits and vegetables are eaten in all forms throughout the day because “You don’t need to be hungry to eat fruit” and “It’s fruit, not food.” Indulgences take the form of ghormeh sabzi atop tahdig (crispy rice) and chelo kabob. McDonald’s Happy Meals have nothing on my mamany’s (grandma’s) homemade french fries and my mom’s joojeh kabob. No day should be without chai and noon-nokhodchi (chickpea cookies). I’m Persian.

I start off some days with a colorful shakshuka (eggs poached in tomatoes) and some fresh everything bagels with smoked salmon and a schmear of cream cheese. I eat too much challah of all varieties, usually on Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath) nights, always extra fluffy. Hummus is eaten with every meal of the day and sometimes as a meal itself. Indulgences take the form of homemade matzo ball soup and spicy shawarma. McDonald’s hash browns have nothing on my dad’s latkes dipped in both applesauce and sour cream. No day should be without bamba (Israeli peanut butter puffs) and babka (layered chocolate pastry).

I’m Jewish.

People always ask if I’m half Persian and half Jewish. You might even be asking that now. I used to oversimplify the matter and respond that I was Persian and practiced Judaism, but this overlooked 26 centuries of Persian-Jewish culture and did not seem to ease any confusion. I’m from Los

Angeles, where thousands of other Persian-Jews live, so these questions were strange to me. It was not until I took a step back and thought about the geo-politics of Iran and Israel, the religion of the average Persian, and the appearance of the average Jew that I realized why people found it hard to believe that...

I’m Persian-Jewish. I start off some days with kareh-morabah on toasted challah, Persian feta plus za’atar and labneh (Middle Eastern herbs over mediterranean yogurt cheese), and a cross between tokhmemorgh-gojeh and shakshuka. I eat too much Israeli Salad/Salad Shirazi and schnitzel/ shenitsel, as both cultures share these dishes. I like my fruit smoothies as much as the next Persian or Israeli, and, of course, I smother my veggies in hummus. Nothing beats my aziz joon’s (grandma’s) gondi (meatballs), a dish that comes from almost three millennia of Persian-Jews. I eat several gondi each Shabbat night and morning as I celebrate the marriage of two cultures. No day should be without halva, whether it is Persian or Israeli style.

Today, I went to Berkeley’s Chabad and shook the lulav and etrog for the Jewish holiday of Sukkot. This act represents unity, drawing my attention to the unification of two cultures yielding a third. Remy from Ratatouille said, “Each flavor is totally unique, but, combine one flavor with another, and something new is created.” 1 + 1 = 3. This is how I view my Persian-Jewish heritage.

PERSPECTIVE 29

An Artistic Dissocation

by NASIM GHASEMIYEH

T

his summer, while picking through racks of vintage consignment pieces in a small shop in the Arts District of Sacramento, I looked up and noticed a piece of leather decorated with an ornate and colorful Persian scene hanging for sale. Initially, seeing a piece of my culture caused a little bubble of excitement to rise up in me as it always does when I see something from Iran. But as I gazed at it, the feeling of excitement soured a little as I remembered where I was and I became slightly uncomfortable seeing a piece of cultural significance on the wall of an “urb” consignment store dedicated to curating a hipster image.

The fact that a store which is known for being “hip” and “edgy” was selling a piece of Iranian art with no context and no other attempts to accurately represent an entire culture is a fetishization of this culture. Cultural fetishization is the act of taking objects or things from a specific culture and then removing them from the context and history of that culture in order to exoticize it—often to seem cultured and deep.

The painting in this store was an image of a woman standing over Hafez, a Persian poet from the 14th century. Although the work of Hafez is relatively well known among the Western world compared to other Middle Eastern figures, his image is not widely recognizable, so to have it hanging on a deer skin in a hipster store still invokes a sense of insincerity.

This brings up the question of intent. Should Iranians not see it as flattering that a non-Iranian would look at this piece and find beauty in the work of the Iranian who created it? Surely whoever bought it didn’t do so with the aim of undermining a culture. By displaying the piece in a store well known for having what’s “in”, the store gives the art and the culture a platform it often lacks, especially in the Western world. As an Iranian, one might feel a sense of satisfaction that their culture is being

30 PERSPECTIVE

appreciated within a community of people that might not typically appreciate it, however here we reach the crux of the issue.

Liking this one piece of art because it’s in a shop you think is cool does not erase years of making fun of girls in elementary school with bushy eyebrows, and looking at Iranians with suspicion. Embracing a culture does not end with hanging a piece of Persian art on the wall. That doesn’t eliminate deeply held biases, nor does it counter the attitudes of mistrust that Iranians in America have been dealing with for the last 40 years. The problem with the idea of selling a piece of Persian art in a store like this is that there is no attempt to understand the culture. Because the store is “artsy, chic, and urban” it is clear that the piece was being sold as a material item simply to help the buyer curate that image of themselves, and the attempts to exemplify the exoticism of the piece are made transparent.

This reputation the store holds leads the customers to see the painting as cool. However, selling the painting there doesn’t give the painting any specific quality. The painting was always cool; but it was cool for Iranians who had a cultural tie to it and grew up reading Hafez. Who visited his tomb next to Saadi on trips to Shiraz with their families. Putting it up in this store changes that narrative. The “coolness” of the piece shifts to be for the customers, and comes artificially because they know the store is cool, therefore this piece of art must be cool.

Finally, the fact that there was no plaque or any form of identification with the piece is indicative of a lack of respect for the culture represented, and those who frequent the store will look at this art detached entirely from its cultural significance.

Hence, an art piece tied to an intricate culture is reduced to a pseudo symbol of social awareness and a norm of cultural fetishization is perpetuated.

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Cover photo by Mohammad Gh on Unsplash

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PERSPECTIVE