Perspective, Spring 2020

PERSPECTIVE

spring 2020 university of california, berkeley

EDITOR’S LET TER Dear reader, Our work on this issue began in a time of intensified crisis. The tragedy of the loss of life in Ukraine International Airlines Flight 752 and the anxiety of an increasingly felt threat of war between Iran and the United States had many of us mourning, entering a state of panic, and struggling to stay grounded. The persistence of the violence being enacted and the way such violence was being reported both distorted truths and challenged our senses of self and community. Struggling to respond to this moment of crisis, many of us found ourselves at an impasse, not knowing how to engage and contend with the realities we were hearing about and experiencing.

In an attempt to get out of this impasse, this issue of Perspective turns its attention toward the very processes by which we come to learn of and respond to violence and tragedy happening globally. We’ve asked our writers to reflect on the ideas of evidence, testimony, and witnessing. We’ve posed to them the following questions: What counts as evidence? What evidence is considered legitimate by who and why? How do we provide evidence for the immaterial and ephemeral? In what ways do we embody evidence? That is, how do our very bodies and lived realities testify to individual and collective truths? What kinds of testimony go unrecognized? What truths do we witness, and how do we record those truths? What are the cultural and political stakes of witnessing? How does surveillance impact our ability to produce evidence, to testify freely? How can seemingly ordinary objects be transformed into evidence under the right circumstances? What is at stake when evidence is destroyed?

This turn toward evidence, testimony, and witnessing is a turn toward the mechanisms that produce political and historical truths and narratives. We aim to create work that is careful, attentive, and responsive to our present moment without being simply reactive. Writing in this issue includes analysis of Iranian diasporic business districts in the South Bay, poetic reflections on migration, discussions of the trajectory of Iranian political organizing in Berkeley, and so much more. Our hope is that the work presented in this issue is thoughtful and precise, and that it offers generative insight into how we relate to questions of evidence, testimony, and witnessing in a time when these questions feel pressing.

We dedicate this issue to those lives lost in Flight 752, as well as lives lost to militarism and state violence globally.

Bahaar Ahsan Anahita Ghajarrahimi editors-in-chief

CONTENTS 8

The Iranians of the South Bay: Ethnic Enclave in Suburbia?

10 Passage 12 Existing 13 Cultural

in Duality

Sites during War:

Ancient Persepolis and Modern Iran 14 Legacies

of Resistance:

An Exploration of Iranian Student Movements 16 Reflections 18 The

from Umrah

Difficulties 20 On

‫مشکالت‬

Display

22 Reflections

on National

Subjectivities and Cybergovernmentality 26 Poems 28 A

for My Homeland

Divided Diaspora and The Right to Iranian Self-Determination 29 All

Endured

30 References 31 Appendix

STA FF editors-in-chief

Bahaar Ahsan Anahita Ghajarrahimi assistant editor-in-chief

Mina Shahinfar head designer

Anahita Ghajarrahimi assistant designer

Emma Rooholfada outreach team

Omeed Askary Bardia Barahman Yaas Farzanefar Hasti Mofidi finance

Mia Karimabadi copy editors

Mahshad Badii, Ariana Dideban, Nasim Ghasemiyeh, Ali Setayesh, Sara Zoroufy staff writers

Sean Adibi Niusha Hajikhodaverdikhan Shakiba Mashayekhi Kyle Newman Meghan Tahbaz

SPONSOR S

Associated Students of the University of California Iranian Scholarship Foundation Middle Eastern and North African Recruitment and Retention Center ASUC Office of the Academic Affairs Vice President Persian Center Middle East Market

THE IRANIANS OF THE SOUTH BAY: Ethnic Enclave in Suburbia?

by SEAN ADIBI

S

ince 1979, successive waves of Iranian immigrants have inhabited select U.S. metropolitan areas in high numbers.

For one, Metropolitan Los Angeles, with over 100,000 self-identified Iranians, hosts the largest Iranian-American diasporic community in the United States. Located in Los Angeles’ Westwood neighborhood, Tehrangeles has served as the United States’ first Iranian-American ethnic enclave, and images of its vibrant store fronts and gathering places remain paramount to an emerging Iranian-American cultural and spatial identity within the American patchwork.

While Los Angeles is often lauded as an Iranian immigrant hub, scholars frequently disregard Northern California’s growing primacy as a new center of the Iranian diaspora. While post-1979 San Francisco Bay Area Iranian communities remained disconnected until the mid-1990s, the emergence of a prolific high-tech sector ushered an era of significant, clustered employment opportunities in the South Bay region. In turn, Northern California Iranians increasingly centered themselves around nodes along the San Francisco Peninsula and in the Santa Clara Valley. As of 2018, 16,970 Iranians inhabit the San Jose-Sunnyvale-Santa Clara Metropolitan Statistical Area, comprising nearly 1% of the region’s total population. This proportion is higher than that of any other metropolitan area in the United States, including that of the Los Angeles-Long Beach-Anaheim Metropolitan Statistical Area.

In the wake of the Great Recession, a growing number of Iranian establishments have congregated at the intersection of Saratoga Avenue and Kiely Avenue in central San Jose. Four Iranian businesses occupy strip malls around the intersection — Stone Stew Restaurant, the Mediterranean Food Market, Bijan Bakery, and Organic Choice Food Court.

These establishments are joined by six other Iranian businesses within a one-mile radius. Moreover, the sum total of the South

Bay’s Iranian establishments, which includes restaurants, supermarkets, cultural retention centers, and academic institutions, stands at over 40, and serves as evidence of an emergent Iranian-American ethnic community much like that of Los Angeles.

Today, Bay Area Iranian-Americans are concentrated in the Santa Clara Valley’s western, more affluent neighborhoods, like Los Altos, Saratoga, Los Gatos, and the San Jose neighborhoods of Cambrian Park and Almaden. The Saratoga Avenue business district, however, stands over five miles away from the aforementioned high Iranian-population zones. Given the Santa Clara Valley’s suburban built landscape and Iranians’ self-selection to live in outlying neighborhoods, the consolidation of an ethnic business district about a central boulevard in San Jose is especially unprecedented.

What forces are called into play in materializing this ethnic commercial district in a late-stage suburban landscape, considering Iranian-American geographic separation within the metropolitan area?

For one, the Saratoga Avenue business district differs from regional ethnic communities like San Francisco’s Chinatown, Daly City’s Little Manila, and the Mission District’s Central American community. These ethnic enclaves are geographic areas with high co-ethnic concentration, as evidenced by high residential placement and commercial activity. In 1980, Alejandro Portes published an article detailing the various ways in which participation in an ethnic community promotes economic mobility upon immigration, especially when immigrants concentrate around commercial zones where they participate in home-country leisure and business-related activities. The Iranian community of the Bay Area, however, did not take up residence in geographic proximity to one another like the aforementioned regional minorities.

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Through his analysis of Miami’s Cuban community, Portes emphasizes the significance of close geographic proximity between immigrants in achieving greater employment opportunities and social acculturation. The Iranian-Americans of the South Bay, however, do not align with this traditional ethnic enclave model. Given their status as one of the country’s highest-income immigrant communities with a median household income of $78,005, recent Iranian immigrants often elect to live in far-flung suburban neighborhoods in search of amenities, such as better public schools and larger property sizes. Therefore, the Saratoga Avenue concentration of Iranian establishments merely serves as an ethnic business district or enclave economy, not an ethnic enclave, since outlying Iranian residential communities do not rely upon this business center to achieve social capital and economic mobility.

One might speculate that lower rental rates and the existence of vacant commercial space in central San Jose’s Saratoga Avenue drive the growth of businesses in this particular area, as opposed to wealthier neighborhoods.

This is especially striking, as the Iranian-Americans of the Santa Clara Valley do not depend on this strip of businesses for employment and leisure activities. In fact, the Saratoga Avenue businesses are often considered as one of many fortuitous advantages to living in a metro area with high coethnic concentration.

Furthermore, co-ethnic interaction is central to most traditional enclaves, yet the South Bay’s suburbanization constraints immediate communication among Iranians.

Upon first glance, the region’s suburban landscape is not conducive to the formation of an ethnic neighborhood: the region’s wide boulevards, sprawling housing tracts, and lowdensity development bifurcate communities on the basis of socioeconomic status and race alike. According to geospatial

data from the 2010 U.S. Census, Iranian Americans are one of the most geographically dispersed immigrant groups in the nation, centering themselves around suburban nodes as opposed to dense urban hubs. In turn, the formation of an Iranian-centered business district along Saratoga Avenue is especially unprecedented and indicative of a reaffiliation of the Iranian-American community 40 years after their arrival to the Bay Area.

Iranian-centered business development on Saratoga Avenue is on the rise. High-tech jobs continue to attract Iranians to settle in the South Bay, and the suburban landscape is especially attractive to high-income families in search of homeownership opportunities. Nonetheless, IranianAmericans rely upon one another for employment far less than other regional ethnic communities, which raises questions regarding the Saratoga Avenue business district’s permanence.

Given minimal business-to-business interaction, might establishments disperse throughout the metropolitan area in search of lower rental rates? Or will they further consolidate in an effort to bolster one another?

Regardless of the business district’s fate, its formation remains unprecedented in a highly disjointed urban landscape, especially considering Iranian-Americans’ current self-selected separation from one another. While the Iranian-Americans of the South Bay do not form a traditional ethnic enclave where residential and business endeavors coalesce, the ethnic business district has remained steadfast in maintaining relevance vis-à-vis Westwood’s Tehrangeles.

Moreover, Iranian immigration from other regions in the United States to the San Francisco Bay Area will only continue to increase given tech-related employment opportunities.

Given this trajectory, Saratoga Avenue may further resemble Westwood’s Tehrangeles in the coming years, staking a claim as the country’s primary hub of the diaspora.v 9

Passage

by SHAKIBA MASHAYEKHI

T

he roads buried in the mountains brought me to the steps that lead into my great grandfather’s 140-year-old villa.

Passing through the doorway, I think of the cars that have sped deeper into Naye behind me and the neighbors in the village as their passing glances turned into a smile and wave. The bells of nearby goats ring from the bottom to the peak of the mountains surrounding us. I open the gates down to the bagh drawn forward by the smell of Mamani pouring Ashe Reshte from her simmering pot. Underneath the walnut tree Maman lays the sofre, and one by one we line its edges with gratitude. From above, the passing of sabzi and plates of naan from one end to another mirror the exchange of conversations flourishing amongst us. We were each gathered in the company of the other in space and time, and the memories that bound us together.

The whole family was ushered out by the 7 am sunlight towards the walnut tree whose harvest has been accumulating since late summer.

My uncles stand tall amongst the trees in laughter, climbing its branches higher to pluck the walnuts hiding amongst the green leaves. They left us a hill of walnuts. Raw and encased in tough green skin, the walnut is always a formidable task for my grandmother, mother, and myself to cut open. This is the only way it will sell at the bazaars. So we sit around the pile separated by the walnut wall, slowly picking its pieces until our colored and raw fingers meet each other again. vvv

TSA tells me to step forward into the archway of their detector as it meticulously scans my body for evidence of ill will or some assumed violence it’s always burdened with. The circuits and mechanisms find me innocent, and I’m waved through by a seemingly detached hand. I’m always estranged, surrounded by movement, dates, time zones–it’s as if falling into some calculated rhythm, an alienating design. Customers in the international waiting room. vvv

Sather Gate, proudly built in the year 1910, marks the threshold through which previous generations passed. We share in their crossing as we share the space, but not the time. I question this moment as I question the day and what it holds, held, and will hold again. I find myself thinking about my grandfather’s gates. The possibility held for me and let go of as I narrow into a singular road that I dug myself. I cannot pass through this gate without feeling the loss of the other. My time is marked with letters and dates, and I wonder if these letters and numbers are worth the life in Iran that was severed.

I look down at my notes, the symbols I’ve scratched into the pages. Years I have spent staring into blank pieces of paper and what lies beyond the letters that fill them represents a self. Some self that reconciles the loss of every moment I left behind. I count the days I’ve been in another’s land, knowing Iran too is counting the thousands of selves who have left and are elsewhere. But in her thoughts, and for her we breathe and mark our days. For the day we return and call her home again.v

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11

Exisiting in Duality

by KYLE NEWMAN

I

n 1839, the Jews of Mashhad, a city in Northeastern Iran, were faced with the difficult decision of converting to Islam or accepting their death. A vicious and false rumor had spread in Mashhad about the Jewish community mocking Islam. The city’s inhabitants used this rumor as an excuse to eliminate the economically prosperous Jewish community, which many people had falsely accused of controlling businesses and commerce at large. For centuries, Iranian society has always been ethnically, linguistically, religiously, and politically diverse. While diversity can add beauty to society, it can also lead to bitter rivalry and the oppression of minority groups.

While Jews in Iran have had a complex and long history of persecution, one of the most unique and fascinating cases of oppression is from Mashhad. The lives of Mashhadi Jews had been a mystery since the day those individuals forcibly converted to Islam, a day that was often referred to as Allahdad, or God’s Justice. These newly converted Muslims were called Jadid alIslam and could be seen observing Ramadan and buying halal meat from the city’s markets. Little did the surrounding Shia Muslim community know what lengths the Mashhadi Jews went to preserve their Jewish faith and identity.

A remarkable testimony from Rachel Betsalely, a retired librarian at Bar-Ilan University, details the strategies that Mashhadi Jews were forced to employ in order to maintain their Judaism. Her grandparents lived double lives in Mashhad: inside the home, they were Jewish, and outside the home, they were Muslim. Her family was compelled to buy cats and dogs, something forbidden amongst more religious Jews, to eat their store-bought halal meat while the family themselves ate kosher meat at home. Betsalely’s family, like most Mashhadi Jews, was also forced to slaughter meat in the kosher-style by themselves, without the aid of a Jewish butcher, to disguise their observance of laws important to their faith. Mashhadi Jewish women were often engaged to Jewish men at abnormally young ages, so they would already be married if Muslim men asked to marry them. Mashhadi Jewish men had to attend Friday prayers at the mosque and participate in the remembrance of the death of Imam Hussein during Ashura. Sabbath candles had to be lit under tablecloths to hide their vibrant light from the windows.

Allahdad was not only marked by the death of the Jewish identity for Mashhadi Jews but also the death of the city’s Jewish spirit. The public was granted permission by city

leaders and Muslim clerics to invade the Jewish quarter, attack Jewish homes and businesses, burn Jewish books, and destroy synagogues. All evidence of a Jewish presence in Mashhad was to be erased for good. Mashhadi Jewish rabbis currently residing in New York remember how their fathers, leaders of the city’s once vibrant Jewish community, sat tirelessly for months sewing back together burned Torah scrolls to continue teaching their children the faith. While the Qajar kings precluded Jews from obtaining leading roles in society in cities such as Isfahan, Tehran, Kerman, and Yazd, the Iranian Jews of Mashhad could not sincerely exist as Jews. While other Iranian Jews were condemned to working humiliating jobs as peddlers, court jesters, and alcohol manufacturers, the Jews of Mashhad had to partake in Muslim observances, such as attending Eid prayers and going on Hajj, harboring the extreme guilt of having abandoned their Judaism.

The identity of Mashhadi Jews had overall become extremely different in comparison to other Iranian Jews. Lerone Edalati, a Mashhadi Jew, elaborates on this phenomenon, referring to Allahdad, “The beginning of a new class of Jews,” and explains how “this crypto-group formed its own crypto identity and preserved it by marrying each other.”

Even after the dawn of the Pahlavi dynasty in 1925, when Reza Shah greatly diminished the power of Shia Muslim clerics and religious figures across Iran, Mashhadi Jews still had to maintain their dual identities. As the economic prosperity of Mashhadi Jews increased due to their involvement in the textile industry, they began their emigration from Mashhad to Tehran, where a community of Jews was established. From then on, Mashhadi Jews left Iran in droves to countries like Germany, Italy, Israel, and the United States. They changed their IranianIslamic first and last names to very typical Hebraic names, like Betsalely, that Iranian Jews were for the most part foreign to and resorted to either completely secular or completely orthodox Jewish practice.

These testimonies show the great lengths that Iranian Jews took to preserve their identity and faith. Mashhadi Jews, in particular, were forced to live dual lives and erase any signs of their preservation of Judaism when conducting affairs outside the home. The incessant hardship endured by Mashhadi and other Iranian Jews can act as a catalyst for inspiring tolerance between different faiths across Western Asia and the world at large.v 12

Cultural Sites during War:

the Apadana are adorned with depictions of various ethnic groups bringing tribute to the palace, displaying the empire’s 23 subject nations. The colossal Gate of Xerxes, through which all visitors to the king had to pass through, directly bears the name “Xerxes,” and “Darius I” is inscribed throughout the palace, favorably depicted in battle or praised by his subjects.

Despite all of the formal criteria, UNESCO somehow misses the most convincing reason for Persepolis’ protection.

Persepolis is a part of Iranian cultural identity and attacking it today would be akin to its initial brutal destruction by the Greek Empire.

Before international protections existed, Persepolis fell victim to military tension. Around 330 B.C., Alexander the Great ordered his army to sack the city and take any of the precious materials that they desired. Then, in a drunken impulse described by the ancient Greek historian Diodorus and the Roman Plutarch, Alexander burned down the city and left it in ruins. Of the physical structure, only the columns, stairways, and doorways survived intact. Religious information written on parchment, one-of-a-kind works of art, and other irreplaceable Persian artifacts were completely destroyed. The ancient Greeks demoralized the empire and obliterated much of its cultural history.

Today, such an action would be considered barbaric and extreme–to let our emotions enable unforgiving military action against heritage landmarks, places that form the backbone of culture. But how different are people today compared to those in ancient history and in a world with rapidly shifting international political tensions, and what protects priceless cultural landmarks, such as Persepolis, from human whim?

The World Heritage status is not the only precaution against historical landmark destruction. At the 1954 Hague Convention, almost 50 countries, including the U.S. and Iran, agreed to protect cultural property in the midst of armed conflict. This convention was not only a major step forward in proclaiming the importance of historical sites, but also in forming international respect for other cultures. It was a marked contrast to the ruthless destruction of treasured art during World War II and suggested a turning point in humanity, in which war may no longer deplete culture.

However, in January 2020, President Donald Trump published a series of tweets claiming that the United States had selected 52 targets in Iran, some of which were important cultural sites, for bombing if provoked. Though U.S. Defense Secretary Mark Esper attempted to mitigate the President’s harsh words by stating that “[the U.S.] will follow the laws of armed conflict,” such a destructive threat cannot be taken lightly. The cultural sites present in Iran must be respected because of their unique value to Iranians, and they must simultaneously not be thought of as singularly Iranian. These sites are significant to the world at large. They remind us of our shared values and humanity. Persepolis in particular reminds us of the extreme loss we face when we destroy a country’s culture; imagine the awe-inspiring sight Persepolis would have been if Alexander the Great had not left it in ruins. Persepolis proves that transient political tensions must not pave the way for destruction.v

Ancient Persepolis and Modern Iran

I

by MEGHAN TAHBAZ n Southwestern Iran, the ancient city of Persepolis sits beneath mountains and skies, a relic of an empire past, sprouted from an otherwise uneventful terrain. Since its founding in 518 B.C. by Darius I, Persepolis has seen much change; yet in the modern world, it continues to exist as a central cultural site for Iranians and a destination for visitors from around the world.

Once known as “the gem of the Achaemenid Dynasty,” Persepolis was the main seat of the Persian government.

With elaborate reception rooms and staggering stone-carved pillars, the structure was constructed to express the immense political power and material wealth of the empire. Because of its innovative construction and urban planning, Persepolis is recognized with UNESCO’s World Heritage status, ensuring its preservation and protection by international law. Twenty-three other cultural sites in Iran are on the World Heritage List as well–but what exactly determines World Heritage status and the “universal value” that UNESCO ascribes to these sites?

According to UNESCO, Persepolis meets three of its ten criteria to qualify for World Heritage status: I. To represent a masterpiece of human creative genius III. To bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or to a civilization which is living or which has disappeared VI. To be directly or tangibly associated with events or living traditions, with ideas, or with beliefs, with artistic and literary works of outstanding universal significance Each criterion refers to a specific part of the palace’s construction. Criterion I likely refers to the engineered aspects of the palace, such as its foundation, which was partially cut into the mountainside and leveled with soil and rock to form a flat surface on the cleared plain. Criterion III considers the sheer size and design of the buildings. The Apadana, the largest structure at Persepolis and reception hall for the kings, contained 72 columns that reached 20 meters high that were topped with ornate capitals of lions and bulls. Today, 13 of these columns are standing, as are two massive stairways that lead up to the Apadana. These structures are uniquely Persian, exhibiting the slender columns that mark Achaemenid architecture.

Criterion VI is present all around the palace with reliefs of the Persian monarchy and tribute-bearers. The stairways of 13

LEGACIES OF RESISTANCE: An Exploration of Iranian Student Movements

I

by ARIANA DIDEBAN

n the 1970s, my uncle Mahmoud immigrated to the United States and attended UC Berkeley. Whenever my uncle would talk about his time at the university, his eyes would glitter and a passionate love would exude from his voice. From a young age, I gravitated to my uncle’s college stories of activism and defiance. In fact, when it was time to apply to universities, Berkeley held a special place in my heart because of him. One of the reasons I chose to attend UC Berkeley was its rich history of student activism. When my uncle attended Berkeley, he was a part of the Confederation of Iranian Students National Union (CISNU), which was a global organization that represented Iranian students abroad as well as in Iran from the 1960s to the 1980s.

The organization originated in a series of European countries like West Germany, France, and England. It arose as a result of the American-led coup d’etat that removed Mohammad Mosaddeq, a democratically elected prime minister who nationalized Iranian oil, from power. The United States branch of CISNU formed when tens of thousands of Iranian students were being recruited to come to the United States during the Cold

War. These students were the best and brightest, and they were supposed to come here and internalize a pro-United States world view. A significant minority within the population of students who immigrated to the United States could not reconcile modernization with dictatorship. They were questioning the systemic forms of racism and imperial violence. They came to the United States when imperialism and capitalism were being held up for critical examination and were becoming the target of many student movements. In turn, they united to form the CISNU.

According to Manijeh Nasrabadi, a professor of Women’s, Gender and Sexuality Studies at Barnard College, the Confederation followed a democratic, centralized model.

The governing council was comprised of one representative from each national chapter, and the delegates met once a year to appoint the five-member general secretariat and to vote on major policy questions. In each local chapter, they had elected leadership and a division of labor. They held annual national conventions as well as world conferences, where members would come together from across the globe.

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As the years went by, the Confederation adopted a more radical orientation, which reflected the changing factions within the organization. Many of the members within this organization were a part of other Iranian opposition groups, like the Iran Liberation Movement, Socialist League of the Iranian National Movement, Storm Marxist-Leninist Organization, and movements associated with the National front. Most importantly, no other Iranian or foreign organization funded the Confederation. They were financed by contributions and dues from supporters and members, as well as special event fundraisers and the sale of various publications. The movement had a growing influence, which was recognized by Western media.

My uncle became involved with the organization when he first moved to Los Angeles from Iran. By the time he applied and was accepted to UC Berkeley, he was already a part of the Confederation of Iranian Students. During his time at Berkeley, he collaborated with his colleagues and sold newspapers, pamphlets, and books about Iran on Sproul Plaza. They were trying to influence the Americans around them and turn public opinions against U.S. support of the Shah. Since American universities were imperial metropoles and sites of overlapping diasporas, members could actually get a sense that what was happening in Iran was happening elsewhere in the world. As a result, the group did not only focus on Iranian issues but also many other progressive issues pertaining to the Third World. He worked with other student groups, like the Ethiopian Student Organization and Non-Intervention in Chile (NICH). My uncle noted, “We were all under oppression, we did not think of country origins, but more about being Leftists—we were all brothers and sisters.” Professor Nasrabadi argues that these Iranians rejected narrow nationalistic notions of what it means to be Iranian; they rejected the dominant discourse coming from both Washington and Tehran at that time. She said, “They are rejecting the notion that the American way of fighting communism and spreading capitalism and assimilating to that is the only alternative. They are really identifying with this broad sense of third world anti-colonialism and internationalism.”

When I ask my uncle about his time at Berkeley, he recounts a Berkeley that was different from the rest of the United States. He discusses the massive amount of support the organization received from students and locals. “In front of Sproul, people would approach the table and ask how they could support and help you with your cause. They would offer money and housing. With a few calls, I could organize 500 people in front of Sproul Plaza to support any issue,” he recalled.

In contrast, when he went to different parts of the country, he was received in a hostile manner: “I once visited Houston, Texas and it was so bad that Iranians could not walk in the streets without

getting harassed.” He described another contentious encounter, when a television station in Fresno had invited Iranians to discuss their opinions regarding the Revolution. “I went to speak on behalf of the Iranian students at Berkeley, and after I spoke, I had to be escorted out of the television station by police because people wanted to kill us. This symbolized how different the rest of America was compared to Berkeley.”

My uncle says that he joined these student movements because he believed that there was an unequal distribution of wealth in Iran and in other parts of the world. They believed that democracy would not only bring more economic equality but better schools, healthcare, and social services for the people.

They were fighting for a better quality of life.

Today, when I walk to my classes, I think about the Iranian students who have walked down Sproul and climbed the steps of Dwinelle Hall, and the roles they played in writing our histories and shaping the world I live in today. Past student movements and activists, like the Confederation, have not only impacted the school I attend, but also the world I live in.v

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Reflections from Umrah

by MINA SHAHINFAR

“H

old my hand tight, and don’t open your eyes!” my younger sister exclaimed as she lunged herself toward me moments before we entered the gates of Masjid-Al-Haram. It was a calm hour of the night, just past two in the morning. Every corner was filled with people as far as the eye could see.

I accepted my sister’s orders and proceeded to walk with my eyes shut. I felt the energy of everything and everyone around me: men marked by their kufi’s and shaved heads, walking in their ihram attire. Women dressed in simple, black abayas pacing carefully to avoid tripping over fabric under their feet. Children, sleepy but curious with their eyes wandering, sipping on cups of zam-zam water. The sound of my heartbeat rushing through my body.

“Mom, can you see it? Are we almost there?”

At that point, every other member of my family with me could no longer form words. I knew from the sound of my mother’s cry that we had arrived right in front of the Holy Ka’bah.

That was our cue.

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Maintaining my sister’s grip, I slowly peeled back my eyelids as uncontrollable tears rushed down my cheeks one by one. Suddenly, my bustling surroundings somehow fell absolutely silent. I made out its black, cubic edges, elegantly draped in a silk and cotton veil, and its door of solid gold.

Graceful birds circled and chirped around it. A fragrant smell encompassed the entire harem, making each breath more enjoyable. I stood within the Holy Mosque of Makkah– across from the house built by Prophet Abraham and his son Ishmael in the birthplace of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) and the religion of Islam.

For the next eight days, my mind and body experienced a full transcendence from all things mundane. I entered Makkah this past winter break, as every Muslim does, as my bare self–without a single ounce of makeup or jewelry to please the ego. I deleted all of my social media apps from my phone to eliminate anything that could stand in the way of fulfilling my intention for being there. Despite not having a single full night of rest, I was spiritually revitalized every moment I spent in the holy cities of Makkah and Madinah.

Whether it was circling the Ka’bah seven times performing tawaf (‫)طَ َواف‬, or pacing between the hills of Safa and Marwa, performing sa’i (‫ َس ِعي‬‎), or simply hearing the most powerful recitations of the adhan and daily prayers, I felt nothing but invincible energy and inspiration alongside my fellow Muslims of the world.

Pilgrimage to a holy site is a core principle of almost all faiths. In Islam, Umrah (‫ )عمرة‬refers to the pilgrimage to Makkah, Saudi Arabia, that can be undertaken at any time of the year, in contrast to Hajj, which has specific dates according to the Islamic lunar calendar. It is generally able to be completed in a few hours, in comparison to Hajj, which may take a few days. It is through this pilgrimage that all of humanity becomes one and leaves behind the constraints of national, ethnic, and class identities. And a trip to Makkah is not complete without spending time in the Prophet’s City. Many travelers make a stop in Madinah to pray in the beautiful Masjid an-Nabawi, ‘The Prophet’s Mosque,’ which is the burial place of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh).

As a pilgrim, there are two key rituals to partake in, primarily following the footsteps of Prophet Abraham and Hagar and their son. The first ritual, tawaf, entails circling around the Ka’bah, seven times in a counterclockwise direction to demonstrate the unity of believers in the worship of One God. The Ka’bah is not an object which Muslims worship, instead it is the focal point of prayer. Muslims all around the world face the Ka’bah during the five daily prayers.

Moreover, the second ritual, sa’i, involves traveling back and forth between the hills of Safa and Marwa seven times, which serves to commemorate Hagar’s search for water for her son and God’s mercy in answering prayers. The Umrah is then complete with the trimming of the hair or shaving of the head.

Every Muslim has different motivations and reasons that lead up to the decision to visit the the holy sites. I felt my call to Umrah months ago. I cannot thank my family enough for making my wish a reality.

My family and I would describe Umrah as one of

the most beautiful, challenging experiences of our lifetimes.

Many friends asked me what Umrah was like, especially as an Iranian. At the time that my family and I went, the Saudi government had banned Umrah visas for residents of Iran. I never thought this would be the case, but my family and I did not encounter a single other person who shared our identity.

Perhaps it was just our timing and luck, but for the number of visitors that come to Makkah and Madinah each year, the utter void of Iranian Muslims in these spaces was shocking and simply disheartening.

When others heard my family and I conversing in Persian, we got a few surprised responses from our fellow Afghan travelers, who were perplexed as to how we were able to travel. We consistently explained that we were from America. It gave me an uneasy feeling, knowing that if it weren’t for my American nationality, I wouldn’t be able to perform pilgrimage at my age, to profoundly grow as a human and Muslim, to get better at reading Qur’an, to meet new friends, and to re-strengthen my relationship to the Prophet.

While Hajj and Umrah are inclusive of all sects in Islam, the current geopolitical environment produces hierarchies based on nationalities. There was an inevitable limited, but present, degree of ostracism that I felt while in Saudi Arabia as an Iranian, a Shia, and a woman. As a practicing member of a minority within a minority, I have long witnessed my sect’s erasure in Islamic settings. Though most Muslims are informed of the minor differences in practices between various sects, I still encountered moments of being othered. Of course I had countless individuals, folding and placing my arms up across my chest in the middle of prayer and afterward explaining to me how I was praying “wrong.”

It has happened before, and it will likely happen again, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

With that aside, women have traditionally been treated as second class citizens in Saudi Arabia, being only recently allowed to drive, and Wahhabist authorities certainly extend their influence in the holy sites. While my father got close to the Prophet’s grave and was able to enter the sacred Jannatul-Baqi Cemetery, where many of the Prophet’s relatives and companions are buried, my mother and sisters and I could not. Not for any logical reason, just misogyny.

Islam may seem like an Arab-centric faith, but its universal teachings have been accessed and will continue to be accessed by millions of diverse individuals across the globe. Such profound, holy cities, unlike no other places on Earth, should never withstand the absence of one particular nationality. I want to emphasize that the experience of Umrah, though at times made me more conscious of my IranianShia status, was overall immensely positive for me. I highly recommend it to anyone who is thinking of going. There are myriads of changes I hope to implement in my life, having performed the pilgrimage. And insha’Allah, God-willing, our Iranian brothers and sisters in faith, as well as non-Muslims, can share the same experience. Umrah can be only that much sweeter, when accompanied by your fellow believers who speak your language, know your customs, and share your culture.v 17

The Difficulties

‫م‬ ‫ش‬ ‫کالت‬

by M. RASTGOO

I

t would not, I believe, be a stretch of the imagination to postulate that the Persian poetic culture can, at times, be complex. It would also probably not boggle the mind that translating a Persian poem into English (or, indeed, any poem into any other language) is a terribly tricky business, in which a lot of the cultural, socio-political, and linguistic references of the original work fall by the wayside to die a slow and lonely death. With these two statements in mind, I will now endeavor to do the exact thing I am warning against: not to translate a gem of Persian literature, but to try and explain a fraction of its literary and poetic significance. I understand that I am attempting to dissect the proverbial frog, but I will try and proceed in a manner which will provide explanations as to why, exactly, such a big deal is made out of Hafez or out of poetry in the Persian culture. This poem is the first ghazal, lyric poem, in Divan-e Hafez, Hafez’s collection of poems, and hence one of his most well-known.

This poem starts in a different language, with the first hemistich, half-couplet, in Arabic. The rhythmic structure of the poem and the rhyme, the traditional monorhyme, are par for the course; the first couplet, the Arabic in the first half and the Persian in the second, set the mood of the poem: despair, not knowing what to do, a complaint to the world, a grievance.

The scene is set with Hafez calling the sāqī, the cupbearer, and requesting the wine to be passed around, since it seemed that love was easy at first, but soon he had found out that many problems accompanied it. Note also, from a purely technical standpoint, how easily Hafez plays with assonance and consonance: the first couplet is riddled with “ā”s and “a”s and “l”s, and if read out loud sounds extremely musical and pleasing to the ear.

as inferior to the addressee. Hafez here employs synecdoche and some lovely imagery: that the smell of musk that arises from the addressee’s strands of hair, and that the swaying of that scented hair breaks innumerable hearts. In this line, the word nāfe literally means the navel of the doe from which musk is collected, but is used in the metaphorical sense. Admittedly, comparing your lover to a navel might not appear romantic to us, but again, this particular type of hyperbole and metaphor, while perhaps incongruous in English, is par for the course in this type of poem. ‫به بوی نافه‌ای کاخر صبا زان طره بگشاید‬ ‫ز تاب جعد مشکینش چه خون افتاد در دل‌ها‬ Be bû-ye nāfe’yī kākhar sabā zān tor’re bogshāyad Ze tāb-e ja’ad-e moshkīnash che khûn oftād dar del-hā In longing for the musky scent The breeze brings from her hair Such blood wells up in lovers’ hearts Such suffering, and despair...

The overarching theme of the poem continues with the next line, that of despair at the throes of fate. Hafez bemoans that he cannot live any life worth living if he is constantly moving from one place or thing to the next. The imagery of the caravanserai, common in medieval Persian literature, imbues this passage, with references to jaras, the bell to announce departure, and mahmel, the loads on the back of camels. No variant of the word caravan is used, however; instead, the location of the narrator is manzel-e jānān, the house or stage of the heart; manzel is the word used to refer to the stops on the caravan’s route where it would come to rest, and jānān, in this case, means ‘people who are dear.’ How, then, Hafez asks, can one get the time one needs to enjoy life, when every moment is plagued by the departure bell, when all the time spent in one place is lost in the thought of another? Personified, the bell cries out, disturbing any peace there is to be had.

‫ناولها‬ ِ ‫اَال یا اَیُّها َ السّاقی ا ِدر کأسا ً و‬ ‫که عشق آسان نمود اول ولی افتاد مشکل‌ها‬ alā yā ayyoha-ssāqī ader ka’san wa nāwelhā Ke eshq āsān nemûd avval vali oftād moshkel-hā Come, boy, and pass the wine around — Love seemed a simple game When I encountered it...but then The difficulties came!

‫مرا در منزل جانان چه امن عیش چون هر دم‬ ‫جرس فریاد می‌دارد که بربندید محمل‌ها‬ Marā dar manzel-e jānān che amn-e ’eysh chon har dam Jaras faryād mi-dārad ke bar-bandīd mahmel-hā

With the next line, we can see the presence of one of the central techniques of Persian lyric poetry, that of the panegyric, or text in praise of someone or something, wherein, as Dick Davis says, it is standard that the narrator puts himself

What can ensure my happiness, At love’s stage in my heart, When every instant now the bell 18

Cries, “Load up, to depart”?

Shab-e tārīk o bīm-e mowj o gerdābi chenin hāyel Kojā dānand hāl-e mā sabok-bārān-e sāhel-hā

Wine is completely forbidden by the Islamic religion, and Hafez lived in a very Muslim world. Although he was himself a Muslim, Hafez’s poetry is rampant with allusions to wine, the tavern, and the wine-seller. It is here that the undeniable presence of Sufism and Sufi imagery is made clear—through the thoroughly blasphemous nature of this line. Sufis made up a mystical branch of Islam. They believed, among other things, that all were one with God and God was in everyone. The way to achieve this oneness was through daily prayer and fasting, an extreme, ascetic practice that Hafez often mocked. Rumi was a Sufi, and he and others after him standardized the use of certain allusions. In medieval Persia, Sufis were often persecuted, so they wrote in code: wine was union with divine love and knowledge, the tavern was the source of inspiration to reach the divine, the wine-seller was the teacher, the nightingale and flower were the lover and the beloved, et cetera. One must not believe every single allusion to these things has a hidden meaning, though; the beauty of Persian poetry lies in its capacity to be read several different ways, and often very real wine was drunk. The practices and laws of different cities in Hafez’s time depended entirely upon the ruler: some kings would close the taverns and forbid wine, some would leave them open, but the wine-drinking would go on regardless, as it was a remnant of the Zoroastrian tradition, whose clash with Islam gave rise to such figures as the pīr-e moqān in this line. This name, translated literally, means the “elder of the magi,” but he can be seen as a wise man, a teacher, a spiritual guide, the wine-seller and tavern-keeper, but emphatically not Muslim. In this particular line, Hafez says to dye the prayer-mat with wine, an extremely blasphemous act in Islam, if the pīr-e moghan says to do so, since each stage in the pilgrimage towards the divine has different rules.

On this dark night, amidst these waves, The whirlpool’s monstrous roar, How can they know our plight, who sit So carefree on the shore?

Hafez here seems to caution against selfishness, which has led to his ruin and shame. The word mahfel means a gathering of people, a circle wherein people sit around and talk and laugh and debate and drink. Some of these gatherings are based on literature, others on politics or gossip. Hafez states that if a secret is used as a basis to build one of these circles, then all is lost and the secret will never be hidden again. ‫همه کارم ز خود کامی به بدنامی کشید آخر‬ ‫نهان کی ماند آن رازی کز او سازند محفل‌ها‬ Hame kāram ze khod-kāmi be bad-nāmi keshīd ākhar Nahān key mānad ān rāzi kazû sāzand mahfel-hā In all I’ve done, I’ve pleased myself, It’s ruined my good name — The secret’s out, and everywhere Men talk about my shame.

Finally, the poem ends on a moral, with the poet’s name cited as is custom in a ghazal, and also circles back to the beginning, with the last line in Arabic again. It is a call to action, to revelation. One must not hide, be it in religion or in love, from the object of one’s desire; one must embrace it fully, and only then, with the rest of the world left in the dust, can one finally achieve reunion, ecstasy, peace.

This is just a tiny fraction of the significance of this poem. There is so much more to be said about this ghazal and about Hafez, whose work provides a valuable testimony of the religious, cultural, societal, and political goings-on in Shiraz in the fourteenth century. Go find other translations and interpretations, go listen to the poem, go read others. Hafez’s legacy lives on through us, and if I’ve managed to interest a single one of you in even looking him up on Wikipedia, I will consider myself successful, and my difficulties will be assuaged.

Whether those difficulties arose from love or something else, let me tell you; if you’d only be so kind as to pass the wine around…

‫به می سجاده رنگین کن گرت پیر مغان گوید‬ ‫که سالک بی‌خبر نبود ز راه و رسم منزل‌ها‬ Be mey sajjāde rangin kon garat pīr-e moqān gûyad Ke sālek bi-khabar nabvad ze rāh o rasm-e manzel-hā And if the wine-seller says wine Should dye your prayer mat, dye it!

Pilgrims should know each stage’s rule And seek to satisfy it.

The theme of despair and the complaints come back with a vengeance with this line, where Hafez describes himself lost at sea, fearing the waves and the terrifying whirlpool, asking what those who sit safely on the shore, unburdened, can know of his distress. The point here is largely a complaint to others who do not listen; Hafez seems to feel alone, desperate, and people who have not experienced what he has can in no way understand him. Hafez is noted for his ability to reach everyone and relate to everyone. This is why, to this day, most Iranian homes in the world have a copy of his Divan.

‫حضوری گر همی‌خواهی از او غایب مشو حافظ‬ ‫متی ما تلق من تهوی دع الدنیا و اهملها‬ Hozûrī gar hamī khāhī azû ghāyeb masho Hāfez Matā mā talq-e men tahwā da’o-ddonyā o ahmelhā Don’t hide from Him you seek, Hafez; You cannot hope to find The One you’re longing for until You leave the world behind.v

‫شب تاریک و بیم موج و گردابی چنین هایل‬ ‫کجا دانند حال ما سبکباران ساحل‌ها‬

‫ راستگو‬.‫م‬ 19

On Display

I

by NIUSHA HAJIKHODAVERDIKHAN

started and finished this piece, titled “On Display,” in Summer 2019 as a response to my first year at UC Berkeley.

This piece has a lot to do with the idea of truth and how we understand the idea of “facts” today, especially in academia.

Our institutions, which are located in the settler colony that we call the “United States,” are rooted in hyper-capitalist, oppressive, and genocidal ideas, many of which are labeled as “facts.” This is due to the reality that settler colonialism is an ongoing project, which is constantly trying to legitimize itself– legitimize its rule, power, and actions through their control of every agent of socialization, history being one of them.

This is why I placed the “slice” of a tree ring as a means of studying history—to represent the way this truth cannot ultimately be deleted. This truth is preserved by “nature”–it is immortalized and displayed by the Earth. The Earth will hold

onto the bodies of the thousands murdered, the layers of rock will always tell us about the destructive actions of colonizers and capitalists, and the rings of trees, which have existed for longer than many of us have been alive, tell an important story about our history. Our bodies and souls, being part of nature, also preserve, immortalize, and display this truth–this is what generational trauma is. Oppressed people worldwide literally present the most vulnerable parts of themselves and their ancestors to showcase this truth. Our vulnerability is always on display, always taken advantage of, always commodified on both the individual and institutional level. During my first year at UC Berkeley, I constantly had to present this truth, and this was and is always a painful process especially in institutions and spaces where this truth is mocked and delegitimized.

In academia, this truth is delegitimized through a European monopoly over knowledge and knowledge production where the knowledge of cis, straight, white men is presented as “unbiased, objective fact,” while the knowledge of everyone else is labeled as “biased,” “fanatical,” and “one-sided.”

In this painting, I aim to showcase the pain oppressed people feel in such institutions where their wounds are literally on display, commodified, and re-packaged for white consumption. The darker hues of the painting, such as the dark red, purple, and black, all exist to showcase the darker times we are currently living in: the denial of history, the contamination of the Earth by colonizers and capitalists, and the normalization of this state. In my past paintings, I was inspired by Iranian poets such as Saadi, Farrokhzad, and Sepehri who represented Iran as a garden, especially focusing on Farrokhzad’s “I Pity the Garden.” In this painting, I hold onto the setting of the garden but in a much darker manner as the reflection in the individual’s eyes show a burning garden, presenting my personal fear for the future of not only Iran but the World.

Overall, this painting is not meant to send a message about an inevitable and unstoppable catastrophic future for Iranians and the World in general. Along with focusing on showcasing historical events, this painting also holds a religious and spiritual message of hope and resistance. Inspired by my grandmother’s symbolism of the pomegranate as the “fruit of heaven,” I use pomegranates in my paintings for multiple reasons. First, to present my people and my country in the light of greatness and wealth (consider a decolonized, anti-capitalist understanding of wealth 20

in this case). Second, to further connect the heavens to Earth, to destroy binaries, such as the Fantasy/Reality binary, and to present the way in which we are interconnected to the entire World: We are not God, but we are Godly. We are the whole universe. It also exists to destroy the Nature/Humanity binary as it showcases the way in which both “nature” and human beings, being part of Nature, display history and innately resist oppression. By observing the resistance of “nature,” we can understand our own innate need to resist and our own power to resist and to thrive as well. However, spirituality does not cure depression, anxiety, generational pain and trauma; oppressed people still feel these things and are allowed to feel them. This painting is meant to capture that pain in order to learn from it. Holding history and displaying it can be deeply exhausting and painful. It is both a beautiful act and a curse. vvv They sell the wisdom of the World, to a monopoly over knowledge.

History, knowledge, and wisdom, are “written” in every corner of the World: Look within and look around!— the pain you feel is not one you endure alone, the love you feel is not in your heart alone.

The myth of “Objectivity” is white supremacy over knowledge— what a shame! what an attack on every being’s innate need to reason!

Objectivity is the bias of the oppressor presented as fact.

Everyday in this institution, We put parts of ourselves on display— Perceived as threatening, angry, and evil but we are open wounds—our vulnerability always on display.

They told me, “create chaos everyday! disrupt everyday! everywhere!”

They told me, “EVERYday is ASHURA and EVERYland is KARBALA”.

The story of the World is inside us and we innately share it— Trauma is history on display.

The story of the World is all around us— Also innately on display, but Neglected. Hidden in plain sight. Discredited and Demonized. Murdered and Buried.

This existence is circular.

The end being a new beginning.

This Garden This Garden is my home, its people high off nostalgia and memories—good or bad, this is how we survive.

I am terrified of living in this time, when the pomegranates are over ripening, and the enemies are setting our Garden on fire.

I am terrified. I am terrified. I am terrified.

But the World has taught me, resistance is innate. It rises from the ashes. It rises like a mushroom on a dead tree. It rises. It rises. It rises for it is deep, it is untouchable.

We have survived for centuries and we will continue to survive.

We have created beauty even in the darkest times and we will continue to create.

We have resisted for as long as we can remember and we will continue to resist.v 21

Reflections on National Subjectivities and Cybergovernmentality: Bahaar Ahsan in Conversation with Sima Shakhsari

S

ima Shakhsari is an assistant professor in the Department of Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Minnesota. Their book, Politics of Rightful Killing: Civil Society, Gender, and Sexuality in Weblogistan, just released by Duke

University Press, provides an analysis of Weblogistan as a site of cybergovernmentality, where simultaneously national and neoliberal gendered subjectivities are produced through online and offline heteronormative disciplining and normalizing techniques.

22

BA: Hi Sima. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me a little bit about your research. Your new book, The Politics of Rightful Killing: Civil Society, Gender, and Sexuality in Weblogistan, offers some really thoughtful and incisive reflections and interventions surrounding rightfulness and rightlessness, biopolitics, necropolitics, and what you call cybergovernmentality. Can you talk a little bit generally about this book, and how you came into this project? Maybe you could also share some of the central lines of inquiry you follow in the book, and how those have evolved throughout the course of the work?

SS: Sure, absolutely! So the book emerged during the years when I was a graduate student. Like many graduate students, I was working on a dissertation. Initially, even before grad school, I had always been involved and interested in the politics of Iranian diaspora. I had done a lot of activist work in the San Francisco Bay Area, mostly with queer and violence against women organizations, and Iranian gay and lesbian groups like HASHA. My interest was really focused on issues of Iranian diaspora and sexuality.

When I was in graduate school, I was interested in studying how sexuality was implicated in Iranian cultural production in diaspora. Initially, I was thinking of doing research on Iranian satellite television programs, which were produced in Los Angeles and broadcasted to Iran and other parts of the world. I started doing my fieldwork around that subject in Turkey, talking to Iranian people who had just come from Iran to Turkey about how they evaluated these satellite television programs.

People basically told me that they didn’t watch those programs in Iran.

While I was asking around in Turkey about these programs, one woman actually said “Televiziona-ye Irani-ye Los Angelesi tahgigh nadarand, tahrim darand.” — “Iranian Los Angeles T.V. programs are not worth researching, they need to be boycotted.” Many of the young people I was talking to at that point in my fieldwork said “Why

are you working on these satellite T.V. programs? Nobody really pays attention to them or takes them seriously. You should look into blogs.” So, that was one way that I entered this project. Then I noticed that around the same time, and this was around 2002 and 2003, that there was a lot of hype around Persian blogs. I started looking in the news and seeing, everywhere from the New York Times to Iranian.com, all these media outlets had a lot of enthusiasm about Persian blogging. Some of the headlines that appeared said things like “Blogs shall set you free!” or “Freedom through Farsi blogging.” The narrative was, “because there is no freedom of speech in Iran, blogs have become a channel through which Iranians, in particular young Iranians and Iranian women, can find a voice to circumvent state censorship.” In a sense, there was an assumption that blogs are the space where civil society flourishes for the first time in Iran, and where the Iranian people find a voice. So I started reading popular blogs, and as I was doing that I realized that most of the blogs that were very popular or would find their way into English language news reports were written from Toronto, and not from Iran. It also happened that somebody who was known as the “Godfather of Persian blogging,” Hossein Derakhshan or Hoder, lived in Toronto at the time.

So I met Hoder at a conference, where people who were bloggers and policy makers, geeks, U.S. military bloggers, and investors had come together to think about how blogs could basically be a venue for liberation or democratization.

Soon after that, I started my own blog, and later went to Toronto, where many popular Iranian bloggers, lived to do the offline part of my ethnography. I started by doing online ethnography, and then met with people, had focus groups, and befriended some of the popular bloggers. Through online and offline ethnography, I was trying to see why it was that this whole narrative existed, this narrative of blogs as a space of freedom for Iranians in Iran, when in fact most of the popular blogs were based outside of Iran. As I told you, my interest and my focus was on sexuality and gender, so I started looking at how 23

gender and sexuality were discussed amongst popular bloggers. As I went on with the research, my project changed from the focus on just gender and sexuality, to thinking about the politics of homeland. I became interested in thinking about how it was that Iranian bloggers outside of Iran, and in particular in Toronto, were writing about the politics of homeland, and within that, how gender and sexuality were discussed among bloggers. So that is how I came to this project, through my interest in Iranian diasporic cultural productions and the way that Iranians form their subjectivities in relationship to the so-called homeland/Iran.

BA: That’s really helpful context for your thinking in the book. One thing that I’m thinking about, that I was really struck by in reading the book is this idea you introduce of cybergovernmentality and the ways that cybergovernmentality is enacted or practiced in weblogistan.

For me, when I hear the term cybergovernmentality, my mind immediately goes to state surveillance and to the power of state actors in the politics of the internet. I think immediately of some kind of top-down enforcement of cybergovernmentality.

However, while that is something you talk about in the book, it really isn’t foregrounded. You seem to highlight much more heavily the ways that cybergovenmentality is enacted amongst diasporic subjects, amongst this transnational community of bloggers. I’m curious, was that foregrounding of how subjects discipline one another in weblogistan an intentional move with an underlying theoretical or political commitment?

SS: Absolutely. So often, like you said, when people think about Iran and the internet, the dominant discourse is basically that there is a repressive state that is silencing the people.

To complicate this account, I use cybergovernmentality as a term that helps us think about governmentality in the Foucaltian sense. That is, the notion of governmentality is not reducible to

a top-down model of state and civil society. Rather, civil society becomes part and parcel of governmentality.

So governmentality, in its Foucaultian sense, is an assemblage of individuals, discourses, states, non-state entities, and institutions that come together to enable a form of power that is not simply a repressive power but is a normalizing power. I use this term in the context of cyberspace to think about how the conduct of people is governed, not just by the state, but by this network that I mentioned. That is why I’m paying attention to the way that Iranian bloggers produce their subjectivities through participation in the realm of civil society in weblogistan.

So, my focus, more than anything else, is on how it is that through online and offline discussions, particular forms of normative subjectivities are produced in weblogistan. In particular, I talk about how a particular form of heteronormativity and also homonationalism are produced in these forms of governmentality in weblogistan. So you’re absolutely right, rather than an obsessive or fetishizing focus on the state, which is often the way that people talk about the internet in Iran, I go beyond just state censorship to think about other forms of censorship that happen between bloggers. That is, what kinds of discussions are allowed and what kinds of discussions are not, who is considered to be a good democratic and nationalist subject and who is made to be the deviant other in weblogistan. I also put that kind of cybergovernmentality in relation to larger projects of democratization in Iran. That is, how in the name of producing democratic subjects with rights, the Iranian population as a whole becomes expendable and killable, exactly because of the geopolitical interests of the empire in internet democratization projects.

BA: I’m curious if you can maybe unpack this term weblogistan? Can you talk about how that term relates to how you’re thinking about space and about particular transnational discursive and community formations? I know that in the book

you are kind of critical or weary of the word diaspora and the weight that word carries in this moment. So can you speak a little bit to space and transnationalism and maybe even this relationship between online and offline and how that relates to the cybergovernmentality you’re talking about?

SS: So weblogistan is a term that I didn’t coin, and nobody knows who started referring to the Iranian blogosphere as weblogistan. But to me it was interesting because often cyberenthusiatic accounts of the internet are thinking about how the internet is a space without borders and that there is this kind of fluidity of movement on the internet. But the word weblogistan shows forms of territorialization on the internet. There is, to borrow the term from Benedict Anderson, this imagined community of Iranians gathered in cyberspace naming themselves weblogistan. So here is a paradox where people can supposedly move freely on the Internet, while there is also this form of territorialization.

In one of the chapters, I talk about nationalism and how nationalist discourses are very much present in weblogistan. This idea that online and offline are so different from one another, that online is supposed to be so promising and surpassing the boundaries of the nation state, as I argue in the book, is not quite the case.

Territorialization and nationalism repeat themselves in weblogistan.

Weblogistan is, of course, not the only example. You can think of a lot of ways in which the internet actually produces the very national boundaries that it’s supposed to transgress. So that’s how I think about weblogistan: as both an imagined community and a territorial space in cyberspace. Does that answer your question?

BA: Yes, the ways that you talk about how diaspora and transnational communities of Iranians can reinscribe national boundaries is really insightful. It’s helpful for me even in thinking about my own lived experience growing up in the socalled diaspora, and how even outside 24

of Iran my sense of belonging to a community and my subjectivity have been disciplined in terms that are national and territorial.

SS: Yes, and to answer more directly to the part of your question about diaspora: I have a whole chapter that talks about exile versus diaspora and the celebrations and fetishizations of diaspora as transgressive. What I said about cyberenthusiastic accounts of the internet before, you can also see elements of that in the idea of diaspora.

Despite these celebrations of diaspora as not being attached to a static idea of homeland, in the way that exilic discourse for example reproduces a bounded idea of homeland, you do see the reification of the nation in diasporic practices and discourses on the internet or offline. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a sense of belonging. I start the prologue of the book with talking about how one can think about diaspora without reproducing those static or essentialist notions of the nation. It becomes problematic when these fetishizations of diaspora actually reproduce the very same dynamics and discourses that they’re supposedly transgressing in this enthusiastic narrative.

BA: That is making me think about the part of the book where you cite Minoo Moallem in talking about transnational nationalism. I should mention that we share the experience of being undergraduate students of Minoo. I’m curious if, on that note, you can talk a little bit about citational practices. How do you think about your research in terms of particular scholarly traditions and legacies? Do you think of citational practices as a way of relating to scholarly traditions and building intellectual community?

What is the relationship between citational practices and what you consider to be a scholarly tradition or intellectual community that you’re a part of?

SS: Like you, I was an undergraduate student of Minoo at San Francisco State. Minoo and Inderpal Grewal were

the people who were really influential in the formation of my intellectual trajectory- so that’s why you see a lot of Minoo and Inderpal citations in the book. (laughs) So transnational feminism is basically the line of thinking that is behind this book.

I’m really invested in a transnaitonal feminist approach to thinking about the internet and diaspora. In terms of citational practices, I have to say that the first book is really important in the tenure process. So you have to kind of rehearse and repeat the scholars that have credibility in U.S. academia. In order for the book to be legible to the people that are reviewing it for tenure, you can’t cite people that are not well known to them. I’m not saying that I use the Foucaultiuan framework because of that. I really believe in and am trained in a Foucaultian approach, but citing particular people who are considered to be the gurus of feminist theory and queer theory is unfortunately how you can get tenure in academic institutions.

So you see a lot of people citing Foucault, Deleuze, Derrida, and I think part of it is a performance of proving that you are fluent in particular theoretical traditions and that you can use that in your book. I just recently wrote an article about that: about how we need to shift, in queer theory in particular, how we think about citation. In queer theory, we mostly cite scholars who are U.S.-based and white, with limited citation of scholars of color. How is it that some scholars do not ever count as queer theory scholars? So when you’re writing about Iran and writing about sexuality it becomes case studies, not where queer theory comes from.

Transnational feminist theory and a Foucaultian approach is definitely how I approach this book–but in terms of citational practices there is a lot to say there. Unfortunately for those of us who are in these tenure processes, we have to rehearse our theory in a particular way in order to be intelligible.

BA: This book offers some ideas and critiques that are really helpful in this political moment. I’m curious if in writing this book you were thinking about circulation outside

of the academy? If you were thinking about that, how were you thinking about it? Did you have any vision for how you would like for this book to be received? How might this book transform or inform our ways of relating to particular kinds of media?

SS: In many ways, this book is really written to be read. The introduction may not be as accessible to those who do not have an academic background, but the rest of the book, I hope, is very accessible. In terms of how to make the book more accessible to people outside of academia: Part of the book is about sanctions, and that is basically the crux of the rightful killing that I talk about.

While the so-called democratization regimes are very much interested in freedom of access to the internet in Iran, at the same time they are imposing deadly sanctions on the Iranian population. So that is where the title of the book comes from: the slow killing of the Iranian people in the name of rights.

My activism outside of academia, which is really connected to my academic work, is about sanctions. That is something that is really important to me at this point and is really why I wrote the book. That’s why I end the book with a personal story. I talk about my sister who passed away from cancer.

I definitely think that the lack of access to chemotherapy and the rampant air pollution that are directly connected to the sanctions on Iran are the reasons for her death and the deaths of many people in Iran. One way to make the book more accessible is to make parts of the book into opinion pieces and write it in a more personal and less academic way for people to read more broadly and outside of just academic circles.

BA: I’m sure people would be eager to read that, and that it could be a really meaningful contribution. Those are all of my immediate questions for you. Is there anything else that you wanted to talk about? Maybe anything that you think is missing from this conversation?

SS: One thing: we talked about cybergovernmentality, and that is one 25

major part of the book. But the other part that the later chapters focus on is how notions of cybergovernmentality and the production of democratic subjectivities online are connected to rightful killing. The main argument of the book is about how geopolitics is absolutely crucial in the way that socalled cyber revolutions are framed.

As I say in the book, weblogistan is perhaps the first form of cyber revolution that emerged in this hype about cyber revolutions. First there was the blogging revolution, and then of course during the Arab Spring, there was the hype about the Facebook revolution and Twitter revolution. So it is also important to think about the book in terms of cyber revolutions and how geopolitics is important in the way that internet democratization projects are very much connected to the politics of life and death: the way that life and death are distributed among different populations where certain populations, such as the Iranian population, are seen as having the potential to become democratic, but are at the same time killable, because terror and fear stick to Iranian bodies. Despite the Iranian population’s desires for whiteness or for becoming exceptional citizens, to borrow from Grewal, the Iranian population becomes killable through sanctions and the looming threat of war. In the coda of the book, which was written before the assassination of Soleimani, I have a poster of Trump where he is saying “Sanctions are coming November 5” and Soleimani reproducing the same style of poster saying “I will be standing against you.”

This display of military virility or masculinist forms of representation in the internet have material ramifications that affect the Iranian population, who live what I call “loaned life.” Unlike biopolitics and necropolitics, in the politics of rightful killing, loaned life is a form of life that is conditional: “You can live as long as you do not threaten the so-called international community.” So that is key in the book and is really where the title comes from, The Politics of Rightful Killing: Civil Society, Gender, and Sexuality in Weblogistan.v

Poems for My Homeland ‫شادی‬

by MAHSHAD BADII

lean out window, taste sunset and smog call to prayer coats sky in gold like the sweet syrup of Quran verses dripping from my mother’s lips in childhood tongue feels light, wraps around Vatan homeland Iran ruins of marble kingdom where poets dipped paint brushes into Farsi canvases dripping of farhang, culture carrying the burning sun on squared shoulders like freshly baked noon cheeks red from our matchstick souls words pop in our mouths like firecrackers we are certain, stubborn, proud but our lips do not tremble.v

Pause deep breath bitten lip squinted eyes my mind learns to spot the signs when a teacher reaches my name in roll call freshman year, first day of geometry shoulders shrivel as pale white lips tremble before my name yes, I’m here “Muh-hashd, Muh-har can we call you Michelle?” nails bite into palms ears clogged by a name bleached—washed out all vivid colors gone culture bleeds down the drain so I long for faces like mine lips like mine for Farsi spoken 5000 miles away from lips that do not tremble

‫سوگواری‬

scarf too tight pull at neck 15 hour flight and my shaking hands place passport into Iranian hands at security name tag says Ahmad pause short, shoulders easy bushy eyebrows raised, asks “Mahshad Badii?” body paralyzed by the sound of correctness almost forget to nod my head, grab my bags ears lap up the sound of Farsi, like chimes sweet smell of rosewater soaked in walls I feel I have come home for the first time

if a bomb falls in Tehran and i am the immigrant across the sea will i melt alongside my grandmother? will my skin tingle with the ghost of soot and ashes dancing across my cousins’ spines or will americana protect me? drape its stars and stripes on my shoulders for 40 days until i shed mourning for a darker color: indifference i am my great grandparents’ greatest dream and nightmare dokhtar irooni whose belly has never known hunger but whose eyes struggle to cry for her homeland in the correct tongue still, i live i live so that if the skies spit shrapnel into the city i was born there will be someone to mourn her.v

spend visit with my cousin Afshin Iranian drums bang in speakers of his jeep warm laughter spills out of windows glance at him from passenger seat light red, he pours us tea sugar cubes melt on tongues talking soccer futbal parties mehmoonis black-yellow taxis buzz through streets booming shouts from bazaars of bargaining thick-browed young women like me 26

‫اشتیاق‬ if I could bottle the scent of home it would smell of crushed pomegranate juice sliding down my grandmother’s strong forearms ripe oranges in the wintertime my cousins stacked on each other’s shoulders stretching to pick a few off our neighbor’s tree three bottles of cologne too many an ashtray stuffed from a midnight stroll a pot of loose black tea, always freshly brewed my mother’s ghormeh sabzi dried limes wafting through our home announcing their arrival like a childhood friend sometimes gone but always familiar.v

27

A Divided Diaspora and the Right to Iranian Self-Determination

T

he traumatic events of January 2020, which brought Iran and the United States closer to war than ever before in modern history, also gave rise to the latest iteration of certain factions of Iranian-Americans calling for foreign-led regime change. These were particularly troubling as they came during a time of great international mourning, not only just for the assassinated General Qasem Soleimani, but also for the 176 Iranian and foreign nationals killed aboard Ukraine Airlines Flight 752, mistakenly shot down by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard five days later. Unfortunately, this warmongering in support of foreignled regime change is neither new nor unexpected. More than forty years since the revolution, many Iranians who fled Iran for the United States and Western Europe have continuously advocated for the fall of the Islamic Republic’s theocratic government through foreign-sponsored or foreign-led regime change. Among these groups exist the militant Islamist– Marxist Mojaheddin-e Khalq (MEK), the strictly political National Iranian Congress (NIC), and, most prominently, the neo-monarchist supporters of Reza Pahlavi, the Crown Prince of Iran.

There are dozens of arguments as to why the Islamic Republic does not represent the ideals and identities of many Iranians, and there are just as many assertions regarding how a better, more egalitarian Iranian society can be crafted under a different democratic regime via foreign-led regime change. While most of these points may seem wholly or partially justified, those making them often have limited philosophical standing in doing so. This is a result of a common failure to take into account the right of the Iranian people to self-determination.

The violation of this right has previously been thrust upon our nation in 1941, 1953, and, more recently, in 2009. Be it

by FARHANG-PARAST at the hands of the British, American, or Iranian governments, the silencing of the voice of the Iranian people during or prior to major sociopolitical change is a fundamental breach of international law. Moreover, when Iranians last had a significant opportunity to craft their nation in a collective image, hundreds of thousands of the country’s brightest minds chose to instead flee abroad to seek opportunities, abandoning their homes, livelihoods, and countrymen. While many also fled Iran to avoid persecution under the new regime, the ultimate result became an Islamic Republic positioned in power both explicitly and implicitly by the Iranian people.

Among the first to leave Iran was the exiled former Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, with his entire family, including the young 19-year-old Prince Reza. This is why many Iranians find it odd, nay humorous, when the prince, with his comically exaggerated Persian accent, holds a press conference every few months predicting the end of the Islamic Republic and calling on the West to help restore him and his descendants to the Peacock Throne. Theoretically speaking, this practice is fundamentally flawed–not because of the implications of a restored monarchy but because of the obvious lack of attention given to the voice of 83 million Iranians. The future of Iran’s government, be it theocracy, a new monarchy, or secular democracy, should be determined by Iranians as a collective citizen body. Just as Iranians arise and take to the streets to fight for their rights and their voices, so too must those in the diaspora who seek sociopolitical change.

Calling upon Western powers to again meddle in Iran does far more harm than good, as evinced by the century of foreign exploitation Iran has experienced since the D’Arcy Concession of 1901.

One may ask accordingly why 28

this maxim is not clear to all Iranians in the diaspora. Why, indeed, do millions around the world pledge fealty to the aforementioned exile groups that support foreign regime change? It is quite possible that generations of rage and pent-up angst in exile have manifested into a corrosive attitude that allows Iranians to ignore the right of their own people to determine their joint political future.

This dialectic in the diaspora often wears away at the moral fabric of the Iranian community the longer the amount of time its members spend away from their homeland. Naturally, any such claim would take a mountain of research to substantiate, but the mere possibility of a correlation between the tendency of some to support foreign regime change and the length of often self-imposed exile from Iran is enough to warrant further study.

This may paint a dark future for the Iranian diaspora given the unfortunate linearity of time and the low probability of many pro-regime change Iranians returning to the Islamic Republic anytime soon. However, I would argue all is not lost, given the resurgence in passion for Iranian culture and affairs among the youngest generation of Iranians and Iranian-Americans. It is in the hands of the youth to stave off the diasporic division, and no generation has been better equipped with technology and access to information in order to reverse this unfortunate trend. Through the study of Iran’s history and society, one discovers the beauty and diversity of those of various Iranian religions, ethnicities, and classes.

This acknowledgement of diversity within the country allows for a more complete representation of voices, given that the strongest Iran is inevitably that which is determined by the voices of all Iranians, those within the bordered nation and the nation in diaspora. Iran’s future, after all, is for Iranians alone to forge.v

All Endured by

I

‫نعنا‬

t started in November with the outburst of resistance met with violent repression. The first effort to conceal the realities of the resistance was a week-long internet shut down by the Ministry of Information and Communications Technology of Iran, starting November 16th. Estimates of economic damage ranged up to $1.5 billion, with the aim being to silence fuel price protests: fuel prices that had skyrocketed for a population already struggling from years of sanctions and inflation, as well as unemployment. The reality to be desperately concealed by the shutdown was not only the bloodshed and imprisonment of thousands, but also a challenge to the regime posed by valiant masses.

The reality then shifts to a ceaseless bombardment of tragedy and fear from fuel prices to the threat of war looming above and natural disasters poorly handled. Eyes glued to television and cell phone screens on the 7th of January, awaiting news of a possible war, was soon followed by a wave of disbelief with the crash of Flight 752. Trump’s backing away from further military action on Iran in his announcement on January 8th allowed only a moment of relief before the plane crash casualties rushed in with a fog of numbness.

What came out of the dark in the following weeks of protest and the blackout was a report of about 1,500 deaths and thousands injured and imprisoned. Reports also included tactics used on protesters such as shooting civilians from rooftops and helicopters, and opening machine gun fire. It also further revealed bodies taken from hospitals and morgues, and medical staff advising that injured protesters be taken home out of fear of more arrests being made from hospital beds. The blackout functioning to mask the resistance served to make even the deaths of protesting civilians another fleeting tragedy. No time is permitted to mourn the loss of life in one tragedy before the next one strikes.

The future of resistance looks grim as individuals are caught between grief and fear. Phasing out each occurance, a constant bombardment of tragedy, and a fear of war has been a useful strategy of retaining control over a whole population.

Iranian authorities did, in fact, also claim to arrest the individual responsible for publicizing footage of the plane crash.

This is a desperate fight, as seen in the extreme measures taken to silence resistance and how meaningless human life has become in the eyes of those who seek to annihilate opposition, leaving one to wonder, what is the risk of embodying testimonies of life under suppression?

Truths witnessed and lived by the people are then made to be ephemeral realities: moments fleeting, intertwined with political tension and the devaluation of civilian lives, who are impacted the most. Grief and disbelief are aspects of life to which the people of Iran and the diaspora have become accustomed. Individuals must continue their struggle to make ends meet in the face of tragedies, without being given time for much needed mourning. It wasn’t until the protests had died down and been forgotten that reports of deaths and casualties became available, and a suspicious lack of attention from Western media aided heavily in this process. The timing of the release of information further ensured that when the information had become available it was no longer a concern for the general public in other parts of the world. Tensions then rushed in, followed by the plane crash, and floods overtaking the province of Balochistan, which had been struggling to stay afloat before natural disaster even had a chance to strike.

At the end of the day, the reality which many Iranians might live involves tackling one distraction after the next, diverting attention from achieving societal improvement through passionate resistance. That is the nature of a reality made ephemeral, as it escapes from one’s grasp.v 29

R E FE R E NC E S The Iranians of the South Bay: Ethnic Enclave in Suburbia “Top 101 Cities with the Most Residents Born in Iran.” City-Data.com.

Advameg, Inc., 2018.

“Foreign Born Population: Iran.” United States Census Bureau. Prepared by Social Explorer, 2018.

Kiersz, Andy. “This Map Shows How Many Americans Identify as Iranian in Every US State.” Business Insider, January 6, 2020.

“People Reporting Ancestry.” United States Census Bureau. American Community Survey, 2018.

Portes, Alejandro, and Kenneth L. Wilson. “Immigrant Enclaves: An Analysis of the Labor Market Experiences of Cubans in Miami.” The American Journal of Sociology 86, no. 2 (September 1980): 295–319.

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Advameg, Inc., 2018.

“Persepolis and Ancient Iran.” Persepolis Terrace: Architecture, Reliefs, And Finds | The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Accessed February 5, 2020.

Sathé, Vijay. “The Lion-Bull Motifs of Persepolis: The Zoogeographic Context.”

(2012).

Wamsley, Laurel. “Trump Says He’ll Target Iran’s Cultural Sites. That’s Illegal.”

NPR. NPR, January 6, 2020.

Legacies of Resistance: An Exploration of Iranian Student Movements Zarkar, Rustin. “Ajam Podcast #8: Iranian Internationalism and Student Groups in the United States”. Produced by Ajam Media Collective. Ajam Podcast.

January 20, 2019. Podcast, MP3 audio, 38:52.

“Confederation of Iranian Students, National Union.” Encyclopedia Iranica.

Accessed February 13, 2020.

Bozorgi, Samira. “Fiftieth Anniversary of the Confederation of Iranian Students”. Last modified April 4, 2010.

Passage Poem “Rishe Dar Khak” by Fereydoon Moshiri, Presented in Portland State University in Portland Oregon in November 1997.

The Difficulties ‫مشکالت‬ Davis, Dick (2004). On Not Translating Hafez. New England Review, 25(1/2), 310-318. Retrieved from JSTOR database.

Davis, D. (2013). Faces of Love: Hafez and the poets of Shiraz. New York: Penguin Books.

Denison Ross, E. (1995). [Preface]. In G. M. L. Bell (Author), The Hafez poems of Gertrude Bell (pp. 9-18). Bethesda, MD: Iranbooks. (Original work published 1897)

Existing in Duality Fischler, Marcelle S. “In Great Neck, New Orthodox Synagogues.” The New York Times. The New York Times, December 14, 1997.

Green, David B. “1839: Persian Jews given Choice: Convert or Die.” haaretz. com, April 10, 2018.

Morpurgo, Giulia. “Great Neck, a Persian Island in New York.” JoiMag, January 10, 2019.

Moreen, Vera Basch. “Mashhadis: Jews Out of Place.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 100, no. 4 (2010): 712-14. Accessed February 7, 2020.

Nissimi, Hilda. “From Mashhad to New York: Family and Gender Roles in the Mashhadi Immigrant Community.” American Jewish History 93, no. 3 (2007): 303-28. Accessed February 7, 2020.

Nissimi, Hilda. “Memory, Community, and the Mashhadi Jews during the Underground Period.” Jewish Social Studies, New Series, 9, no. 3 (2003): 76-106.

Accessed February 7, 2020.

“The Double Lives of Mashhadi Jews.” The Jerusalem Post | JPost.com, January 1, 1AD.

All Endured “Special Report: Iran’s Leader Ordered Crackdown on Unrest - ‘Do Whatever It Takes to End It’.” Reuters, Thomson Reuters, 23 Dec. 2019.

Williams, Abigail, et al. “U.S. Says Iran May Have Killed up to 1,000 Protesters.”

NBCNews.com, NBCUniversal News Group, 6 Dec. 2019.

McKenzie, Sheena. “One of the Worst Crackdowns in Decades Is Happening in Iran. Here’s What We Know.” CNN, Cable News Network, 3 Dec. 2019.

Collman, Ashley. “The Person Who Posted the Video Showing the Ukrainian Plane Being Taken down by an Iranian Missile Has Been Arrested.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 14 Jan. 2020.

Vahdat, Josie Ensor; Ahmed. “Iranian Officials ‘Stealing Bodies’ from Morgues to Hide True Scale of Government Crackdown.” The Telegraph, Telegraph Media Group, 23 Nov. 2019.

Cultural Sites during War: Ancient Persepolis and Modern Iran Baker, Peter, and Maggie Haberman. “Pentagon Rules Out Striking Iranian Cultural Sites, Contradicting Trump.” The New York Times. The New York Times, January 7, 2020.

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Here Are Some of Its Most Important Sites.” CNN. Cable News Network, January 7, 2020.

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A PPE NDIX Passage Naye: A small village nearby the city of Tafresh in Iran located four hours south of Tehran.

Bagh: A large garden/arboretum filled with fruit and vegetable trees.

Mamani: The name by which we call our grandmother.

Ashe Reshte: An Iranian thick soup made with noodles, various beans, and vegetables.

Maman: Mother.

Sofre: The tablecloth placed on the floor to eat on.

Sabzi: Vegetables.

Naan: Iranian bread.

Reflections from Umrah Kufi: brimless, short, and rounded cap worn by men in many populations in North Africa, East Africa, Western Africa, and South Asia Ihram: a sacred state of purity and equality which a Muslim must enter in order to perform the Umrah pilgrimage; To symbolize this state, male pilgrims wear two lengths of white cloth.

Abaya: Islamic tunic for women Zam-zam: holy water from the Well of Zam-Zam in Masjid Al-Haram; the story of the well dates back to Prophet Abraham and his son Ishmael, who was crying out of thirst. Hajar ran seven times back and forth between the hills of Safa and Marwa looking for water, when Ishmael started scraping the land with his feet and suddenly the water sprang out.

Ka’bah: a cube-shaped, black stone monument in Makkah, Saudia Arabia, which is the focal point of prayer for all Muslims; the holiest site in Islam Adhan: Islamic call to prayer pbuh: stands for ‘peace be upon him’ The Difficulties ‫مشکالت‬ Proverbial frog: They say that explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog: you understand it a hell of a lot better afterwards, but the frog is dead and no one is laughing.

Phonetic guide: “ā” is the a in father, “a” in cat, “i” and “ī” both in meet (the latter is for the Persian long vowel), “o” in story, “ û” in boot, “e” in gate (before the ‘y’ sound, or in French fée), and the “r” is the tapped r, as in Spanish pero.

Mansur Al-Hallāj: a Sufi, once endeavored to enlighten the people by going around and yelling “I am the Truth” (one of the 99 names of God in Islam), and the Muslim government decided he was a bit misguided, and, to set him on the straight path, cut his head off.

A Divided Diaspora and The Right to Iranian Self-Determination Peacock Throne: The traditional seat of power for Iranian shahs since Nader Shah seized the artifact in 1753 D’Arcy Concession of 1901: Led to the formation of the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company that signed away Iranian rights to oil drawn on their sovereign territory

31