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Hello,
It's 11:30 p.m. Another frenetic day has sputtered to a halt. Imagine a demonically
possessed two-year-old falling asleep after a noisy, bloody 15-hour temper tantrum.
The streets are empty. But my nerves are still rattled from the long, cluttered day.
The few people out on the streets are burnt out, their faces withered. They scurry
back to their little hovels on obscure side streets and alleyways. I'm in a car with a
driver heading back to my hovel. I'm contemplating the events of the last few days.
Official Islamic Republic of Iran radio plays thumping house music as the announcer
urges listeners to pray and read the Koran.
I have gotten my draft exemption, which means I can stay in the country as long as I
want without worrying about getting called up for military service. I don't have to
leave anytime soon.
It's still hard to believe. An acquaintance mentioned to me over lunch that I had been
wrong about the military not selling exemptions to anyone. He said they were still
selling them to those who had been out of the country for a long time, and that if I
wanted to get an exemption I should hurry up and do it: after the Persian New Year on
March 20, the price would quadruple.
I went to the military duty office. I showed the soldiers my papers. They all stopped
and gaped at me, a guy whose last exit from Iran was a quarter-century ago at the age
of 7.
"Yes," one of the soldiers said. "You're definitely eligible. But you're gonna have to
run."
Indeed, an insane week of (sometimes literally) running from government office to
military base to photocopy shop to bank ensued. I was told I would need to update my
identity card, which I had mistakenly submitted to the Iranian consul-ette in
Washington months ago. I became discouraged. How would I track it down? Miraculously,
I was able to locate, update and obtain my new identity card in a few hours. In this
country, that's more than good luck. It's a goddamned sign from above.
Many thanks to my friends who helped me get the paperwork done, and who floated me the
$3,500 fee to buy the assurance that I won't be held at the airport or sent to the
military induction offices every time I try to exit the country. Though I'll be back
in the states much of the summer, I think I'm going to stay here for a while. For
those few with whom I've spoken to about this: I'm going with Plan A: set up camp in
Tehran and work in the region for a few years.
I'll try to explain why.
To put it briefly, I'm the perfect anthropologist. My status as an Iranian native
gives me unique access to the culture. My upbringing as an English-speaking American
and many connections in the media world give me many outlets for my work. For better
or worse, people treat here me like I'm one of them. But I then turn around and write
from an outsider's point of view. I interview people in Farsi and take notes in
English. The very quiet American.
It's challenging. And work is picking up. In addition to some newspaper articles,
radio work and magazine pieces (including a little item in this month's Money
magazine, my beloved alma mater), I've been hired to teach a journalism course to
employees of a local financial consulting firm that publishes investing newsletters.
Still, work aside, life here is hard. I once used to say that I loved New York because
it confirmed my darkest suspicions about human beings. Well, Tehran confirms it even
more. Living in this city is horrible. Traffic is a nightmare. Trips that should take
no longer than 15 minutes, end up stretching into hour-long wrestling matches with
what seems like every exhaust-spewing jalopy in the world.
So many cars! So much traffic! The air can be horrible. Your eyes burn of smog if you
spend too many hours in the lower part of the city. It can't be healthy. Making
matters worse, many men don't shower or use deodorant, and their body odor can make
you gag!
Paranoia and distrustfulness come in handy. "Are you two married?" the cab driver asks
me and a female friend. There are intelligence officers scattered among cabbies here,
and though authorities have been hassling people less and less for "vice," I lie
without pause: "We're cousins."
It's a little frightening how well suited I am for work here. I've crafted a series of
half-answers and vagaries for volatile questions that nosy Iranians ask incessantly.
Asked what subjects I write about I say business. They look away, bored. When asked
about religion, I tell them I grew up in a secular society and am now very interested
in Islam. "Attaboy!" the guy from Islamic Republic television responds, literally
clapping me on the back like an old chum.
You learn to take a deep breath and step into oncoming traffic, putting faith in your
own fancy footwork. Hesitate for a moment and get run over by a swarm of cars and
motorcycles that refuse to obey red lights, much less crosswalks.
You learn to find relatively healthy fast-food. People eat so poorly here! Lots of
cheap carbs and fatty meats. Thank goodness for the many fruit juice stands!
You learn to take note whenever you spot a store selling something particular, or get
a business card from a shopkeeper who's actually honest and doesn't try to rip you
off. Looking for a lapel mic, I found one honest guy who gave me a price lower than
everyone else. Turns out he lived in Queens for many years.
You learn to curse aloud (not loudly) when someone rudely crosses or your path or cuts
you off. Big City lesson number one: never bottle up rage.
You learn to isolate and distance yourself from the urban squalor - the seven-year-old
homeless Afghani street urchin selling dried, crackling gum. I don't want the gum.
Just take the money. "I'm not a beggar," the kid says. I take the gum.
You are blown away by the sight of hijab, and angered and insulted by the thought of
women forced to cover themselves as if ashamed of their own sexuality.
You are touched by the immediate familiarity and intimacy people show complete
strangers. "So, Borzou, dear, what can I do for you now?" says the gruff colonel in
charge of validating my military exemption documents. Before the revolution,
discipline in the army was paramount. Since the revolution, the army has become way
more casual. Forget about standing at attention. Soldiers chew gum while speaking to
their superiors.
You are strangled and wearied by the complex web of insincere gestures and empty
politeness necessary for navigating social situations. How many times have I wanted to
interrupt someone's pointless stream of formalities to tell them to shut the &%#*$ up
and get to the point.
You are lured by a culture that's in rapid, chaotic transformation. Something like 60
percent of Iran's population is under 30, and you can see it on the streets. They're
everywhere! And their energy is palpable. Their creative ways of twisting and
subverting the lessons with which they were inculcated during school are inspiring.
"There are so many Javads here," says the 15-year-old granddaughter of a family friend
on a hiking excursion. Hmmm... Javad is a nice, traditional Muslim name. "What do you
mean by that?" I ask.
"You don't know what a Javad is?" she giggles. "A Javad is a loser, a square, poorly
dressed loser from the lower part of the city."
What a dis'! Yes, the traditionalists have the political power. But others have
regained control of the cultural sphere. And here the message to the traditionalists
is a simple one: We're cooler than you!
Little revelations like "Javad" make all the hassles worthwhile.
You are unbalanced and charmed by the contrasts. Mixing up a few aesthetic styles from
the last couple hundred years passes for postmodernism in the West. Here millennia
collide, or at least sit uncomfortably side-by-side eyeing each other suspiciously:
two women in black, full-length chadors gaze at the window display beneath the hot
pink façade of the Barbie store, closed 23 years ago but reopened 7 months ago,
according to the very friendly proprietor.
Twenty-three years ago, they tossed Barbie out on her ass, blindfolded Ken and turned
the beach bungalow into a macabre, graffiti-covered torture chamber. But the world has
changed; borders have faded, and globalization is the word on everyone's lips. And the
country has changed; the same values once forcibly hoisted on the country from above
are now eagerly pursued from below.
I wonder what the two chador-clad women think of Barbie, who merely looks back up at
them with her fixed smile.
Warm regards,
Borzou
P.S. See http://www.csmonitor.com/2002/0312/p06s01-wome.html , the professional fruit
of my trip to Isfahan. Also had a piece in the South China Morning Post, but its
posted on the paid part of their website.
P.P.S. I obtained a visa for Afghanistan and will leave for Herat in a few days. From
there, my travel partner and I might fly to Kabul. Anyone have any contacts?
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