Pedestrian

A long flight of steep stairs made of edgy, hard rock. A dark hallway that opens to a cave.

I may have spent many a summer nights on the roof, but during the day, this is where I lived.

The shavadoon.

Dezful/Khuzestan enjoys some of the hottest summer climates in Iran - and simultaneously nurtures some of its most fertile soil. But long before electricity and air conditioning, the people stayed cool (and alive) by crafting living rooms deep underground. These basements would be, in older houses, all connected to one another creating a long, dark tunnel that spanned the entirety of the city.

Come it summer time, most households would cater a second home under these grounds. They would take in furniture, stoves, lamps to battle the long, gruesome heat waves ahead.

Many homes did have air conditioning throughout. But except for the one in the main living room, none were ever used.

They didn’t need to be.

It should have been immensely humid under ground, but the humble, unknown architects of the past had found a way around that as well. Craftsmen dig vertical, tunnels know as Dariza and horizontal tunnels known as Taal. The dariza was constructed from the depth of ground to the central courtyard level or rooftop. These vertical tunnels would bring enough daylight to the depths of the Shavadoon as well as reduce moisture.

I vividly remember the excitement of making the long journey to my homeland every summer from the crowded streets of Tehran; of having the entire family residing there. Of us kids running up and down those horrendous stairs and into the burning water of the pool – and running back down again.

Dozens and dozens of times everyday we’d jump into the water, burning our skin, screaming of the scalding heat, only so we could run to the cold, crisp air of the basement. Then, when our wet bodies began feeling too cold, we’d repeat the entire procedure all over again.

Noon times when the family was to depart on a long, abysmal nap, running around would be forbidden. So we would spend the time “excavating” the tunnels and paths underground. Occasionally, if luck was on our side that day, a grownup would decide to read to us in a another hallway.

As time passes, nostalgia and longing amplify the beauty of these memories; they have slowly forgotten the scorching heat or the dampness of the caves. They have forgotten the grueling accidents caused by running such steep stairs or the painful sunburns.

And yet, I let them do what they do. I marvel them; devour them; sip them slowly as one would a glass of archaic, sumptuous wine.

I fear that I belong to a last generation of kids who experienced the comfort of the shavadoon; of the rooftop; of a humongous family coming together despite war, conflict, work and chaos.

The shavadoon is a dying concept in the city.

Too many people were killed in those basements during the bombings of the war. And with the immense depth of these structures and little aid in the city, their bodies were not recovered for many moons.

There had been too many accidents and too many fatalities.

A daughter, home for the week from school, had fallen head first from the first few stairs when their house had been hit by an Iraqi bomb.

She has resided in her wheelchair, paralyzed neck down ever since.

Yes, people died in their homes as well. But to most people, the thought of death seems more comfortable at ground level.

This refuge of centuries past had become, during the long, brutal war, a cave of death for many.

But that wasn’t what caused this constant degradation of the underground basements.

Over time, arrived Samsung and other Korean manufacturers who provided air conditioning for all. There was born a necessity to rebuild the city as fast as possible which left little time to dig deep beneath. Neighbors were no longer comfortable with the thought of paths that led to each other’s doorstep. The elders’ knees suddenly became too timid for the long climb; the youngsters had more intriguing, shiny merriment indoors. Slowly, the shavadoon withered and died.

As did the spirit of an entire people and an ancient city.

Today, with the gruesomely high price of energy, and with the fatal need throughout the word to indulge and strive for conservation, as I look through out Iran, I marvel of how some of the earth’s most “under developed” inhabitants had indeed developed some of the most highly feasible solutions we could hope to someday achieve.

I see a day, years from now when we realize we should not have closed the doors of the shavadoon, but helped to open more. When we will realize that we should not have disintegrated that particular brand of family, but helped to nurture and grow it. I fear that we will realize this at a time when it will be too little, too late.

But for now, the memories are not that distant and not that vague. They do not belong to a long, forgotten past but an eventful yesteryear: noticing an oddly familiar face amongst the masses; a warm wave that washes over you in a tender embrace. They are magnificent fairies flourishing with life; fused with passion and dancing vividly in the landscapes of my memories.

It is not only pains and joys that bind; but the comfort of the caves that devour us.

Her father disliked the whispering.

He would get home exhausted late in the evening practically dying for his wife’s cup of tea and the BBC Persian service. But the kids had slept through most of the morning and then played in the nearby playground the rest of the day, bursting with energy; energy that would have to be weaned off during the long hot summer nights.

Their neighborhood was one of the safest anywhere on the planet, but they had to be home by nightfall. When one tired, sleepy father wanted some peace and quiet, five bursting children demanded noise. Though her younger sisters were much quieter, they still liked to follow whatever the two of them were doing.

She wasn’t sure what they did exactly. Helped her mother seed sour cherries for jam, or watched TV, played monopoly with the German neighbors.

This was Abadan in the 60s - the land of wealth and triumph. Gone were the memories of the disastrous days of the early 50s where uncertainly loomed and the future of oil and its elite seemed forever under jeopardy. The old school had returned, the old rules had remained intact, and the population seemed oblivious to the long-term consequence.

All year long she would look forward to summer when her cousin would come and stay. The whole three months. She never even wondered why these visits were only one-sided. She only vaguely remembered visiting her cousin’s home once. A small, archaic looking building that smelt of wood and cherry blossoms.

It would be around her father’s bedtime that the whispering would start. They would be sent off to bed with demands and threats for peace and quiet. But then the giggles would start; the yelps and the pillow fights. And so it would go on until late into the night, with her mother knocking her door every hour begging for silence. As they grew up and television became late night leisure, they moved their late night discussions to the TV room. Everyone was happy then. Sadly, those years did not last very long.

She remembered those last years when the whole family was still together. It was the years before the revolution: the time when the girls had so radically changed into head garments and long sleeved shirts. Suddenly, as if overnight, all had turned into faithful believers in a new system and its rules and regimen. Gone were the skirts and flowing hair. Gone were the ballrooms and the late night discos. Instead they all held in their young minds a strong sense of triumph and possibility.

Her father, once a devout secular liberal, carefully trimmed his beard every night. Her mother faithfully prayed for the lives of the leadership. Her household had become a land of transformation.

Now, today, none were feeling remotely triumphant any longer. But maybe her crime was that she kept up the regimen.

Maybe it had to do with marrying a deeply religious man, or just habit. But somewhere along the line, when she was busy recording religious sermons on her old Sinatra tapes — years later, she regretted not having that sultry voice to listen to — or angrily fighting with her parents who seemed not able to understand the inner turmoil she was going through, she came to fully accept the head garments and the long sleeved shirts. As the years went by, that became less and less of a political statement and more of a personal choice, one for which she was ridiculed for by strangers in alien lands or acquaintances of long ago.

She had became so accustomed to it: the initial “shock” in their eyes and the cold gestures as they met her after all these years in her parents’ living room.

As she hung up the phone, the memories and thoughts seemed to surround her like a warm, heavy blanket. She could feel an overwhelming urge to yelp with rage; weep; demand justice.

And yet, with her children right outside her door none were a possibility.

None of the ridicule mattered except when it came from family. As if they were somehow prosecuting her for all the years of war and chaos that they had gone through. Did they not remember that she was practically only a child at the time? That they themselves were all suddenly transformed into zealous followers of the new message? Had they forgotten their own enthusiasm for hearing an old man’s message on the radio?

Human memory does not forget. But it does deviate. Today, it was nostalgia and bitterness they felt. And she, with her veil and long sleeves, was a flag bearer of all they had bitterly burgeoned to hate.

Having spoken to her old summer-time friend, she was as confused as ever. They had so much to catch up on. They had both experienced marriage, motherhood, and the hardships of starting a life all the way across the planet. They were both women who had seen and been through revolution, war, turmoil and endless more; things most people would not imagine seeing through out their lifetime. And yet, none of that seemed to matter.

She was the same crazy loon who still wore a headscarf.

Did a small piece of cloth on her head really make a difference? She slowly laid her head back and closed her eyes; unable to protect the stringing beads that fell from her eyes and onto the pillow. Deep inside, she was desperately searching for that triumphant feeling of long ago. But it was no longer there. Instead, from within confined walls, she could feel her children growing restless of being left alone with guests. There was no time to lament; nor to regret.

And so she got up to leave and nearly opened the door when she remembered she had forgotten something.She walked back across the room for.

And as she turned the door knob, she gave her scarf a second knot to make sure it stayed in place. It was slippery and soft; chiffon. The same fabric her skirts used to be made of.

I remember very vividly the eeriness of the streets; the quiet whispers of the wind.

Had ghosts trodden there?

Perhaps - as there was no sign of humanity.

This was University of Tehran’s campus after the events of 18th of Tir (9th of July).

And I wonder since, of the events of those fateful days and of all that came to be.

I was there in subsequent commemoration ceremonies for 18th of Tir. For decades, university exams were held during that period. But after the event of 1999, the exams were pulled back one month for fear of student demonstrations. So that by early July, the exams had ended, the dorm rooms had to be emptied, the students had to move back home. The ceremonies were meager efforts with few participants and even less enthusiasm, but the students never forgot.

Human memory never forgets.

I was there for Khatami’s victorious speeches on every 2nd of Khordad (May 23rd) - the day on which he won his historic election. He would stride in confidently, always, forever smiling - and face unparalleled enthusiasm. This was after July 9th, 1999. Despite all that had happened, and despite the fact that many students believed he could have been more supportive of them during the events of that notorious July, they cheered him on.

I also vividly recall his goodbye speech. It was a cold, windy day. A gray fog seemed to eclipse everything. The city skies held the burden of their young inhabitants.

It was the 16th of Azar (6th of December) Roozeh Daneshjoo or Student’s Day as it is faithfully called in the Islamic Republic of Iran. A day meant to commemorate the student protests against Richard Nixon’s visit on 6 December 1953 (16 Azar 1332). Nixon, then the US vice president, was visiting Tehran less than four months after a CIA coup that had overthrown Dr Mohammad Mossadegh and brought the Shah back to power. Not only did the Shah’s regime confront the students, but three were brutally killed.

It was ironic that on that very Student’s day, the gates of the university were closed, hundreds of students were made to stand outside in the freezing cold, the professors also were held back, and when I finally did make my way inside, shattered glass lay everywhere in the engineering building (initially, the glass doors to the engineering building had been blocked). All the routes to the auditorium were closed and once I did manage to find my way there, huge iron bars were used to keep students from getting inside.

And then I found out why. The room was beyond its capacity. Had those hundreds made their way in, there is no telling what could have happened – what they might have done or how many of them may have been trampled in the process.

But iron bars and bearded men with cell phones constantly taking pictures of agitated students did not seem a route to more security.

Today, Khatami calls this the proudest day of his administration.

But listening to that frail voice on that fateful day, proud is the last thing he seemed. As the students were chanting Daaneshjoo bidaar ast, az Khatami bizaar ast, (the students are vigilant and loathing Khatami) or as he wrongly assumed they were calling him an enemy of the country (in fact, they were chanting another name, but he mistook it for his own) he seemed shaken, battered and ready for a long holiday.

He was there for a final farewell: a thank you perhaps. This was the last talk he gave to the very students who saw him rise 8 years before; the last time he stood in their presences during his tumultuous political career as president of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

I was also there when the new elected president of Iran, a then unknown man by the name of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, formerly endorsed the idea that the president of the university (the only functional president of the university in many, many years) might have been involved in laundering more than $2 million dollars – without giving one piece of evidence.

Later, we found out that there was no laundering at all. “Whoops” is all he said and fired the man.

I was there when the new president of the university, a cleric with no administrative experience, was brought for his inauguration speech amidst the mob of students who threw him around, and played catch with his turban.

The students were angry that day; as they had been many times before. They pulled down banners welcoming the president, chanted his name in ridicule and kept him from going inside the main library (where he was going to give his speech).

It was not a proud site to see: an old man being blasted and mocked for fury and anger the students had towards an entire crusade.

But ever since, I wonder: what became of these students?

What is to become of us?

Should not our struggles make us stronger? Why have we evaporated?

The University of Tehran’s Islamic Association of Students, a vibrant, energetic bunch who for decades before and after the revolution were an active organization, has in recent years been reduced to elections for office space. The student movement has been reduced to picking on an old man too frail to fight back. It has disintegrated into a cloud of nothingness.

What has happened to these students? Do they feel betrayed? Tired? Disappointed?

Khatami disappointed them. But was it not the breadth of our own expectations that also led to this discontent?

While he did not “deliver”, at least not what many had presumed, what became of us? Why did the student movement in Iran slowly disintegrate? And did it at all?

If there is one thing that a century long period of revolutions and wars has taught us, it is that children are meant to observe quietly and learn. They are meant to indulge in childish play that will yield little consequence. They are not meant to lead revolutions nor fight wars.

They are not meant to be exploited into fighting the century old fights of their fathers.

But history, never looks like history when you’re living through it… but it is, isn’t it? Everything we go through and experience … all the pages of the BBC you open your eyes to in the morning… that’s what history books are made of.

Iran has experienced two revolutions in the course of less than a century. The Islamic Revolution of 1979 was preceded by a lesser known Constitutional Revolution of 1906 which led to the establishment of parliament.

And no where else in our recent history have we had so many questions, or a non-violent thirst for deciphering answers. Today, there is the chance – no matter how confined or restricted – of looking back at a century of struggle for independence; independence from inner conflict and outside intervention; and deciphering the weaknesses, the strengths, the demons and the dissent that led us to our present state of being.

Children are not meant to fight wars and yet, their voices remain a reminder to their elders; stubborn, uncompromising voices that render no clear authority but are still a constant, foreboding signal to those in charge.

This period of silence is perhaps proof that we live in a world where we all crave stability more than chaos; calm more than resilience or revenge. But more than that, I think this also goes to show that the world has learnt the hard way: a loud voice can not compete with a clear voice – even if it’s a whisper.

This – this bouncing of thoughts and ideas, this constant production of words and stories and our constant struggle to find each other in a crazy, chaotic world has perhaps taught us that power lies not only in burnt flags and broken windows.

That indeed our words, thoughts and ideas will prove, in the long run, the most powerful of commodities.

We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,–
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

~Lord Alfred Tennyson

Amidst daily threats of war, and digitally altered photos of our missile tests, take 3 minutes and listen to journalist Gelareh Asayesh talk about harvesting saffron in Iran’s north eastern province of Mashad

It is three minutes of beauteous poetry …

And on a side note, French President Nicolas Sarkozy is asking the UN to award French cuisine UNESCO humanity heritage status.

A parliamentary fact-finding commission is currently hearing arguments from top chefs and specialists about France’s candidacy for the status.

So what are we doing with Iranian cuisine? Or to the numerous world-class chefs operating with utmost humility in millions of Iranian homes?

I don’t think any cuisine is as versatile, beautiful, and sumptuous as Indian and Iranian cuisines. It is not just the blend of ingredients, the diversity of the outcomes, and more importantly, an odd array of spices and oils, … but the <I>stories</I>. Our food is as old as time itself, archaic, alive and flourishing …

An Iranian table is as exotic and beautiful as a verse of Persian poetry …

I had never been to a gay pride parade until this year, when I happened to be downtown on a Saturday, a few hours before the start of the parade.

Come to think of it, I have never been to any parade - except for fourth grade when my dad took my brother and me to a Santa Clause parade. He was doing it for “us” but I had no desire to step out of our deliciously cozy apartment and into -30 degrees weather to see an overfed man with a bulging belly and my brother was too young to care. Secretly, he seemed more excited than we were.

Parades, albeit loud occasions, are infinitely mundane affairs: long lines and watchful eyes and moving scenery. I love independence day celebrations (lest we forget, it was not only America that has one) and festivals where people can actually do stuff. But parades are a big yawn.

But as I was watching people prepare for gay pride from the 4th floor building where I was at, something struck me.

There were mothers and fathers in those trucks and on those sidewalks; young kids. I know friends who have volunteered. And as I was watching the parade take on a few short hours later from a nearby Spring Rolls, it really was overwhelming.

This was not a “gay” event, but a community event; a community gathering to celebrate a part of their own crowd.

Granted that gay pride is not meant solely as community gatherings but this is what it was like to me. (And the craziness was on Sunday.)

I do not understand the merit of gay or African American award shows. Nor do I understand the Islamic Republic’s need to differentiate individuals by labeling them as “minorities”. They claim that these actions are aimed towards giving recognition to marginalized groups. But labels are a prelude to social exclusion – even if they are meant otherwise. Those who already are acceptant of the “minorities” will watch avidly and those who oppose them will turn off the channel. The solution is not an emphasis on labels and logos, but effort to wipe clear signs of segregation.

But what was unique about this circumstance was its ability to gather the entire community for the cause of one: Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno.

I thought of how great it would be if someday, after all the chaos, we could have parades to celebrate the Bahá’í in Tehran.

(Although the social status of Bahai’ in Iran is, like the status of homosexuals, a deeply social, cultural, religious and political issue. It is not simply a matter of evil politics as it is often deemed to be.)

Or if there could have been a day to commemorate the rich history and culture of the Mandeans in the South of Iran.

It is not matter of “copying” what we see in the Western world and producing a replica. It is not even a matter of organizing a “parade” per se. But that, when there exist groups of individuals which are marginalized, or simply small in number, it seems utmost necessary for the entirety of society – be it members of that group or not – to come together in recognition of that community.

But in the end, maybe this post is not written on the merits of gay pride or Bahá’í or parades. But rather, one that reminisces in the plurality, hegemony and ultimately, glory that exists in “community” – a concept which has long been wrought dry in our part of the world.

Though our rulers claim leadership of a large portion of the Islamic ‘community’, such a concept has long remained extinct in our neck of the woods.

Indeed our rulers, whether religious or secular or monarch, have always been wrought with fear of the smallest signs or smells of community (be it the one on facebook, in mosques or gathering of dervishes).

But there is something beautiful about an odd half a million individuals of all ages walking the city on a national holiday, watching the street performers, roaming the streets with idleness and holding hands. There is power in the idea of people who are vastly different in every possible way gathering around one common purpose in which they all pride.

I often wonder: what do kids my age do in Iran? Granted that almost anything is permitted if you are confined within your own walls but when you step outside of them … what can youngsters do? I see them everyday and yet I am unable to answer this question.

Aren’t social gatherings to celebrate our own existence one useful way to bind their energy for worthy causes? Why not turn an event like the 22nd of Bahman into a festive day that all youngsters anticipate?

And yet, I deem my own words quite simplistic.

A gathering of community is not just dependent on politics but the ability of people to withstand difference and conflict of interest.

We may criticize our leaders for having a short tolerance for criticism. This does not empty their shoulders of responsibility, guilt or evil, but given the plurality that exists in our lands, freedom of speech and more importantly, freedom of existence is not something that can be materialized easily.

Nor is it that linear in its attainability. It is a Pandora’s Box that spans leagues of unchartered waters and transcends political freedom - which is simply one of its clause. Freedom of speech? To whom and for what aim? We have numerous religions, ethnicities and cultures to incorporate within one single theme. Dozens of isolated communities with extremely conflicting objectives and characteristics.

Granted that the same exists in much of the Western world as a result of migration.

But that’s the catch: migrants incorporate themselves within the homogeneity of their new surroundings. They all mix into the same pot. The Chinese do not show up in America and try to topple the government and create a People’s Republic of the United States of Communism. The Mexicans do not attempt to destroy Los Angeles and build their own homes.

These societies incorporate all of that within one existence with a certain threshold for difference. And leave the rest to Gouvernementalité to solve. Whereas our communities have lived for hundreds, even thousands of years in isolation from each other. They have extremely conflicting interests, means and visions for what the future - and past - of Iran should mean. Come it the day that we are each allowed to express ourselves … what will be the consequence? If the Kurds are given full autonomy, what will happen with the Arabs? If the Turks are given their rights, what will the Armenians or the Assyrians want?

Given that we are not a tolerant people, that, as Reza Rashidi points out, our doctors are more intolerant than our politicians, who will topple the rest?

The beauty to this vast heterogeneity is that for thousands of years, bloody battle after the next, we have come under one unifying umbrella: Iran - and it is her independence, her strength and her perseverance which has granted our life purpose and our existence meaning. Be it Kurd or Lor or Turkmen or Arab, no matter what our attainments or goals, we are simultaneously Iranian. It is through her existence that we have gained recognition for our own.

But that is not a cause which we regularly celebrate - nor remember.

This is why many of us believe that a “nice dictator” will always work best. They suppress us all and throw us crumbs. That way, we are too busy eating the crumbs to remember that we are gagged and blindfolded. That way, most/many of us are gagged together and so there is no hate thrown towards one particular community for suppressing the others.

And today, we Iranians either incorporate ourselves into the homogeneity of Western societies, or live inside Iran bitter at the circumstance. We want a right to exist. But freedom for our own kind and for our own objectives.

Such dilemmas destroy the path to community long before politicians even attempt to annihilate us.

We want our parades. Just as long as nobody else gets to have theirs.

So THIS accounts for all those recent reports of whizzing and clacking noises in the vicinity of Murrow’s gravesite.

Diva Jood has awarded me the Arte y Pico.

Thank you!

Go to her blog for the most wonderful stories of travel, sports, politics, granddaughters and Prairie Moon Dance Halls.

Oh, and one day Diva Jood , Naj and I are going to take a road trip from Tehran to Jerusalem.

Maybe Homeyra will come along?

The Nobel peace prize is awarded annually in Oslo, Norway “to the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.”

But it stands as much, much more than cash and a thank you note. Unless you are Al Gore, it grants overnight fame and recognition. It bestows the recipients a platform on which to speak and a level of international immunity from the dictatorial regimes from which many of them originate. While it remains an acknowledgment of an individual’s past endeavors, it can also serve as a way to pave the road for their future struggles. It is not a gift which should guarantee an indefinite leave of absence. But rather, provide a leap for the causes to which the recipient has dedicated much of his or her life.

It is, in many ways, like our graduation.

Every year, on graduation day, millions of students worldwide gather on lawns and in auditoriums worldwide to be reminded. Whilst they keenly look forward to the after party, the long summer, new job, the promise of unlimited booze, the trip to farangh, etc, their elders do their best to burst the bubble.

Elders often remind us that our graduation is just the beginning. It is not an end to which we strive but a beginning for which we have lived our entire young lives. It is not a peace of mind for a path long worn & trodden but permission of entry to the two roads that diverge into the yellow wood. They reprimand that “milestones” are not the celebration of the finish line, but a festival of triumph for those who made it to the start.

So I often wonder, for instance, what happened to Nelson Mandela in recent years? In recent times, he has become a tourist attraction for the rich & famous; a special edition on Entertainment Tonight where an overtly exposed celebrity can shed tears by his grand presence. An excuse for Hollywood to gather when awards season is over and done with.

As one of the most well known leaders in Africa, he waited weeks before he even spoke of the current crisis in Zimbabwe. And simply left it at the ‘tragic failure of leadership’ in the country.

Yes, he is 90. But he does not seem incapable, at the least, of making public appearances or releasing public statements.

On our own front, Shirin Ebadi now struts the globe promoting inner democratization to group of 50+ Iranians whilst arguing for sanctions against the country. Instead of becoming our global ambassador, she gets Azadeh Moaveni, one of our most notorious, ignorant counter-ambassadors to write her memoir. Looking at her iternary in the past few years, none of her words or actions have been the least bit significant in regards to the question of Iran.

For many Iranians, there exists a strong belief that change or “reform” must come from inside the country and by non-violent means. But change, in its very essence comes hand in hand with chaos and struggle. It does not walk down the red carpet.

Peace, reform and change do not mean an absence of conflict, as conflict is inherent to social dynamics. Violence is inherent to the process of reform whereby bonds are destroyed before other forms of social cohesion and socialization are built.

But by non-violence we are not advocating stagnancy, but rather, an inner movement to which most sides will eventually agree. A struggle that is born, bred and educated – the missing link in all our endeavors in the past century – within our own borders.

And it is only those who have a certain amount of leverage and immunity from the system that can lead and take decisive actions in this movement.

It is people like Ebadi and, perhaps even more so, Khatmai (who did not win the Nobel but enjoys a significant amount of esteem internationally) that are able to talk without seeing horrid consequences. Individuals of their caliber are the only ones which are immune to the many brutal forms of penalization that other, less well known advocates will endure.

And yet, they quietly sit back and lecture those who already know and have little to worry about.

Khatami was perhaps the only cleric within Iran today that had the ability to speak up boldly against the parliamentary elections.

But he didn’t. Of course, looking back at eight years of missed opportunities during his presidential rule, that was expected.

Ebadi had for a while the eyes of the world with her. And she did nothing that mounted to significance. As an Iranian I can proudly retell her triumphs and struggles within two extremely brutal systems, but much of it stops with the Nobel Prize.

Is the Nobel peace prize merely a spectacle? Is it a genuine nod to the struggle and anguish that bind us as human beings? That despite Nike and Starbucks and Brangelina, the world is still genuinely concerned with our pain? Or is it simply a another form of amusement for a part of the world which has just gotten too hard to entertain?

At the least, the morning after, it grants individuals a voice, a cause and a meaning. There are very few Iranians today that have this voice and are simultaneously able to function actively within the Iranian system. It is on their shoulders that much of our burden remains.

And ultimately, much of our history will unfold influenced by what they will do with it.

Begging the question - peititio principii - demonstrates a conclusion by means of premises that assume that conclusion. It is related to the fallacy known as Circulus in Probando – vicious circle or circular reasoning.

Aristotle caught on to this 350 B.C. … Apparently, more than 2000 years later, many of us have not.

Here is a clip of Tahmienh Milani speaking on IRIB’s channel 1 making her argument against Tehran’s recently opened female-only park.

For those unfamiliar with Iranian state owned TV, there are four channels that are aired countrywide. Channel Four is dedicated to art and documentaries (the most decent one of them all in my opinion). Channel Three is a sports channel and has recently added a nightly news edition.

Each province has a fifth channel of its own. Of course, being that Tehran enjoys highly biased privileges in almost every aspect, its TV channel has the best (i.e. most popular) talk shows, TV series and a neurotic, jolly talk show host by the name of Reza Rashidi.

First off, I must say I was highly surprised that Channel One would even air this segment. It is notorious as the most conservative of them all, and so such a debate is highly surprising (and welcoming). Judging from the last few second of this clip, this was an interview about kitchen décor which led to a debate about the peculiar park.

As always with Tahmineh Milani, she must relate every argument to:

• Her wonderful, handsome, supportive godlike husband (we saw this god in her Hidden Half – really, no god but a head of bad hair)
• Her career as a renowned architect
• Her beautiful home which she and her Zeus of a husband have designed together

I don’t think I have ever heard her debate – be it about her kitchen or women’s rights in Iran – without reminding us of these.

Many people agree that irrespective of what we think of her (as my friend who knows her quite well put it: talking to her reminds you of a stereotypical jolly airhead more concerned with her nails and hair. There is no room for intellectual tête-à-tête) - her first attempts in Iranian theater were a triumph for Iranian women. She and only a handful of other story tellers had ever attempted to portray our stories and the realities we face in Iran.

Even if we did not agree with her worldview, and even if you could catch glimpses of the jolly airhead peaking through otherwise serious, no-nonsense issues (who could forget the painfully corny couple in Dow Zan (Two Women)?) she brought to life narratives and tales that we had always ignored. From Bachehayeh Talagh (Children of Divorce) to Nimeyeh Penhan (Hidden Half) all were new experiences in the life of Iranian cinema and extremely courageous attempts.

But as of late, Ms. Milani has just gone berserk. Maybe she and Zeus plan on purchasing an even more beautiful home and need the cash … That is the only explanation behind such nonsensical idiocies like Atash Bas (Cease Fire).

What is particularly annoying is that she brands otherwise idiotic, Film Farsi as highly deep, thoughtful discourse. Let them be for what they are. She doesn’t - she debates them as if she were discussing a page out of Foucault.

But let’s get back to her appearance on Channel One and her argument about female-only parks.

First of all, why does she seem to be shooting death rays out of her eyes? No matter how much she disagrees with the park, does she know that the host was not the one responsible for building it?

I also get extremely pissed at how Iranians throw out numbers in their talks and lectures.

It’s become an Iranian habit to “blurt out numbers.”

It always starts: “I don’t remember the exact number, but I read somewhere that 1000 people died of ice cream cones last year and that is why we should ban them.”

In this typical style, she says: “I don’t remember the exact number, but I read somewhere that there were 1414 cases of murder in Iran last year. Ummmm” (the airhead peaks out and pauses for a moments) “even in the United States the rates are lower.”

Huh?

According to Google, in California alone, 2, 503 cases of manslaughter occurred in 2005. Only in California. What do crime rates in California have to do with female-only parks in Tehran? Especially if you have horrendously wrong data?

Beats me.

For me, that kills that argument right there. I do not expect much from the host, as on Iranian television (be it in Tehran or California) the hosts are always airheads. But coming from Milani is different.

I certainly agree with her that such solutions are only short-term; painkillers as she calls them. The primary purpose of these parks, as stated by authorities, is to “provide safety for females.” But we can not lock up women so they will “feel safe”. We need to teach society how to co-exist long-term. And irrespective of my feelings towards how she conducts this argument, I am very happy that Iranian TV decided to air another viewpoint – even if it was for only five minutes. And that she was brave enough to sit there and provide it.

But if someone does not believe in God, you can not say: god exists because the bible says so. That person probably does not believe in the Bible either.

That is a logical fallacy, a circular argument, and that is exactly what Milani is doing here.

Her main argument is that she goes to Europe and North America and she exercises there freely and so we should do the same in Iran.

But Ms. Milani is living with a system that is trying its best, pulling all strings, blockading all living holes and loopholes to not become “like” Europe and North America - in any way. This resistance is so harshly strong that it is even opposing those practices that are not specific to these locations and should exist in all civil societies.

And that is the true reason behind this park: to provide women for a hideaway in which we do not force them to cover themselves because we will not be there to see them. To give them a freedom from the veil without becoming “like Europe & North America.”

This is a deeply religious conflict; not a social or educational one.

And when arguing with any system, you need to use its own language and understanding.

You can not say to this system: look at Europe. Rather, you say (this is just an example here, I may be extremely off-course): look at the teachings of the Koran which asks men and women to co-exist chastity and peacefully; it never asks for the segregation or separation of the two sexes. Thus, we are obliged to teach our males and females to live within one border.

As the host constantly reminds her: the Europe and America you speak of have a very different culture [ we are not like them].

And we, many in the public domain may disagree with her and agree entirely with Ms. Milani. But to get any point across, you speak the language with which your stronger opponent is arguing.

To many, a woman like Ms. Milani is a breath of fresh air. For a system run solely by males with only few female devotees there to advertise its message and sweep the floor, she may seem a role model. At least she is a public persona that speaks differently and is more in tune with what “we” feel. But that is the problem here: we need females in the public eye that know how to speak within the particularities of the atmosphere in which they are living and working.

Lest we forget, we are under a religious government.

More than ever, we do not just need people who think like us, but rather, people who can talk in the same language as them. That is the only discourse which may lead us to learn how to speak like them, and thus one day abstain from drawing lines and othering each other out of existence.

The very system may be “othering” us, but you can never fight the bullies. You sweet talk the bullies and share your snack.

That is the only way to get home unscathed.

By now I’m sure you’ve all seen Voices for Peace: Fifty Iranian-Americans Promoting Peace with Iran.

Perhaps the idea behind it was decent enough. And maybe, at the end of the day, having it is better than not.

And yet, as a fellow Iranian (ixnay the American), there were many things that made me uncomfortable.

I do not think it is prudent at the moment to promote the idea of: “don’t attack Iran”. While many of us are extremely worried, publicly, we should promote the idea of direct, unconditional requests for talk with Iran. Lest we forget, she too remains a sovereign nation and has the right to decide when and if she wants to open her doors.

I am scared shitless, but when you truly think about it, the mere idea, the mere threat is purely satanic and evil. And we should not give in to it by debating it publicly. The moment you start arguing an insane proposition you’ve given in to it entirely.

Instead of:

“We – the Iranian/American community - are of many religions and many beliefs but we believe America should not attack Iran.”

It should have been:

“We Iranians are of many religions, ethnicities and cultures and we all believe the two countries should talk.”

The idea behind this announcement should have been to promote the path of peace with Iran. I’m not sure where that was squeezed in because I must have missed it.

The announcement begins with:

Fifty people share a face of Iran that’s missing in the headlines, promoting peace.

Some of us were born here; some of us came from Iran.

Huh?

Was this actually planned or did people just blurt out anything they wanted? Is that really a point you need to stress? Aren’t all human beings born somewhere? Or were Iranians born in some sort of radioactive Klingon terror ship?

Maybe it is that the way Americans look at Iranians is so incredibly horrendous. But do we really need to spend the greatest proportion of the clip telling the world that Iranians are actually working and studying? That they are mothers and grandmothers? Why don’t we just show that they also pee and eat like the “rest of humanity”?

Hey Americans! We Iranian-Americans digest our food the same way you do! Please don’t nuke us!

We are not radical, fundamentalist, or extremists.

(Note: There’s no talk of Iranians as a whole, we only grasp that Iran-Americans are not any of those things. But moving on …)

Of course we are not! Who said we were? These words are far too apologetic and frankly, even offensive.

This was more a video to promote the status of Iranian-Americans than to promote peace; to better their hurt ego - not to raise questions about Iran. To reassure America that they are not fundamentalists and have achieved a great deal on her soil.

But so have the Indian, the Chinese and the Arab communities. So what? What does that have to do with promoting peace? So what that Iranian Americans are doctors and engineers? That has absolutely no link to current animosity between the two countries.

And at the end of the day, here’s the greatest fundamental flaw I see in the expat community:

They don’t want America to nuke Iran and its ruling establishment.

But they’d be quite happy to nuke it themselves.

I am not a supporter of the Iranian ruling system on many issues. But I am behind them 100% in the event of outside intervention of any kind.

Of course, that can be viewed as the same argument provided by the ruling establishment within Iran: do no criticize us because you are “helping the enemy”.

But it is not the same. For two reasons:

• Logical criticism and debating issues in their own context is far different than bad mouthing (of course, the government of the IRI does not see the difference – neither do Iranian satellite channels.)
• The way you criticize inside the country (when paradoxically, you are not allowed) should be different than what you say outside of it. And that is fundamental I think: if you believe that reform must come from inside Iran, you do not destabilize the government from outside.

But as a whole, the Iranian communities outside Iran spend a great deal of resources trying to oust or at least demonize the government within Iran. While those who threaten Iran with war also always conclude that they are only attempting to hurt the system - and not the people. These arguments share many similarities.

You do not have to be in agreement with the system - but to believe no one has the right to do her harm. That in itself implies that you are throwing your support behind them in some way. And that is completely at odds with barbarizing them out of humanity.

The route to civil society is a long, excruciating path that requires deep, thoughtful political/social criticism, reflection; bitter rivalry and struggle. But that is not the same as demonizing Iran’s leaders and declaring them dead.

Those “bearded rulers” are as “Iranian” as we are. We may hate, despise and ridicule them everyday, but it is our combined cultural, religious, historical, political and sociological calculations that brought us to this result. We often want to “separate” ourselves from their image, because weare at odds with their beliefs, with their actions and with their very humanity.

But looking back at our history as far as at least the last 200 years - this outcome was inevitable. And in this “our” we can not separate the bearded from the unbearded, the hot shot Iranian lawyer living with her boyfriend in L.A. and the mother of 10 living with her clergy husband in Qom. We can ridicule as much as we want, but this was a manifestation of our combined Iranian-ness. And today, we can separate ourselves and mock but the problem lies in that we seem to be more preoccupied with doing that than looking and finding real solutions. Those who live outside seem to believe that because they are not within the borders, they are somehow better or more separated.

We are constantly divided. As if the Iranian diaspora has difficulty believing, after 29 years, who is in charge. These are the rulers today and if we can at all, it is with them that we shall negotiate. Cyrus who wrote the first declaration of human rights is not going to rise from the grave and rule us - and even if he did, could you guarantee that he’d do any better?

Better the devil you know then the devil you don’t.

We Iranians however, seem to love experimenting.