Part Two: Esfahan to Shiraz [Late Post]

Khareji

We drove four hours from Tehran to Esfahan, past dusty mountains and green farmland (and a nuclear enrichment plant at Natanz) to the city known as nesf-e jahan, or half of the world. A single sight here made me believe that this is true--the beautiful Maydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan, or Naqsh-e Jahan Square (since the Revolution, it's officially Imam Square). I was dumbfounded, amazed, stunned--I really can't explain how beautiful the Naqsh-e Jahan Mosque was. The deep blue tiling, bright yellow accents, graceful domes and minarets all took my breath away. My little brother's favorite part was a small stone in a huge domed room, which sent seven echoes into space when stood on and shouted from.

(Maydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan, facing the mosque)

It just had to happen, of course, that the respectful silence would be broken, by several rowdy boys playing in the fountain to be exact. They were shouting at me, "Khareji! Very much! Khareji! Very much!" Had they noticed my Lonely Planet Guide to Iran from so far away, the same book two blonde female travellers had been holding while roaming the square? Had they heard my little brother or sister speaking English? And why was I so bothered by the fact that they could tell I was in fact a khareji, a foreigner, with so many other tourists around?

Even at the Abbassi, a renowned Qajar caravanserai-turned-top-end-hotel, the waiters in the beautiful garden restaurant and concierge at the front desk immediately spoke to me in English. This is a hot-spot for world travellers, and in the evenings we spotted several German tourists (all of whom my cousin Arash gleefully pointed out to me as fellow kharejis)--once even an Iranian teenage girl strolling around with a tall blonde American boy. I was suprised that comparatively I was still so easily perceived as a foreigner.

(Me and my little brother in the lobby of the Abbasi Hotel. The pictures of Khomeini and Khamenei above the front desk are also on display in just about every ticket booth, store, and otherwise publicly accessed building.)

It's very easy to feel foreign in such an exotic place, when midday azan wails over loudspeakers in dusty, trash-strewn streets. I admittedly felt like Jackie O. turned archaeologist when climbing over hills to look at ruins and Cyrus the Great's grave just outside of Shiraz in white linen pants, a khaki manteau, colorful scarf and big bug-eye sunglasses--like a strange pairing concocted for the silver screen.

I've puzzled over the question of my national identity for a while (see Poetry: on being who i am posted two months ago), and was hoping to claim more of my Iranian heritage by seeing more of my motherland. I've come to the conclusion, though, that it doesn't much matter. In Iran, I'm seen as an American. In America, I'm seen as an Iranian. Seeing more of Iran has given me a better perspective to accept that I'll probably be a little bit khareji wherever I go.

Pictures: Pre-Election Fun

After Ayatollah Khamenei used the impressive voter turnout (he quoted it as 85% of the elligible population) to argue that citizens of the Islamic Republic were in favor of the system, had voted because they felt confident and comfortable being represented by the current government, many citizens felt duped. They should have known all the freedom to demonstrate in the streets had an ulterior motive.

At the time though, the youthful Tehrani population, lacking bars and nightclubs, took full advantage of the fun. Here is a video of a group of boys who make fun of both Ahmadinejad and Moussavi.

Here is another video of young people enjoying themselves. Normally playing music loudly on the street and especially that sort of dancing wouldn't be allowed.

I guess since a monthly gas stipend is provided for free from the government, people felt fine about sitting in traffic to make a point!

If you're interested in a transcript of the videos, or would like to see more videos (I have a ton!) please comment and let me know.

Pictures: A Rose by Any Other Name

When people ask me what my name means, I go into a well-rehearsed jumble of an answer: in Turkish, if you split it into two parts (pronounced San oz) it means 'few of you,' or 'unique.' But in Farsi I think it's the name of some flower.

During my trip, I found out about that flower. Here is a picture of a miniature rose, also known as a sanaz. I took these pictures from my aunt's balcony in Tehran.

Politics: Calm in Tehran, Continued

Here is the video I wanted to post in my Politcs: Calm in Tehran post. The Fourth of July firecrackers reminded me of this night. At the time I was sure the noises in the background were guns, but now I tend to think they were more likely just noisemakers or at the most bullets/blanks shot into the air.

Perspective: What the Other Side Sees

My cousin and my mom warned me before I came to this house--"They're very religious..." "Their father is very much a part of the regime..." and "Are you sure you'll be comfortable?" With my American bravado I promised to grin and bear it. They're family, after all.

When asked who I voted for, I answered honestly that I voted for Moussavi, and did my best not to answer when asked why I didn't (and don't) like Ahmadinejad. Things started heating up when, in response to my hesitation, the oldest daughter answered for me that I didn't like him because others told me not to. (Fine. Still keeping my cool.) I listened to her mother tell me that there was no cheating in the election, that because Ahmadinejad really reached out to the poorer areas (i.e. handed out chickens and potatoes, I thought) he had legitimately won. I didn't bring up the findings of the Guardian Council, that in their partial review 50 cities had more than 100% of the population vote.

The real blow came after a little discussion of my disapproval of Ahmadinejad's foreign actions. I was absolutely floored when the lady of the house started badmouthing President Obama. I am in love with President Obama. I value his idealistic and innovative leadership, and I told her so. Although I could understand her suspiscion towards politicians, I tried to tell her that corruption here doesn't necessarily mean that every politician in the world is corrupt. I was annoyed by her warnings that after 10 years word would come out about all of Obama's shady dealings. What sent me over the edge, and unfortunatly and embarassingly made me raise my voice, was her accusation that Zionist lobbyists brought Obama to power!

I was furious. What made her think that? Did she read it somewhere? Was there a study published? No. She got her information from none other than the Iranian state media. This is where my volume went up. The state controls your media, I told her. They're creating a common enemy so that you're too scared to confront their dictatorial control.

I shouldn't have said it. She knew to let matters cool down after that, saying that my view was one way to look at it, sure. I listened politely as her older daughter then calmly told me of Moussavi's frailities, of his political spin and his revolution-era Islamic zeal. That's fine, and I don't doubt for a moment that Moussavi and even his wife got caught up as was explained. What I cared about when I voted was a new face for Iran, the hope that brought young people out into the streets because they thought their vote could make a difference, could change their country into something livable, something at least a tiny bit better than it is now.

Since I'm here until tomorrow morning, when I prepare for my flight home, I'm just grinning and bearing it.