Perspective, Fall 2019

PERSPECTIVE

fall 2019 university of california, berkeley

Rupture (noun)

1. breach of peace or concord specifically : open hostility or war between nations 2. the tearing apart of a tissue 3. a breaking apart or the state of being broken apart

Continuity (noun)

1. uninterrupted connection, succession, or union 2. uninterrupted duration or continuation especially without essential change

Dominant historiography teaches us that certain events and phenomena are instances of rupture: revolution, regime change, migration, catastrophe. Many moments of historical, cultural, and political shifting are experienced by us and our communities as rupture, as sudden and intense divergence from a path we understand ourselves to collectively be on: the 1979 Iranian Revolution and its subsequent rebuilding of the nation state, familial migrations from Iran to the U.S. or Europe and the culture shock and resettling that follows, the upsurge in islamophobic and white supremacist interpersonal and state violence that followed the declaration of the war on terror. However, when we revisit the archive, when we look closely at the lineages and legacies (of violence, of resistance, of cultural unity and division) that we have inherited, we begin to reveal truths that are incongruous with the narrative of rupture. We begin to see that the state formation of the Islamic Republic is in fact not entirely unlike that of the Pahlavi dynasty, that diasporic communities forge a sense of cultural belonging that allows migrants to feel at home, that the violence experienced as part of the war on terror is not new at all but in fact consistent with a legacy of white supremacist and colonial violence that are part of the constituive fabric of the United States.

Institutions of cultural and knowledge production in Iran and the United States, as well as globally, have also sought to narrativize history in a way that forges a sense of continuity: the project of twentieth century Iranian nationalism and its assertion of an innate and primordial Iranian civilization that spans over 2,500 years, the narrative of linear progress and modernity that prevails in European and U.S. colonial discourse, modern literary scholarship that fabricates a sense of stability in Persian language literary tradition. These narratives, too, seem to fall apart upon closer inspection.

What potential arises when we challenge the binary of continuity and rupture?

What happens when we take seriously the possibility that those moments we understand or experience as rupture are in fact continuous with historical tendencies? What happens when we abandon continuity and move toward the potentiality of disorientation?

EDITOR'S LET TER Dear reader, As a magazine that has produced writing about Iran and its diaspora since 1995, we have been tasked with the work of responding to the shifting political, social, and material realities of Iranians, both in Iran and in diaspora. This has meant contending with the fraught legacies of discourse on Iran.

In this process, we have had to articulate and rearticulate our voices and subjectivities as young Iranians and Iranian-Americans, often against the backdrop of intense feelings of urgency, loss, and violence.

In this most recent period of growth for the publication, Perspective has been particularly concerned with clarifying our values. Since our disidentification with the label “apolitical� two years ago, and in response to our current political moment, we have been confronted with difficult questions of what it means to center Iranian voices in this peculiar and precarious time. The urgency of this work has been amplified both by the persistent threat of increasingly visible state and interpersonal violence, as well as by the inspiring work of emerging scholars, artists, and organizers in Iranian communities globally, to whom we are deeply indebted.

Our Spring 2019 special issue, commemorating forty years since the 1979 Revolution, served as a space in which to solidify our commitment to producing critical, urgent, and responsible work that is oppositional to historical and ongoing structures of power and domination. This special issue set new standards and practices for our work not only in our commitment to our values and responsiveness to political struggle, but also in the rigor with which we approach our writing, editing, and design. We are deeply grateful to Saalar Aghili, Donna Fotoohi, and Sohrob Nayebaziz, from whom we have inherited so much.

This fall, our writers have responded to the theme of continuity and rupture in exciting and critical ways. Writing in this issue embraces the poetic, turning to poetry as a mode of selfexpression and examining it as a connective tissue of Iranian migrant communities. Other articles critically examine the political manifestations and fabrications of continuity and rupture as they discuss U.S.-Iran relations and housing developments and the welfare state in Iran. From food to performance art to popular television programs, our writers have pulled apart and disentangled the many manifestations of continuity and rupture. We truly hope that you enjoy this issue, and that your time spent with it is generative and exciting.

Bahaar Ahsan Anahita Ghajarrahimi editors-in-chief

CONTENTS 8

‫ابروی پیوسته‬

9 Iran's

Housing Crisis:

Endeavors to Mitigate Urban Slum Growth 10 Do 12 Satire

Not Despair

and Political Undertones in My Uncle Napoleon

14 An

Iranian in Amman / Poems for my Palestinian Host Mother 16 Returning 18 The

Unceasing Nature of American Belligerence 19 Founder

and Foundation:

A Look at the Iranian Scholarship Foundation 20 Nostalgia

for a World Not Yet Actualized

22 Where

Words Divide

23 Turkish

Soap Operas:

Reconciling Cultural Tensions in Iranian Diaspora 24 The

Rubaiyat

‫غذا‬ 28 ‫آزادی‬ 26

29 Barriers

to Entry: Difficulties Traveling to Iran 30 References 31 Appendix

STA FF editors-in-chief

Bahaar Ahsan Anahita Ghajarrahimi assistant editors-in-chief

Sean Adibi Mina Shahinfar head designer

Anahita Ghajarrahimi assistant designer

Emma Rooholfada outreach

Omeed Askary finance

Mia Karimabadi copy editors

Ariana Dideban, Mahshad Badii, Nasim Ghasemiyeh Negin Amouei, Sara Zoroufy staff writers

Bardia Barahman, Yaas Farzanefar, Sam Ghaffari-Kashani, Nasim Jahangard-Mahboob Niusha Hajikhodaverdikhan, Shakiba Mashayekhi Saba Moussavian, Mesean Sadri Lilliana Zar with cover artwork by

Ala Ebtekar

SPONSOR S

Associated Students of the University of California

Iranian Scholarship Foundation

Middle East Market

Persian Center

Dr. Behrooz Ghamari-Tabrizi

L

‫اربوی ویپ سته‬

by ARIANA DIDEBAN

ooking into the mirror, I stared at the small hairs that connected my eyebrows. Each hair had grown in, one after the other, creating a swirling pattern above the bridge of my nose. I placed two fingers in the middle of my forehead to block out the unibrow and create the illusion of two eyebrows. I had a sudden urge to grab tweezers from my mother’s vanity and pluck the unruly hairs. I knew that if I accomplished this rebellious act, my parents would not only be upset, but disappointed. I replayed the conversation I had with my mother earlier that day:

“I don’t understand why I can’t thread my eyebrows,” I said.

“Your unibrow is beautiful and is not something to be ashamed of,” she responded.

“Everyone I know gets their eyebrows threaded. I’m the only one of my friends who doesn’t,” I insisted.

“Ariana, in our culture unibrows are a symbol of beauty,” she concluded.

From a young age, I had grown quite insecure about my appearance because I was conscious of the fact that I did not look like my peers. My eyebrow was in the middle of my face and was hard to miss. I could see people’s eyes wander above my eyes and towards my unibrow. Cheeks burning red, I would look down in an attempt to avert their gaze. When I would introduce myself to a new acquaintance, I would think to myself, “Are they looking at my eyebrow? Do they think it’s ugly?” Oftentimes, there was never any overt mention of my unibrow’s existence, but occasionally there would be a comment by a passerby. In school, boys laughed and made comments like, “You would be pretty if you didn’t have a unibrow,” and girls advised, “You should seriously wax your unibrow.”

In this formative, vulnerable stage of life, I attached my self-worth with how others perceived me. It was difficult to completely disregard negative comments and to be comfortable and confident in my own skin.

When I would walk down a busy street and pass by advertisements plastered on billboards and bus stops, there were only photos of thin, white women who had two eyebrows—not one. I did not look like the women in movies, television shows, or even commercials, and not because I was Iranian and not white, but because of the hair that grew on my body. There is an unreasonable standard that women feel pressure to uphold: being hairless. In all forms of media, women of different ethnicities and body types often have no hair on their legs, arms, or between their brows. This is quite surprising given the fact that body hair is a natural phenomenon. The lack of representation of people who chose to sport their body hair made me feel isolated.

The unibrow has a central position on the face and is hard to avoid. There is a perception that if eyes are the window to the soul, then the eyebrows must be the curtains. These curtains must look “nice”—in Western terms that means pulled and

plucked and shaped. My choice to sport a unibrow and enter white spaces ruptured Western conceptions of beauty. Not fitting into a certain conception of beauty made others feel uncomfortable and resulted in people giving me negative comments.

By the time I reached high school, I had grappled with my unibrow’s existence for years. Eventually, rather than rejecting what I was born with, I decided to embrace the beauty of my eyebrow. In order to do this, I had to reframe my perception of the unibrow. Instead of focusing on the negative portrayals of this feature, I turned to women like Frida Khalo who ruptured Western conceptions of beauty. Frida Khalo was a famous artist who not only painted unibrows in her work but had one herself.

As her artwork entered European and American galleries and museums, she kept her unibrow and did not alter her appearance to match Western beauty standards. I admired her confidence, and the way she would pose for photos. She would look at the camera face forward, head held high, and eyes piercing through the lens. Her face showed no insecurity or fear—she looked incredibly powerful with her prominent unibrow.

Learning about the history of the unibrow in Iran helped me understand the cultural significance of my facial feature. In Iran, the unibrow has continuously served as a symbol of beauty that has been represented in everything from poetry to miniatures. The unibrow is often compared to cupid’s bow, the new moon, or prayer in Iranian prose and poetry. During the Qajar dynasty in Iran, the female unibrow had a defining moment. Women who had dark, thick unibrows and mustaches were deemed attractive. In fact, some women used mascara to highlight their facial hair. In Persian, unibrows are called abrouye peyvasteh, or continuous eyebrow, which is often also used to describe a beautiful person. In the past, when an Iranian woman received a proposal for marriage, she would remove her body hair but would keep her unibrow intact.

Qajar paintings depicted women with dark black hair, beauty marks scattered across their face, almond-shaped eyes, and unibrows. These women were considered to be the epitome of beauty during this time. Once I was able to see paintings with women who resembled my appearance, I was able to gain confidence and belonging.

There needs to be a shift in the standards we hold women to; there should not be one definition or appearance women aspire towards. While the road to self-acceptance was a difficult one, it was formative and impacted the person that I am today. It taught me that there is no one standard of beauty across space and time. The unibrow is more than just a beauty choice, it is a representation of my culture, heritage, and identity. v 8

Iran’s Housing Crisis: Endeavors to Mitigate Urban Slum Growth

by SEAN ADIBI

I

n 1930, Reza Shah Pahlavi divided metropolitan areas into a series of mahallehs, or districts, based on household income, which accordingly barred ethnic minorities, like Kurds, Azeris, and Afghans from obtaining loans to purchase property in wealthy neighborhoods in northern Tehran or western Shiraz.

Dichotomies between rich and poor, and the Persian majority and ethnic minorities, have persisted in the built landscape and urban geographies alike. During Mohammad Reza Shah’s term, high rates of rural-urban migration, heightened costs of land, and restrictive construction standards induced a housing shortage, compelling low-income residents to inhabit squatter settlements, slums, and satellite communities on the urban periphery. Slum housing in peripheral cities like Eslamshahr, Robat Karim, and Shahr-e Rey began to take the form of “closely-packed, decrepit” units, with incomplete infrastructure, in which entire extended families lived in single rooms.

The Pahlavi dynasty perpetuated exclusionary zoning ordinances which have resulted in persistent high rates of poverty in the present-day. While the 1979 Revolution served as a beacon of hope for exponentially growing impoverished communities in peripheral slum cities, institutional segregation has proven a robust undertaking. Upon spearheading preliminary economic restructuring endeavors, the Islamic Republic implemented a five-year development plan under President Rafsanjani, which sought to expand gross domestic product through the construction of 600 new parks, dozens of new shopping malls, and more pervasive transportation networks, which connected previously isolated slum cities with central cities and urban agglomerations. With the inception of the Tehran Metro and a standardized freeway system in the early 2000s, the prerevolutionary poor became increasingly integrated within the urban fabric of metropolitan areas. While their social status frequently deterred them from directly interacting with Iran’s urban elite, increased accessibility to city centers via public transportation networks promoted employment opportunities.

The Islamic Republic’s 1990’s infrastructure development, however, failed to solve one primary issue concerning Iran’s low-income communities: the insufficient production of housing. As such, in 2008, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad unveiled the Mehr Housing Program, which, through the proposed construction of 1.5 million below-marketrate housing units in 17 planned cities, intended to assuage Iran’s decades-long housing shortage and slum growth. In his initial proposal, Ahmadinejad sought to construct housing in the form of high-rise apartment blocks on the periphery of Iran’s major metropolitan areas. The government provided private developers with hefty subsidies to transform “barren desert land” into mid-size cities, and low-income residents who qualified for

the program were subsequently entitled to significant loans to purchase apartment units. Moreover, Abbas Ahmad Akhoundi, the minister of the Department of Transport and Urban Development, promised the construction of a variety of services within each planned city, such as public transportation, parks, hospitals, schools, and mosques. However, the majority of built units today lack access to adequate water supplies, heating, and sewage systems, let alone any external amenities.

As of 2018, developers have only constructed 200,000 Mehr housing units, of which the majority remain vacant. And as of 2019, over 16 million Iranians inhabit slum towns, indicating the country’s inaptitude in providing sufficient low-income housing to depopulate low-income neighborhoods. While Rafsanjani’s economic development initiative and Ahmadinejad’s housing program strived to quell the rapid growth of slums, the number of Iranians living on the margins has in fact increased by 17 fold since the Revolution. Along with the government’s mismanagement of funds, international sanctions have induced hyperinflation of the Iranian Rial, which has hampered structural poverty reform.

Since Trump’s termination of the Nuclear Deal, housing loans have steadily devalued, further hindering the potential for housing policy and welfare to purport intended objectives. Moreover, much of the Islamic Republic’s policy remains neoliberal, as officials prioritize political clientelism and labor market regulation over consistent welfare programs.

Despite international and domestic shortcomings, the Islamic Republic’s efforts should not go unnoticed. The government has implemented myriad low-income housing programs that did not exist under the Pahlavi dynasty. To illustrate, Reza Shah attempted to bifurcate metropolitan areas on the basis of socioeconomic class, and his son perpetuated this policy by incentivizing private housing development in particular wealthy urban nodes. The Pahlavi dynasty wholly disregarded low-income residents—whether ethnic minorities or ethnic Persians. Conversely, the Islamic Republic has strived to reverse capitalist policy objectives, emphasizing the significance of welfare programs in order to meet these terms.

Continued support for those with financial capital, however, has stalled progress in improving the standard of living for Iran’s socioeconomically disadvantaged.

Ultimately, the Islamic Republic has implemented numerous programs to alleviate Iran’s burgeoning slum growth, yet external pressures, coupled with overarching government inefficiencies, have yet to slow the rapid increase of poverty over the course of the last twenty years. Nonetheless, the government is tasked with reversing decades of ethnocentric policy and institutional segregation, remnants of which persist in Iran’s urban landscape. v 9

Do Not Despair

Poetry is one of the central pillars of Persian culture: singers use verses from famous poets to sing the radif, musicians build upon those singers in their own compositions; artists paint scenes from the Shahnameh, and calligraphers transcribe Hafez or Sa’adi in script that, while beautiful and magnificent, can at times be illegible. One reason poetry is so important is its symbiotic relationship with language: as Persian written one thousand years ago remains entirely intelligible to Persian speakers of today, our appreciation of our culture grows in our ability to see its development over a millennium. The converse relationship exists as well: without poetry, our language would be long dead and gone. Thanks to the efforts of Ferdowsi and his Shahnameh—which, by chronicling thousands of years of Persian myth and history in Persian in the 60,000-verse epic, almost single-handedly saved the language—the Arab conquest extended only so far as our land and did not reach the way we spoke. Granted, Persian has changed a bit over the years, but all languages invariably change, and at its heart it has remained the same.

The Persian language, compared to others, has an extremely high thought-to-word ratio. That is, many concepts and ideas can be communicated via idiom, simile, metaphor, or literary reference in very few words. Moreover, words in Persian can have multiple meanings that a sentence can exploit. Take the word ‫دل‬, for example: its meanings include stomach, heart, soul, belly, center, spirit, lover, gut, and many more. This is what permits Persian to be so well-suited for poetry, a medium that thrives on metaphor and simile and reference and duality, and is why poets like Hafez are so revered: they manage to craft verses that have many layers of literal, metaphorical, mystical, and religious meaning, all within a few syllables.

by M. RASTGOO

T

he tag on the collar of my shirt itches. Scratching at the back of my neck, I readjust my suit; doing a bit of a shuffle and taking a somewhat shaky breath, I step out onto the stage. The spotlight, as always, blinds, and the microphone, as usual, is a bit too high and a bit off center. While the applause dies down, I perform the habitual motions: slight adjustment of the microphone stand, a visual sweep of the room, looking for familiar forms in the faceless crowd. Introduction: who I am, where I’m from. Thanks: organization in charge, specific people whom I know. Prelude: what I am about to perform. It all goes by in a routine way, as it does; the words fill the silence. As the quiet settles over the audience, my preamble complete, I take a breath and begin to recite.

Lost Joseph will return to Canaan’s land again — do not despair His father’s grieving house shall fill with flowers again — do not despair O sorrow-stricken heart, your fortunes will revive, Order shall come again to your distracted brain — do not despair

Sweet singing bird, survive until the spring, and then On grass you’ll tread, and flowers’ shade regain — do not despair

And if the heavens turn against us for two days, They turn, and won’t forever in one place remain — do not despair

Don’t give up hope if you’ve no knowledge of Fate’s lore; Who knows what hidden turns behind the veil remain? — do not despair 10

O Heart, if nothingness should wash away the world Since Noah guides your ship, of storms and rain — do not despair

my every word, hypnotized by the cadence of the metre and of the rhyme. Momentarily distracted by a cough, I look away, but as my last verse comes to a close and I thank the audience, I look back towards the boy, who is now armed with a megawatt smile as the applause surges, clapping hard along with the rest of them.

Perhaps, next year, he would be up here, sharing the joy of poetry with the world himself.

I take my bow, and smile.

That is, after all, the goal.

The Iranian diaspora prompted thousands of Persians to spread across the globe, which caused many a rupture in societal and familial dynamics. Some families all fled the country together; many more were ripped apart, children living in exile away from their parents for years. Poetry is foundational to Persian culture, as is family, and when the latter collapsed in the short term, many saw refuge in the former. Those searching for reassurance and familiarity got together to do what they had done back in Iran—meet, talk, debate, argue, discuss politics, music, art, and literature—all to reconnect to their culture and preserve the philosophies, ideas, and values that they had brought with them from their home.

I was educated in poetry from a young age. Those who brought it to this side of the Atlantic helped me gain a foothold in the literary world, which can be daunting for many; because of many of the same reasons listed above, in addition to unusual grammatical structures and antiquated language forms, guidance was essential in ensuring I not give up or lose interest. To merely be challenging is not the intent behind poetry, though—it is to connect people to their culture and to each other, to alleviate loneliness, despair, and depression by bringing people together through art, music, and language. By establishing poetry nights and Persian cultural organizations throughout the world, those who had so keenly felt the separation from their culture after emigrating managed to hold on to it and to conserve it, now eagerly passing it on to the next generation. The youth, born in a completely different environment, would be able to accept the tenets of that culture and use them to their benefit in their own lives, hopefully passing it down generations and preserving the generational and cultural continuity that stretches back thousands and thousands of years.

O Hafez, chained in poetry and plunged in dark of night If your Qur’an you keep and murmured prayer maintain, do not despair. v

When, if you long to tread the pilgrims’ desert trail To Mecca’s distant shrine, your path the sharp thorns reign, do not despair Our heart is rent: our love has left, and bitter rivals scorn; But God, all-seeing, knows all sorrows down in his domain — do not despair And though the journey’s dangerous, the goal all but unknown, There is no road that has no end you can attain — do not despair

The verses of Ferdowsi come out clean and smooth, and their meaning, while not immediately evident, is nevertheless not completely lost to me—spring blooms, Jamshid is crowned king to the joy of all. Half the faces in the audience before me, mostly the more elderly listeners, look impressed and attentive, while a good few are either staring into space, are having conversations, or are on their phones. However, as I begin to wrap up, my eyes land on a small boy, probably about seven or eight years of age, staring mesmerized at the stage; he seems like he is hanging onto 11

12

Satire and Political Undertones in My Uncle Napoleon

I

ts memorable catchphrases, unforgettable rich array of unique characters and hysterical scenes taking place in that infamous garden bring back fond memories of a more innocent and youthful time in the minds of Iranians today.

Hailed as one of the most important and beloved works of Iranian fiction since World War II, Iraj Pezeshkzad’s monumental piece My Uncle Napoleon narrates a deeply satirical account of the lives of a collection of families and neighbors within a Tehran housing complex surrounding a central garden. The story begins with narrator Saeed, a 13-year-old boy, detailing how he has fallen in love with his cousin, Laili. It quickly becomes clear that Saeed's love story is background noise to the figurehead of the family—Daei Jaan Napoleon, Saeed's uncle and Laili's father.

As the family elder, Napoleon has established a strict structural hierarchy with all complex residents under his supervision. For reasons unknown, Daei Jaan has taken up an intense interest in the French commander Napoleon Bonaparte and demands to be referred to by the same name. Paranoid, he constructs endless tales about his courage and leadership in mythical wars and even aspires to die fighting for his country. As a whole, the book pursues a plethora of humorous conflicts that arise amongst family members in a sitcom-like fashion. Forty years later, its message persists in Iranian pop-culture historiography even after its post-Revolution ban.

Beneath the plot’s surface-level satire, My Uncle Napoleon reveals political undertones. While Pezeshkzad stated in an interview with BBC Persian that he did not intend for the book to be taken politically, many literary critics have since characterized it as politically subversive against authoritarian states. In fact, it possesses several characteristics similar to other political books. Author Azar Nafisi suggested, “The garden in more ways than one becomes a microcosm of modern Iranian society.” Rooted in reality, Uncle Napoleon’s character may be considered a parallel to the ruling class.

Basking in his paranoia, he blames even the most trivial of problems on the British with his famous catch phrase, “Kar kare Engelisast”—“It’s the work of the British.” Pezeshkzad himself has stated in interviews that Uncle Napoleon’s character was developed upon hearing adults mindlessly blaming politicians as “British lackeys” as a child. Author Dick Davis, who first translated the book into English, coins the term “Dear Uncle Napoleon-itis” for the “readiness to see conspiracy theories and the hidden hand of the West behind any and every local Iranian event.” This form of scapegoating allows Daei Jaan to blame his own lack of authority on a powerful entity. And his creation of a false façade to impose power draws parallels to the mindset ruling over the Islamic Republic. Like all totalitarian states, the Iranian government is

fueled by paranoia and justifies its dominance over the people through farcical stories, just like the ones Napoleon is able to mold his identity around. The hierarchy within the garden and the strict familial code mimic that of a dictatorship.

Under this dictatorship, the individuality of each family member is sacrificed for the common good and to play along with Napoleon’s antics—mirroring the lack of individuality under a repressive government.

But this indirect form of political discourse embedded within the satire is not unheard of in the history of Persian literature, for a myriad of works critique the government.

However, the genuine and heartwarming characters that readers grow close to in My Uncle Napoleon separate it from its predecessors. The banter and lightheartedness in the dialogue, along with the playful tone and the warm atmosphere of the family, act as a direct opposing force to the authority that Napoleon imposes over the garden. For one, Saeed’s love for Laili stands as “real” and “authentic” in contrast to all the seriousness.

The very first sentence of the novel describes the exact moment in time when Saeed falls in love with Laili. The author places significant emphasis on a seemingly desperate and childish endeavor, which sets a playful tone against Daei Jaan’s authority.

Moreover, Saeed’s innocence and genuine love connects readers on an emotional level. Such deep characters and bonds are what set My Uncle Napoleon apart and makes its impact so lasting.

To a foreign audience, these relationships showcase that, behind the scapegoating and political bickering, there is a certain humanity and a genuine, innocent compassion within Persian culture. The relationships break apart grim images of Iran through humor. Through Saeed’s love story, the reader discovers the vast range of dynamic personalities that reside within the garden. Unlike Daei Jaan’s obsession with Napoleon that blinds and turns him away from the world, Saeed’s love story turns to the boundless world that exists within that garden. By delving into individual characters, laughing at their amusing interactions, the reader removes himself from Daei Jaan’s highly critical view of society and delves into the complexity and heartwarming bonds that shape the families’ lives.

«‫ آ‬،‫ آ‬،‫ آ‬،‫ آ‬،‫»دروغ چرا؟ تا قبر چهار قدم‬

After all, as Mash Qasem, the loyal servant of the household, so eloquently states over and over, “Why Lie? Till the grave there are only these four steps—a a a a!” In other words, life is short. Rather than dwell on the heavy issues that foster mistrust and paranoia, focus on the comical banter and authentic love that deconstruct tension and ultimately bring the family and us readers together. v 13

An Iranian in Amman

by MAHSHAD BADII

I

no. But I was bache sharghi—one of their own. Broken verbs, and all.

I experienced this sense of belonging the most at home with my Palestinian host family. My host mother, Kifah, had larger-than-life hair, a sharp tongue, and a smile that made my heart ache in longing for my own mother, who was thousands of miles away. On Saturday mornings while the rest of the household slept, Kifah and I had a ritual of drinking Turkish coffee on the balcony. It was on one of these mornings that our conversation drifted to displacement and the diasporic experience. Kifah’s eyes looked distant as she recited her parents’ journey from the West Bank to Jordan after they lost their home. She took a long swig of her cigarette. “My children are Palestinian. And to know that they will never see their homeland,” she let out a breath of smoke, “This hurts me the most.”

I understood the ache in Kifah’s voice because her pain was my own. It had been over three years since I last visited Iran and it was my first Norooz away from my family.

There is a feeling of loss that connects those of us who live in a diaspora. For mothers and fathers, it’s trying to explain the cold of a Tehrani snowfall to a Californian child who has only ever lived in sunshine. They mourn for their children, and I see this as much in Kifah’s eyes as I do in my own mother’s. While the circumstances of how each woman fled her home differs, I imagine they both hesitated on the doorstep. Decades later, they both attempt to replicate their native dishes with the wrong spices from the wrong markets. And they both have raised children who will forever live a dual existence: never quite in the homeland, but never quite far away.

On my last day in Amman, Kifah walked into my room with a box of Al-Gazaleen Tea. It was the tea she brewed before hectic cab rides to school, the one that cured stomach-aches and heartaches and all the aches in-between, and the great uniter around the kitchen table each Jummah morning during family breakfast. I took the box from her with a watery smile. Back at home, each time I think of Jordan, I brew the Al-Gazaleen tea gifted to me by my Palestinian mother and sweeten it with nabat from my Iranian mother. My heart swells with nostalgia whenever I catch a whiff of a falafel stand or overhear a mother chastising her child with Kifah’s tone. There is love in the diaspora. It is this fact alone that carries me beyond the yearning to belong and to recover what was lost, to something else: a sense of solidarity, and a sense of hope. v

t’s the worst winter Amman has ever seen. The streets have turned into rivers, cars helplessly move bumper-to-bumper, and in the midst of it all, I am running horribly late to class.

By the sudden grace of God, a yellow cab pulls up and I collapse into its back seat. “University Street,” I pant in Arabic. We take off, but the driver does a double-take. “Where are you from?” he asks. I sigh at the familiar question. “I’m American.” This answer seems to annoy him. “No, yani, where are you really from?” We lock eyes in the mirror. “I’m originally from Iran,” I respond.

Suddenly, I’m hit with a surprising burst of bubbly laughter.

“Fantastic! I am Palestinian. We love Iran”—then, in English— “America scared of him.”

This past spring, I embarked on a semester-long study abroad in Amman, Jordan with an uneasy stomach. The Berkeley student in me was excited to spend an entire semester doing absolutely everything but study. However, with my excitement also came a deep-rooted fear of not belonging. As an IranianAmerican, I am well accustomed to juggling dual identities: I recall the feeling of otherness that followed when my peers had paper bag lunches and I had ghormeh sabzi, or the look of bewilderment that dotted my cousins’ faces when I used the wrong verb in Persian. As I stepped off the plane at Queen Alia Airport in January, I expected these feelings of displacement to only amplify.

My sentiments weren’t entirely misplaced—to both my parents and tongue-in-cheek cab drivers, my study abroad decision merited a satirical headline: an Iranian-American, Shi’a Muslim decides to live alone in a Sunni, Arab country.

Nonetheless, from January to May, I spent my days drifting through coffee shops, skipping down streets with shisha smoke wafting in the air, exploring Yemeni film festivals, climbing Roman ruins and the cliffs of Wadi Rum, and consuming copious amounts of bread the size of my face. But I was also quick to notice how deeply my experiences differed from those of my white peers—in some ways, negatively. Cab drivers harassed me for not wearing a hijab while men my father’s age leered at me on the streets and threw out marriage proposals. Yet, at the same time, Palestinian cab drivers spoke to me wistfully about visiting Qom, hotel employees slipped me freshly brewed tea, and twinkle-eyed merchants gave me discounts while charging my peers full price.

To native speakers, my Arabic often left something to be desired, and yet I was never met with anything but a toothy smile and encouragement. I wasn’t what they imagined an American to be, 14

Poems for my Palestinian Host Mother I. what is it to be an immigrant? it is to be two things and nothing eating the wrong foods at primary school lunchtime mixing in too much sugar into your tea at suhoor it is an ache in your heart you do not know the word for in either tongue a hurt from your ancestors, clinging to the lusciousness of your thighs the hook of your nose as they beg you remember remember who we were until their voices fade into photographs nothing more than your grandmother’s recipe for ash-reshteh only now it never tastes the same.

II. being an immigrant is feeling homesick for people you have never met simply because their tongues move in the same dance as yours except you are rusty unnatural always one step behind until you no longer recognize the melody.

15

Returning Aziz reaches for us A cup of her freshly homemade mint lemonade From hand to hand before a sip for herself.

My cheek against the car window, The long-winded road out of Imam Khomeini Airport welcomes you to Tehran, To yourself I am no longer away, no longer in limbo.

Amoo promises to drive us through Enghelab Square with his smile.

A salavat for the shahid after shahid painted in our memories Engraved in the brick walls, colors added for their distant stories.

Our gaze interrupted by the radio’s

word on growing prices of bread and eggs “Damn every commander starving its people!” cousin Ali insists— “Intervention’s project for centuries—

sanctions are starving our people,” Amoo

rebuttals without delay Aziz recalls the anecdotes of the British induced famine of 1917, ‘18, ‘19 But only murmurs “in neez bogzarad pesaram” From bead to bead on her tasbih In thought of the worst that’s passed before her.

by NIUSHA HAJIKHODAVERDIKHAN & SHAKIBA MASHAYEKHI

This dialogue gains familiarity as it ricochets between the two.

Like Baba’s voice when he returns home after his 14-hour shift.

If only he knew

That leaving wouldn’t discard

worries like these.

7:15 am the rest of the morning is greeted by the Azan Like the whole country joining together with this recitation, Every masjid we pass joins the chorus of Amoo’s radio.

I enter the home I grew up in, Met by Naser Din Shah's portrait on a tea cup.

The walls covered with Quranic verses, The women in black fallen to a white horse,

Farshchian’s Ashura painting drapes

over the chimney like before.

And the news on the relic television praises Khamenei.

My eyes slowly make their way to the photos above the chimney.

Dozens of faces, some of whom I did not know— “Who is he?”

16

“This home holds the memories of many, The great who have come and gone, This is Avesta, My brother, A dedicated Muslim, A Student of philosophy at a university in Russia He came back to empower his people— Years later he was executed by the Shah for being a communist.

This home still holding his memories,”

I am not alone.

My tears blurring his book in my hands.

“People come and flee but they’re always here, like you they return.”

Aziz continues With esfand in hand:

These rooted Iranian homes emanate the weight of their history, A landscape laid tying the dweller to its traces

and I its visitor.

I walk with Aziz to get Sangak down the narrow street which smells of the bakery.

The baghalis are emptier than last time, the storekeepers in their loneliness Their shelves filled.

Aziz speaks of the slowing of purchases in response to my shock, The break of exchanges, the desolation of markets.

The people always pay the price.

No matter this absence, the empty pockets No matter apparent troubles and alike topics to dissuade me of a longing for this maihan My mind ignores it And chants “maihan, ey maihan” “Baadi” the baker awaits, He offers us two Sangaks and a Barbari met by my smile.

Aziz hands him its equivalent in currency And I catch the two English lines in the left hand corner of the green papers Saadi speaks: “Human Beings are members of a whole. In

creation of one essence and soul” And I am apart from home but whole. v

17

The Unceasing Nature of American Belligerence

by MESEAN SADRI

G

iven the current state of affairs between the United States and Iran, it may be to many people’s surprise that there existed a time in which these two countries held great respect for one another. Iranian leaders were revered by U.S. officials for maintaining stability in a tumultuous region of the world, and the two countries maintained close ties. However, this relationship rapidly devolved into a bitterness and resentment following the 1979 Revolution. Nevertheless, the 2015 Nuclear Deal demonstrates the most recent stride by these rival nations to rekindle their once-benevolent relationship.

The Nuclear Deal, brokered by a group of world powers and the Iranian government, aimed at nuclear non-proliferation and limiting Iran’s uranium usage. In exchange for compliance with these terms, global powers including the United States pledged to lift economic and financial sanctions on Iran, freeing billions of dollars in revenue and other assets. However, tensions between the United States and Iran have completely reginited not only with President Trump’s unilateral withdrawal from the Nuclear Deal, but also with reimposed economic sanctions on the country. One would assume there was some credible rationale to such a significant foreign policy decision with hefty opposition from U.S. allies. However, the main oversight agency monitoring Iran’s uranium usage, the International Atomic Energy Agency, confirmed that Iran was observably complying with the terms of the nuclear agreement before the United States’ withdrawal.

Evidently, the disruptive foreign policy of the Trump administration points to an alternate epidemic plaguing both parties of the Washington establishment: the military industrial complex. The military industrial complex refers to the informal relationship held between the U.S. military and the profiteering defense industry, which dictates U.S. relations with countries like Iran. This wealthy industry profits from war, and it funds the campaigns of elected officials, as well as the corporate media; therefore, it is no coincidence that congressional representatives and the mainstream media express a hawkish, warmongering attitude toward Iran.

Prior to the initial rupture in U.S.-Iran relations sparked by the Nuclear Deal withdrawal, Trump placed known neoconservatives into his cabinet who believe in pursuing interventionist, regime-change foreign policy against Iran. These individuals were immensely influential in Trump’s decision to withdraw from the deal, but they only perpetuate the continuous nature of U.S. hostility toward Iran observed across several presidencies. Since the 1979 Revolution, which ousted the proAmerican Shah, the United States has maintained a longstanding vendetta against the Iranian government. From economic

sanctions that have strangled Iranian consumers to pro-war media rhetoric that deters the U.S. from diplomacy with Iran, it is clear that lawmakers and media outlets are more focused on appeasing corporate interests than pursuing diplomatic solutions.

Therefore, the most recent fractures in U.S.-Iran relations are not merely aberrational, but rather they are indicative of a broader pattern of U.S. aggression towards the Iranian government.

While there is plenty of deserved blame for the repressive and undemocratic policies of the Iranian government, those most affected by America’s harsh foreign policy are Iranian civilians. Recently, draconian sanctions on pharmaceutical products, most notably chemotherapy drugs, have put the lives of countless Iranian citizens at risk. Despite the U.S. government’s efforts to deny claims that sanctions are affecting access to basic needs, Iranians are the ones bearing the brunt of this economic warfare. If combatting state sponsors of terrorism is the main justification for U.S. sanctions on countries like Iran, perhaps the United States government should employ equally harsh sanctions on the Kingdom of Saudia Arabia, the largest state sponsor of terrorism. However, the profit motive of lucrative arms deals with the Kingdom supersedes any consequences for Saudi Arabia’s disregard of democratic principles, highlighting the conspicuous, longstanding difference in the treatment of Iran.

Evidently, the major drivers of U.S.-Iran foreign policy are not peace, compromise, and diplomacy. Major actors within the United States government view conflict with Iran as another opportunity to reap the financial benefits of war.

American economic sanctions are a siege levied on the Iranian people with the sole purpose of cornering Iran to the brink of war, and the blatant hypocrisy of the United States for railing against terrorism, while rubbing shoulders with the largest state sponsor of terrorism, is cowardly and antithetical to American values. Yet recent tensions are absolutely nothing new. The flame of American hostility toward Iran burns strong, and periodic disruptions only add fuel to an ever-burning fire.

Despite all of the corruption and adversity driving American imperialism in the Middle East, public opinion is overwhelmingly against a potential war with Iran. In this age of populist politics, people are more aware than ever about the tremendous costs of war, and there is a growing movement to elect leaders who represent the widespread consensus in this country that the U.S. should not serve as the world police.

Although the nature of U.S.-Iran relations seems infinitely aggressive, the American people have the power to shatter this hostile relationship and elect leaders who will restore the mutual affinity these two countries once had. v 18

Founder and Foundation: A Look at the Iranian Scholarship Foundation

by OMEED ASKARY

T

he story of the Iranian Scholarship Foundation (ISF) is intertwined with the story of Ms. Azadeh Hariri, known as Azy Joon to those lucky enough to know her. Ms. Hariri, an economist by trade, initially began her career in Iran at the Ministry of Commerce before becoming the Chief Operating Officer of her family business, Starlight Textiles Company. After the Revolution in 1979, Ms. Hariri and her family emigrated to the United States where in 1982 she helped found Pacific Groservice Inc., now known as PITCO Foods. Yet Ms. Hariri did anything but rest upon her laurels of personal success. Throughout her career, Ms. Hariri individually assisted dozens of students throughout Northern California who had encountered great difficulty in affording higher education. In 2000, she decided to found a nonprofit organization to simplify and expand the aid-giving process, establishing the Iranian Youth Scholarship as part of the larger Iranian Federated Women’s Club (IFWC).

Five years later, the Iranian Scholarship Foundation launched independently and to date has helped more than three hundred fortunate students attend some of the most elite institutions in the world through its generous financial assistance.

Yet the foundational concept of the Iranian Scholarship Foundation is not simply to help students pay for four-year university education. Ms. Hariri’s vision regarding assistance to students is cyclical; it is her hope that Iranian-American students that are raised in America or study in the U.S. do not lose their cultural heritage, their language, or their customs. As a result, a crucial prerequisite for the award, beyond simple financial need, is a “desire and commitment to devote…[one’s] skills and talents to the broader Iranian community.” Students selected by the ISF will ideally be able to give back both to the organization and the diaspora in the future. Thus, the process can repeat indefinitely, ensuring access to education to thousands of future students.

As an institution, the Iranian Scholarship Foundation has grown substantially into a pillar of the Iranian-American community in Northern California. During the program’s first years, very few knew of its existence, yet its presence has broadened over the last twenty years to become a staple among Iranian-American charities nationwide. I personally have seldom seen an event, gala, or other Iranian-American gathering of prominence in the Bay Area without the recognizable green and white logo of the ISF listed as a sponsor or donor.

To recipients of the ISF grant, however, the ISF is much more than a scholarship organization. The past three years that I have had the pleasure to work among, volunteer for, and socialize with the Iranian Scholarship Foundation team, I’ve discovered something of a second family. Not only has the ISF team provided me resources beyond financial aid, including networking opportunities, professional development, and career advice, but they also have become valued friends of mine who I am always delighted to see and catch up with at various events.

This applies not just to the ISF Board and the selection and administrative committees, but also to other ISF students and alumni. On numerous occasions, I have encountered former ISF students in the Bay Area and elsewhere, and, in every encounter, I genuinely felt a sense of camaraderie and friendship. Many ISF alumni were in my shoes as undergraduates, and now that they are working professionals, actively do their best to help students such as myself navigate possible career paths.

My family recently underwent a financial crisis that placed my attending UC Berkeley at risk. My grandparents could no longer assist us monetarily given the collapse of the Iranian Rial in the global market, as most of their savings have remained in Iranian banks since the Revolution. Out of options, I turned to the Iranian Scholarship Foundation for assistance so that I would be able to continue my education. Within hours, I was informed that my scholarship would be adjusted from meritbased to need-based so that I would no longer have to begin a second job on top of five classes and my day job. I am firm in my belief that, had the ISF not existed to save me during this dire tribulation, I may have had to take a gap year to support my family, an action that may have placed my entire future at risk.

For this, I am eternally grateful.

In its essence, the Iranian Scholarship Foundation represents the best aspects of the Iranian and Iranian-American communities. One may even say it is taarof in its most splendorous form. Successful and intelligent professionals join together to ensure the next generation of students possesses sufficient resources in order to one day take their place. This cycle shall, indeed, repeat when the current cohort of students enters the workforce, and Iranian culture will continue to be represented by dozens of highly intelligent and culturallyattuned students across the nation’s finest institutions. v 19

Nostalgia for a World Not Yet Actualized Queer Utopia in the Work of Hushidar Mortezaie

by BAHAAR AHSAN

I

n his book Cruising Utopia, Jose Esteban Muñoz theorizes queer utopia as “an ideality that can be distilled from the past and used to imagine a future.” For Muñoz, queer utopia is about a turn away from the here and now, and towards the then and there, a utopian futurity that, though historically grounded and necessarily concrete, may never be fully actualized but rather exists as a potentiality toward which we are constantly moving.

Muñoz emphasizes aesthetics and performance as central to the project of utopia in which he is invested, asserting that queer aesthetics “map future social relations” and that queer utopianism is necessarily about performance and about a “doing” toward futurity. The work of interdisciplinary artist Hushidar “Hushi” Mortezaie, and in particular the performance Fadat Besham, is invested, I argue, in precisely this project. The performance, staged at the Minnesota Street Project gallery in San Francisco on the evening of March 30, 2019 during a reception for the exhibition Once at Present, curated by Taraneh Hemami and Kevin B. Chen, activated the affect of nostalgia which has come to characterize cultural production in Iranian diaspora, and displaced that affect onto queer militant transhistorical subjects, rendering this nostalgia illegible and unhinging it from the romantic and linear temporality and spatiality of the dominant Iranian nostalgia. It is in this unhinged space, this space of illegibility, that Hushi renegotiates relationships to place, space, history, and time, and forges a new kind queer Iranian utopianism.

The start of the performance was signaled by the sound of men chanting “Allahu Akbar” in Persian accents blasting from the gallery speakers and echoing throughout the space, followed by “Bahaaraan Khojaste Baad,” a popular song celebrating the success of the 1979 Revolution in Iran. The auditory experience that opened this performance was affectively and politically loaded for the crowd, largely comprised of Iranian-Americans

who left Iran during or following the 1979 Revolution. These sounds and the historical moments they signified quickly activated distinct responses within each of the attendees— bringing into the space the feelings of loss, nostalgia, and mourning tied to the revolution. The sound of the revolutionary soroud quickly faded into music reminiscent American club music of the 1970s and 1980s, as performers emerged into the space clad in clothes designed by Mortezaie.

This performance, like much of Mortezaie’s body of work, was characterized by a sort of multidirectional citation; that is, aesthetic reference to multiple temporalities in queer, Iranian, and Iranian diasporic life which are often positioned as ideologically oppositional. One performer descended the stairs in a collage-like graphic outfit with pictures of Fereydoun Farrokhzad and pre-Revolution newspaper clippings, followed by another performer dressed in a green jumpsuit evocative of Iranian paramilitary soldiers with the word “Enghelab,” or revolution, printed on a patch in the back, and yet another performer wore clothes covered graphically in Old Persian script. The sound of queer club music continues to fill the space as the performers descend the gallery’s staircase one by one. The kinds of gesture being performed, characterized by things like hand performance and dips, became quickly and easily legible as vogueing to those in the crowd familiar with the art form which emerged from Black and brown queer ballroom culture.

Through these references, Hushi’s work contends with multiple and complex relationships to history, temporality, and place. The work is rich with symbols that point to a number of historical moments, each charged with a different political and ideological valence: the reverence for Persian empire that is embedded within royalist ethnonationalism, the militancy attributed to the 1979 Revolution, and the resistant and celebratory queer 20

lifeworlds of balls and nightlife. Through this multidirectional citation, Fadat Besham historicizes the queer Iranian diasporic subject within multiple linneages. It negotiates a relationship to history that resists both complacency with the present and romanticization of the past.

Nostalgia has long prevailed in Iranian diasporic communities as a cultural practice and mode of representation.

This nostalgia, outlined by Hamid Naficy in his essay “The Poetics and Practice of Iranian Nostalgia in Exile,” has served as the dominant and primary mode through which Iranians in the United States have understood and produced their own subject positions and sense of community, as well as mediated their relationship to an imagined homeland. Within this nostalgic mode of representation, certain signs have come to be rather ubiquitous and easily legible as signaling not only a relationship to time, place, and space but also an alignment with a specific ideological and political orientation. These signs and relationships to history are most often embedded in a politics that longs for a return to the era of the Pahlavi dynasty and the imperialist, ethnonationalist modernity that characterized that time. Much of the visual lexicon employed by Mortezaie’s performance Fadat Besham is consistent with that of such royalist nationalist nostalgic productions. However, they are presented beside and among a number of other signs which render this nostalgia illegible. The kind of Pahlavi nostalgia connotated by pop cultural icons like Farrokhzad is offset by clear symbols of the 1979 Revolution and its political orientations. This is even further complicated by the references to queer of color lifeworlds in the United States, notably lifeworlds which date back to a similar time period as the Iranian Revolution. Hushi’s work then works both within and against the systems of representation that have come to define Iranian diasporic cultural production.

Naficy asserts that the project of Iranian diasporic nostalgia rests on the potentiality of return to an idealized homeland of the past, a potentiality which Naficy emphasizes as necessarily unable to be actualized. This constant and imagined potentiality is perhaps consistent with the ideality of queer utopia as theorized by Muñoz. However, unlike queer utopia, which uses the past and our collective memory of it to produce a futurity toward which we might strive, Iranian nostalgia simply longs for that same past, aiming to produce a sense of continuity with it. Fadat Besham rejects the work of producing continuity with an idealized past homeland. It is critical here to think through temporality coterminously with spatiality in examining Hushi’s performance. In referencing both cultural production in Iran and Black and brown queer cultural production in the United States, Hushi draws connections between multiple experiences of colonial, racial, and gendered violence and resistance and rejects not only the temporal linearity but also the spatial binaries engendered by Iranian nostalgia. Where dominant Iranian diasporic nostalgia seeks to reproduce Pahlavi Iran in the settler colonial nation-state of the U.S., Hushidar Mortezaie’s performance produces a new relationship to place and space: one which is unhinged from the fixedness of both the Iranian homeland and U.S. hostland.

Hushi tactfully displaces a prevailing diasporic nostalgia for the pop cultural production of Pahlavi Iran, remapping that longing in a distinctly queer context unmoored from linear temporality. His work is consistent with Iranian diasporic nostalgia in that it longs for an Iranian life-world different than that which we are currently experiencing in Iran or in diaspora.

But the world Hushi longs for is not a reproduction of the Pahlavi era, but another world entirely, one which has yet to be actualized. v 21

Americans, Democrats, women and immigrants.

Looking at the image itself, in placing himself front and center, Trump, clad in a red tie and American flag pin, becomes the image of “America.” He is the only figure in the photo, and as such takes the place of prominence, as central actor within it. In previous administrations, presidents have conducted themselves to be seen as an extension of the American people and the nation.

In Trump’s America, the United States is made out to appear an extension of Trump. He has done this using incendiary rhetoric that sparks controversy at every turn creating a big story for every news cycle in which President Trump has said or done something outlandish. This takes attention away from the office and the real political work that should be going on in the White House, and turns it instead into a one-man show. Rather than discussing policy, the nation discusses Trump. Not only does Trump’s language directly result in perpetuating this vision of himself as a dictator or monarch type, with his attention-grabbing, “all eyes on me” behavior, but also we are seeing a surge of fascism throughout the world, from more figures like Boris Johnson to the increase in

Where Words Divide

by NASIM GHASEMIYEH

O

n November 2, 2018, Donald Trump tweeted an image of himself superimposed over the main advertising image for the popular American television show, Game of Thrones. The slogan of the show, “Winter is Coming,” was amended to read “Sanctions are Coming.”

This tweet came weeks after Trump announced that the U.S. would be withdrawing from the Nuclear Deal negotiated between the U.N. Security Council and Iran in 2015. And this image, put out in reference to Iran, was a shocking display of the lack of propriety with which Donald Trump approaches his role as President of the United States, an office he was elected to for the purposes of protecting and serving the people of the United States, over two million of whom are Iranian-Americans.

The announcement of such a serious political threat which would devastate millions of people over social media was not only tawdry, but held a remarkable level of apathy for the reality of the impending circumstances, by virtue of the medium through which it was delivered. Truly a product of meme-culture, the fact that the President of a nation with so much power is creating and changing public policy with 280 characters is alarming. This is to say nothing of the crassness of using a single image that calls upon pop culture to carry a policy that would inevitably result in a loss of food and affordable goods for families halfway across the world.

While the sanctions are spoken about as though they are aimed at the Iranian government, and are discussed in conjunction with the Nuclear Deal further emphasizing that misconception, it is the people of the country who feel the effects.

People with chronic medical conditions are failing to get the medications essential to their treatment because other countries fear U.S. retribution should they continue to trade with Iran, and this summer, rations have been imposed for the first time since the Iran-Iraq War as meat prices have more than doubled.

While these issues address the reality of the effects of the sanctions, their announcement speaks to the political and social realities of our time. Social media platforms are touted in tech spaces as being tools of connection, a way of making the world smaller and bringing the people who occupy it, closer. The fact that someone in one of the highest offices in the world has taken to undermining people using the tools of social media only serves to rupture communities. Even though we live in a diverse nation, Trump manages to ‘other’ every single group, frequently referring to his constituents as, “these people.” The use of the phrase, “these people,” creates distance in the sense that rather than “us” or “fellow Americans,” there is a removal of the self who is speaking, and the people referred to become those other to the self. Not only is this distance alienating for people who call the United States their home, or are seeking a home here, it also erases identity due to the removal of the name of the group in question. Trump has used “these people” to speak about Muslims, Iranians, Mexican-

support for the Vox party in Spain, highlighting the international stakes of such a method of communication. No other president in our history has so dramatically aimed to place themselves as a signifier for the entire country.

Trump’s expression in the meme is one of smugness, and by tilting his head slightly away from the center where the viewer looks on, he reveals an arrogance in not facing the people he will affect with his decision, a decision that immediately became a joke to the millions of Twitter followers who have no conception of this event’s fallout and are seeing it only as something their president regards casually enough to make a joke about. Memes are meant to be funny, and sanctions are anything but, so the announcement in such a form further emphasizes a lack of care.

While Trump might see this image as simply depicting his own power and a quick way to jab at Obama, with this huge image of himself in the place of the popular, powerful TV hero who originally spoke the catch phrase, the foggy cloud he walks away from becomes symbolic of the dust rising from the rubble of what he has destroyed. v 22

Turkish Soap Operas: Reconciling Cultural Tensions in Iranian Diaspora

by SABA MOUSSAVIAN

T

his summer, my grandmother became my family’s prophet for Turkish soap operas. For months, I visited her every day as scenes of astoundingly beautiful Turkish men and women with elegantly dubbed Persian voices dramatically played across her TV screen. She watched over her shoulder from the kitchen, entranced, occasionally releasing a humph or a giggle, but I never chose to watch with her. While eating breakfast together one morning, she put on an episode of a series that had just been released on GLWiz, an internet TV platform that caters to Persian-speaking viewers. This newer series was titled Erkenci Kuş, translated in Persian as Parandeye Saharkhiz (Early Bird), and she invited me to watch with her. Within the next two days, I rewatched the first episode of the series five times, with a different family member joining in for each additional showing as one by one we all became hooked.

On average, my family and I consume an abhorrent amount of TV together, so this was by no means the first show we’ve binge-watched. But there is no TV series for which my mother, father, sisters, grandmother, and I have all consumed with such unanimous passion as Parandeye Saharkhiz.

Certainly an aspect of our love for the show is the characters’ ever-entrancing and alluring beauty. At times, they appear to possess a godly level of attraction. The main male protagonist in Parandeye Saharkhiz, Can, played by Can Yaman, has luscious long brown hair, smoldering eyes, a thick beard and such a buff build that my family refers to him as a “buffalo.” The alluring beauty of these shows goes beyond just the characters as we are treated to an impeccable and spectacular portrayal of Istanbul, evidence of the shows’ extremely high production value. We see breathtaking snapshots of expansive mansions, rolling hills, beaches and even hospital buildings that showcase Istanbul’s elite standard of living.

But these shows aren’t all just good looks. What distinguishes these series from American television the most is the presence of non-Western cultural elements. For example, there is a significant emphasis on family and community values.

We see children who live with their parents well into adulthood, by choice, and neighbors who are deeply invested in each others’ lives. Turkish dramas are also extremely chaste and depict little to no glorification of sex or even physical intimacy, even though they are predominantly romantic comedies. Overall modesty makes the programming comfortable to watch crossgenerationally and cross-culturally. Beyond just the fact that it’s uncomfortable to avoid my parents’ death glares during an intimate TV scene, the Western norm of sex in TV is sometimes

at odds with more traditional values of piety. But while physical intimacy in Turkish dramas is sparse and typically ensues after a fifty-episode-long courtship, that tension is still intense and revolves around an epic and engaging romance.

For me, the shows’ appeal isn’t just in the mere presence of non-Western culture; it’s that secular life coexists with traditional, and often Islamic, values in harmony. For example, community members often gather by sipping tea on the street or at the beach together, a departure from the typical Western social gatherings at bars. Yet, while drinking is not central to the shows, alcohol is present and consumed by some characters. At the same time, other characters, sometimes members of the same family, wake up before the sun rises to perform the obligatory Muslim fajr prayer on time. Everyone seems to coexist with different practices seemingly harmoniously.

Growing up in diaspora, where my Iranian and Western identities felt at constant clash, the balance in the Turkish soap operas feels miraculous to me. I so often feel that my everyday decisions have a heavy weight attached to them as fundamental choices between my American and Iranian cultures. If I talk back to my parents, has the importance of respecting elders been lost on me, or am I just exceptionally passionate on this subject? If I choose to go on a roadtrip with friends instead of spending my vacation at home with my family, does that mean I’ve been overly influenced by a Western devaluation of family values or do I just want to hang out with my friends?

But in Parandeye Saharkhiz, these decisions are not a referendum on the characters' identities. If the main character, Sanem, talks back to her parents, maybe she’s just in a bad mood or being disrespectful at that moment. If she spends the night at her friend's house, she does so because she wants to spend time with that friend. Her identity is never called into question by virtue of her day-to-day decisions and never are her decisions considered a departure from her Turkish heritage.

I realize that I’m comparing my life to a TV show. These shows are highly simplified and glamorized versions of reality, likely laced with hidden colorism, sexism and classism that I am surely blind to due to my deep love for the series. However, I feel strongly that the harmony of secular or Western values with traditional or Eastern values is not solely due to the fact that they are being portrayed on a TV series. Being born into a diaspora will always entail a pushing and pulling between two parts of my cultural identity. But for me, Turkish soap operas serve as a reminder that sometimes, I don’t have to judge my own decisions as a referendum on who I am. v 23

The Rubaiyat

by LILLIANA ZAR

T

here is no mention of the poet. Where there should be his name, there exists a gaping 4-by-3-inch rectangular hole, spanning the entirety of the work, sparing no page.

I found this copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam at a stand at the Melrose Trading Post, sold by a man who turned books into clocks. Among all the new books atop the vendor’s table, this was a worn, nearly gray book with no blatant title. An artifact. A book that has physically existed for one hundred years, and whose contents have been culturally significant for almost a thousand. This Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam was translated to English, with a signature dating 1938 within its pages. I thumb through yellowed edges.

This is art. But not the clock.

Where the vendor sees delicate metal hands of the hour, minute, and second extending from the cover, I see violent shives that slaughtered the careful prose of a legendary poet. The hole created to fit the battery mechanism spans the novel: There is no mention of the poet because Khayyam was cut out from his cover-page throne. All that can be read on each page is the first few lines of each poem.

crossed the Mississippi and then some, into the hands of this man at the trading post, who felt he was important enough to mutilate it. He prioritized the battery over the poetry. Treated this treasure with disrespect, cut through every single page of verse and accompanying painting without remorse. And had the gall to smile and sell it to an Iranian girl.

Tell me sir, what will you do with the profits you gained by watering down my culture?

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in Men’s eye much wrong: Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup

In the hands of another buyer, this book may have been reduced to its aesthetic value. It will not sit atop a table as a decorative piece, the hands ticking away, content with its new purpose of time-telling. These are epics of Persian poetry, important enough to the global repertoire to be translated. Our culture is beautiful on the surface, yes, the gold and turquoise and burgundy flowers of the woven front epitomize this, but we Iranians also produce complex intellectual thought. This book of poetry is held alongside Homer, Sophocles, Shakespeare and Sappho—would hundred-year-old copies of these, too, have been desecrated like Khayyam?

And much as Wine had play’d the Infidel, And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour---Well, I wonder often what the Vintners by One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

Then to the rolling Heav’n itself I cried, Asking, “What Lamp had Destiny to guide Her little Children stumbling in

$40 for this artifact of history. It was an anomaly that this book fell into my life, a rare edition, printed all the way in New York—and a translated version at that. I can’t read Persian but I can read this. This book has passed through the hands of a few posh Manhattanites discussing Middle Eastern culture,

The physical absence of written content is jarring. My eyes dance over the lines of letters and craft a crescendoing plot, 24

and I am inevitably left to fill the rest of the story myself; there are no more words left to read. To stare into the abyss that the clock has left borders on gruesome. I stumble on every plot, every beginning with no end, countless unfinished stories.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lab from some once lovely

Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh, “My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover, by-and-by

This sombol was dropped into my lap. This rare piece of ancient history, made accessible to my erasure, my inability to read what should be able to spring from my own tongue, is still a treasure because I now decide that it holds double meaning to me, a memento of my culture, and a personification of what must change where I am. We are graced with this book’s eventful life, and the ability to read its chill-inducing content—Khayyam still is able to evoke this effect despite the majority being absent. There is resiliency in poetry.

Persian culture is rarely found in standardized history curriculum, in fact, non-European history is rarely covered extensively in general education. We hyphenated Americans must search for it ourselves. We do not get to glow with the achievements of our ancestors in class, we do not learn why we ended up here in the States, we are not taught about role models that look like us. And so we seek and often find it destroyed.

The very reason we do not hear about the Iranian revolution in world history class is the same reason why I find our Shakespeare treated like debris.

Our history is not presented to us in courses, and without active seeking or familial testimonies, we become oblivious to our past. We drink our stories to find our place, but this experience, this feeling of belonging cannot be understood by those who have always had their history at their disposal.

So yes, it may just be a book, and it may be a translation that exists elsewhere, and it may be one-hundred, and not five-hundred years old, but the inability to recognize its value represents the root of the eurocentric standards we are all fed.

When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds

In this long lasting world, our history persists, and in its immediate absence, we seek it, and in this search we must make sure it is told.

But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:

And when I put the battery in the black motor, the machinery malfunctioned. The hand that clicked with each second ticked back and forth, stuck oscillating in a minuscule arc length.

And it became clear to me that this book was never meant to function as a method to keep time but to prolong it. v

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“B

‫غذا‬

ah bah, che booye khoob,” my dad exclaims at my mom from the hallway. These words express a sentiment that reverberates around Persian kitchens globally. The moment the scent reaches someone, they know that the food will send them on a journey of joy. Food has been a pillar of Persian culture, upholding traditions and remains the core connection to identity for many Persians today.

To understand the importance, one must first look at the essence of their social systems, their history, and their struggle with identity. After the Islamization of Iran, many Persians felt the loss of their unique culture and native traditions. Several texts predating this period contain information on the history of Persian food and what ancient Persians ate as part of their daily diets. Only a few of these pre-Islamic texts and cookbooks from this era survived, and they teach modern Iranians what the nobility of the time ate, as well as their traditions and lifestyles. Despite this loss of history, Persian cuisine significantly influenced

by NASIM JAHANGARD-MAHBOOB

other Indo-Iranian cultures and foods.

Even within the broad similarities of Middle Eastern cuisines, Persian food maintains a vein to its history, curating a unique taste that separates it from others.

Nonetheless, modern Iranians have managed to preserve and sustain many recipes and dishes. Regional variations are common with Persian food, as many towns and cities have their own versions of common dishes. Beyond the borders of Iran, the yearning to connect to Persian food grows, because the diaspora uses food as one of its main methods of remaining close to its culture. Persian cuisine has proliferated regions with large Persian populations including London, the San Francisco Bay Area, and Toronto, but especially Los Angeles and its environs.

Where there are large concentrations of Persians, there are many gatherings and social events organized around our food, and thus there is a community of Persians working to provide food for others.

Amid recent tensions between the U.S. and Iran, the diaspora community has unified in order to preserve themselves.

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New generations, even those who do not speak the language, can still speak of the food, and thus immerse themselves in the culture. Food remains a thread, keeping everyone together, creating the perfect little excuses for my uncle to leave work for an hour and come eat my aunt’s lubia polo before it gets cold. Food allows us to gather around each other’s dishes, taking photos when there is a particularly elegant halva, sharing secrets for how to decorate the delicate top of the mast-o-khiar, and providing the opportunity for stealthy moments of eye contact with your cousin while sneaking a piece of tahdig out of the kitchen.

I grew up in the Los Angeles area, and can attest to the many Persian restaurants and supermarkets that I visit regularly. Growing up with access to a wide variety of Persian foods has definitely influenced my personal connection to my Iranian identity. I often watched my mother and grandmother work together in the kitchen, spending hours preparing sabzi or stirring a large pot on the stove in preparation for a family gathering.

I would invite my friends over to share my favorite dishes and encourage them to explore and try the diverse options.

Currently I have begun my own journey of making Persian food, making a few simple recipes of my favorite foods and sharing my creations with my housemates. Through this process of sharing my culture with others, as well as with other Iranian-Americans, I have witnessed a shift among younger people. Many of my friends have a different relationship with food than our parents did, especially since we have grown up in the health conscious state of California. Some of us have also watch our parents struggle with high cholesterol and diabetes, often requiring an adjustment of their diets. In Berkeley, this shift is more pronounced, as many of my friends are also vegetarian or vegan. I can no longer share Persian food in the same carefree manner; I now try to be aware of the heavy nature of many Persian dishes and its lack of vegan options.

This new dynamic is changing both my relationship to Persian food, and it is a general trend that can be seen across the diaspora. I have tried and at times failed to change or adjust Persian recipes to include more nutritional value in the form

of additional vegetables or by reducing the amount of oil and butter I add to a dish. The result is not always satisfactory, as many Persian dishes taste better upon adding more oil and butter. When looking beyond my kitchen, this pattern continues to be observed. For example, my mother, many of my aunts, and the mothers of my Persian friends often replace ground beef or sheep with ground turkey or chicken to reduce the amount of cholesterol in their food. At many Persian restaurants a few of the stews and rice dishes are offered as a vegetarian option where there is not any meat included in the stew or rice, like gheymeh without the beef.

Since many Persians refuse to give up our ties to our food and culture, we have adjusted and changed traditional dishes to fit in a modern context. Persian food has grown and evolved with time, but at its core it always remains the same, a delicious and delightful way to spend an evening with food and company. Even with Western influences, we maintain the traditional flavors that have been perfected for generations and continue to be shared with the world. v

27

T

‫آزا دی‬

by YAAS FARZANEFAR

his wasn’t her first time entering through the gates of Azadi Stadium. She had experienced it before. Cheering alongside rows of fans, supporting her favorite national soccer team, jumping up and down, yelling and clapping after a goal, and feeling the thrill in her chest when the ball neared the net. Still, this time was different. This time she was dressed as herself. This time, she was entering Azadi Stadium—the freedom stadium—as a woman. This time she, herself, had secured a ticket for a soccer match. Surrounded by women wearing Iran’s colors and holding flags and banners, she joined the chant, “doo doo doo doo doo, Iran!”

She recalled the first time she was barred from entering the stadium. She was nine years old. Excited to see her first live soccer game, she begged her dad to take her along with him and her cousins who were planning to go to the stadium. Her dad, assuming the stadium ban would not apply to a nine-year-old, agreed. To this day, she still feels the pain from when the police guard had stopped them, the sudden heart-wrench and her dad’s disappointment when the police guards said, “Your daughter shouldn’t be here.” She still remembers the tears rolling down her cheeks when the guards asked her father, “Why did you bring her? Take her home.” That day, she watched her cousins effortlessly enter through the gates, merely because they were boys. In that moment, she wished that one day she would be able to enter as freely as they had.

After the 1979 Revolution, Iranian women lost several crucial rights, including access to sports stadiums. Although not explicitly written into law, a ban was implemented that barred female spectators from attending men’s sports games or stadiums beginning in 1981. Clerics argued that it was inappropriate for women to unnecessarily mix with men outside their families and be exposed to vulgar language and behavior. Despite the fact that this was an act of exclusion of women from sports culture, the government implemented the ban to “protect” women from the supposedly masculine atmosphere of the stadium.

As she grew up, she realized that these laws shouldn’t prevent her or her friends from attending the games. Like their resistance against many other gender discriminatory laws in the country, she joined thousands of other Iranian women who fought to find a way around this inequality. For years, brave women, like her, hid their female identities by entering stadiums

disguised as men. For their love of the sport, thousands of female soccer fans risked being arrested, fined, penalized, and imprisoned by sneaking in wearing fake beards, facial hair, wigs, and an overall male make-over in order to support their favorite sports teams in the stadium. But not everyone could get through without getting caught.

Among these women stood Sahar Khodayari, a 29-year-old woman who was arrested while trying to sneak into Azadi stadium in Tehran to watch her favorite league soccer club, Esteghlal, earlier in March of this year. Disguised as a man, Khodayari wore a blue cloak, Esteghlal’s official color, when she was arrested. While waiting for the outcome of her trial to be determined, she set herself ablaze using gasoline in front of the courtroom. Immediately hospitalized, she died a week later, suffering from burns over 90 percent of her body. Soon, her death spread around social and international media, with the hashtag blue girl, or #‫دخترآبی‬. Khodayari became a symbol of the plight of women in Iran.

After this tragedy, human rights activists and international organizations pushed FIFA to pressure the Iranian government into letting women into stadiums. On October 10, 2019, for the first time in 40 years, the government allowed women to officially purchase soccer tickets and attend the World Cup qualifier match against Cambodia. Out of the approximate 100,000 capacity of Azadi Stadium, only 4,600 tickets were offered to female fans. She was one of those 4,600 women.

Although only 4.6 percent of the stadium seats were reserved for women, although there were still no restrooms for women, and although women remained in a segregated section, this was a positive step forward. She hoped that this would truly be the dawn of Iranian women’s freedom.

As she turned her attention back to the game, she heard a new chorus emerging from the female fans. The women had started a new chant in remembrance of Sahar Khodayari: “Dear blue girl, we wish you were here!” Khodayari was the true reason they were gathered at the Azadi Stadium. She joined the stadium in chanting, “Dokhtare abi, jaye to khali / ‫دختر آبی جای تو‬ ‫خالی‬.”

Enveloped in the spirit of the stadium, she couldn’t exactly put into words all the joy she was feeling. She became one with the crowd and all that it stood for: ‫آزادی‬. Freedom. v 28

BARRIERS TO ENTRY: Difficulties Traveling to Iran

by BARDIA BARAHMAN

F

or many Iranians living abroad, traveling back to Iran means connecting with family and friends and, more importantly, connecting with one’s homeland. Iran holds a wealth of beauty that extends beyond its stunning landmarks and cities, which is why many Iranians find themselves itching to travel back. That same allure also draws Iranian-Americans, many of whom have never had the opportunity to visit the place where generations before them grew up. Ever since the 1979 Revolution, Iranian citizens in diaspora seeking to travel back to Iran have encountered many obstacles.

Fear of the Iranian government’s strict policy surrounding anti-Iran political involvement has pressured many Iranian-Americans to think twice before deciding to travel back home. President Trump’s current foreign policy is largely centered around ousting the current Iranian leadership through economic pressure, and if needed, military force.

While it is no secret that many Iranians are discontent with current domestic policies and want greater social and political freedoms, many saw the 2015 Nuclear Deal under the Obama administration as a first step to repairing Iran’s relations with the United States. Upon election, Trump dismantled the deal and reimposed sanctions on Iran, further stifling the road to diplomacy between the two countries. Many Iranians had been weary about trusting the U.S., and with the end of the Nuclear Deal, the U.S. has isolated many Iranians and prompted further aggression by the Iranian government. As a result of the hostility that Iran has displayed towards the U.S., many Iranians living in America have grown wary of having their dual citizenship affiliation as leverage in the political battle between the U.S. and Iran.

Traveling to Iran wasn't always this way. Until 1979, Iran was ruled by the Shah, who governed with strong influence from the United States government. His polarizing decisions continued to aggravate the Iranian people, and eventually led to the 1979 Revolution. Much of the Shah’s economic successes was a direct result of his close commercial ties with government officials in Washington D.C. As a result of these close diplomatic relations, at least 60,000 Iranians lived and studied in the United States, while more than 50,000 Americans in Iran. In fact, between 1973 and 1978, phone calls between the two countries skyrocketed by more than 1,600%.

Iran ended up suffering from its own success, as hyper-growth resulted in predictable consequences: lack of public services from rapid urbanization, structural inefficiencies, and a huge influx of foreign workers. When the Shah was overthrown and replaced by the Islamic Republic of Iran, this ruptured the positive relationship between Iran and the United States and has steadily deteriorated ever since.

Among other obstacles, Iranian-American youth face compulsory military conscription, known as ‫سربازی‬‎ (read "sarbâzi"). Iranian males above the age of 18, including those in diaspora, are required to serve an obligatory 18 to 24 months of compulsory military service. As many IranianAmericans are naturalized citizens, they fear being drafted upon traveling to Iran without first going through the many measures necessary to receive an exemption from the draft.

The list of limited exemptions available includes being the only son of the family with a father over 65 years old, being the sole caretaker of a family member, and demonstrating exceptional scholastic achievement, among other qualifications. In addition, Iran has offered to receive payment in lieu of service, at a cost of around $3,000, multiple times during the history of conscription, to make up for the deficit in the Iranian military budget. Under the current amnesty plan, citizens have up to eight years to either report for compulsory military service or pay a fine and avoid conscription once they reach eligibility. Recently, a college-aged friend of mine traveled to Iran and had to obtain an official proof of registration from UC Berkeley to present to Iranian officials in order to gain exemption. These barriers contribute to a heightened sense of anxiety around returning to Iran and hold many citizens back from considering travel.

Although post-Revolution travel to Iran is tinged by fears of accusal of affiliation with anti-Iran political involvement and mandatory military conscription, many Iranians are still hopeful that one day political tensions will be resolved and travel between the two countries will be worry-free. However, these fears still frame the reality of the perceptions and decisions millions of Iranians around the world make. Iranian-Americans deserve not only to be able to freely travel between the two countries, but also to no longer be victims of a political struggle between governments. v 29

R E FE R E NC E S Iran's Housing Crisis “19 Million People Live in Iran's Slums.” Iran Human Rights Monitor. Iran HRM, July 15, 2019.

Bayat, Asef. “Tehran: Paradox City 1.” PBS. Public Broadcasting Service, January 30, 2011.

Fathollah-Nejad, Ali. “Four Decades Later, Did the Iranian Revolution Fulfill Its Promises?” Brookings. Brookings, July 11, 2019.

Hulpachova, Marketa. “Iran's Economy Struggles to Support Ahmadinejad's IllConceived Housing Vision.” The Guardian. Guardian News & Media Limited, January 30, 2014.

“One Million More Iranians Live In Slums Due To Rising Prices.” Radio Farda.

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Satire and Political Undertones in My Uncle Napoleon Nafisi, Azar. “The Secret Garden.” The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, May 12, 2006. “‫ خالق دایی‌جان ناپلئون‬،‫گفت‌وگو با ایرج پزشک‌زاد‬- BBC News ‫فارسی‬.” BBC News. BBC, May 28, 2014.

Pizishkzād Īraj. My Uncle Napoleon: a Comic Novel. Translated by Dick Davis.

Washington: Mage, 2000.

The Unceasing Nature of American Belligerence Murphy, Francois. “Iran Is Complying with Nuclear Deal Restrictions: IAEA Report.” Reuters. Thomson Reuters, August 30, 2018.

Kebriaeezadeh, Abbas. “U.S. Sanctions Are Killing Cancer Patients in Iran.”

Foreign Policy, August 14, 2019.

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CNN. Cable News Network, April 2, 2015.

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Muñoz, José Esteban. 2009. Cruising utopia: the then and there of queer futurity.

Shams, Alex. “A ‘Persian’ Iran?: Challenging the Aryan Myth and Persian Ethnocentrism.” Ajam Media Collective.

The Modern Girl Around the World Research Group. 2008. The modern girl around the world: consumption, modernity, and globalization. Durham: Duke University Press.

Where Words Divide Twitter. Donald Trump, November 2, 2018.

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“Trump Tweets ‘Game of Thrones’ Teaser on Iran.” CNN News, 2019.

Founder and Foundation “Our History.” Iranian Scholarship Foundation ISF. Accessed November 2, 2019.

The Rubaiyat Khayyam, Omar. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Translated by Edward Fitzgerald, De Luxe ed., Garden City Publishing Co., Inc., 1937.

‫غذا‬ “History of Persian Food (Iranian Cuisine).” Persia Advisor, November 11, 2017.

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‫آزادی‬

Braunschweiger, Amy. “Banned from Stadiums for Being a Woman in Iran.”

Human Rights Watch, June 30, 2016.

Matias Grez, C. (2019). Iranian women allowed to enter football stadium for first time in 40 years. CNN. “Iran: Stadium Seating Cap Endangers Women.” Human Rights Watch, October 6, 2019.

Barriers to Entry Nasr, Vali. “Perspective | Iranians Do Want Regime Change - but Not the Kind Washington Hawks Are Pushing.” The Washington Post. WP Company, May 16, 2019.

Maloney, Suzanne. “1979: Iran and America.” Brookings. Brookings, January 24, 2019.

Pike, John. “Military.” Iran - Military Conscription. Accessed November 2, 2019.

A PPE NDIX Front and Back Cover Ebtekar, Ala. “Coelestis.” STUDIO ALA EBTEKAR. Do Not Despair Poem by Hafez Shirazi (‫ ;)یوسف گمگشته باز آید به کنعان غم مخور‬Adapted by the author from the translation of Dick Davis in the book Faces of Love.

Returning Aziz: Narrator’s grandmother Amoo: Uncle Enghelab: Revolution Salavat: Prayer Shahid: Martyr Tasbih: Beads strung together for counting prayers Azan: Call to prayer Masjid: Mosque Esfand: Peganum harmala, a common plant found in Persia and Central Asia that is bunt to ward off harm from persons or places.

Sangak: Type of Iranian bread Baghali: Small market Maihan: Homeland “Maihan, ey maihan:” “Homeland, oh homeland” “Baadi:” “Next” Barbari: Type of Iranian bread Nostalgia for a World Not Yet Actualized Photo by Hope Lee courtesy of SFSU Center for Iranian Diaspora Studies.

Models: Alexander Nevarez, Iyoki Chhin, Victorino Bis, Rico Julian Thompson, Varsha Srivastava, Jin Lee, Anna Iliukhina, James Severson, Reyna, Matisse Lathers.

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