Perspective, Fall 2017

PERSPECTIVE Fall 2017 • Iranian Students’ Cultural Organization • University of California, Berkeley • Since 1995

YAZD, IRAN

a letter from the editors

Dear Reader,

It is with great enthusiasm that we present to you the Fall 2017 issue of Perspective Magazine. We are a student-run publication at the University of California, Berkeley, that offers anyone interested in Iran or the Iranian-American diaspora a medium for exploring key ideas and issues related to the community.

Since our establishment in 1995, we have aimed to provide an original and authentic perspective of our heritage by both celebrating the richness of Iranian culture and analyzing it critically. Through our work, we hope to encourage an open and honest dialogue surrounding Iranian society, both among ourselves and throughout the world.

In this issue, we strive to maintain our stated purpose while introducing key changes. In particular, while historically Perspective Magazine has been an apolitical publication, as Iranian-Americans we cannot afford to isolate ourselves from political issues given the current climate. Our publication is no longer apolitical. We explore Iranian history, culture, art, economics, and politics in tandem, because each informs and shapes the other.

It is an honor to serve as Editor-in-Chief for the 2017-2018 year. Writing for Perspective Magazine since freshman year, we have watched its quality in content and design improve with each subsequent issue. We would like to thank our staff, donors, and readers for their commitment to the publication. Without your support and dedication, we could not have come this far.

If you are interested in becoming involved with the publication, please send an email to info.perspective@berkeley.edu. We accept new applications from potential writers and staff members each semester and always welcome donations and advertisements for future editions.

We hope you enjoy the issue.

Yours, Negin Shahiar & Leila Zarifi Editors-in-Chief

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10

The Beauty of Donna Fotoohi

12

Love Mina Shahinfar

13

23

What's in a Name?

Dorna Movasseghi

Mahshad Badii 14

Lost in

24 Sean Adibi

of Home Dorrin Akbari

26

16 Naseem Ghasemiyeh

of Love

27

17 3 Bahaar Ahsan 6

18

The Piety of Saalar Aghili

poem Azin Mirzaagha

19

8

Yaron Moaddel Jasmin Toubi

20

9

Ali Setayesh Anahita Ghajarrahimi

21

A Path to Cameron Salehi

22 Kayla Fathi

contents

Charlotte Laurence

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PERSPECTIVE STAFF Negin

Aghili Assistant Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief

Jasmin Copy Editor

Sean

Copy Editor

Copy Editor

Salehi

Donna Fotoohi Asst. Layout Editor

Naseem Ghasemiyeh Head of Outreach

Hashemian Photographer

Kayla Fathi Copy Editor

Copy Editor

Ahsan Copy Editor

Anahita

NOT PICTURED

Perspective Magazine is proudly sponsored by 4 PERSPECTIVE

Azin Mirzaagha Ali Setayesh

Medicine as Memory: Healing in Iran and its Diaspora Bahaar Ahsan “All of my best teachers have been women,” Babak tells me about his education in herbal medicine, surrounded by an assortment of jars containing herbs, spices, and oils meant to heal the human body. Babak Nahid is an herbalist and owner of Alembique Apothecary in Berkeley.

He was born in Tehran to an Iranian father and an Iraqi mother, and the geography and time period of Babak’s childhood were deeply formative.

He fondly recalls looking at shelves in his grandmother’s home and seeing bottles with labels beautifully written in Farsi, naming a variety of plant-based products, each with its own distinct purpose. It is this kind of intergenerational and cultural memory which fuels Babak’s passion for healing.

Iran has a rich and long legacy of practicing herbal medicine. The climate of Iran, a nation which can be divided into five different major climates, makes it uniquely hospitable to a wide array of plant species.

The tradition and practice of herbal healing in Iran is informed by the region’s culturally, ethnically, and religiously diverse history. Iranian herbal medicine draws upon the sacred Zoroastrian text of the Avesta, Muslim ancestral wisdom, and the practices of the various societies present within the borders of modern Iran throughout time, including Assyrian, Mesopotamian, and Babylonian cultures. This complex tradition, while constantly evolving and shifting, has to some degree been preserved over time in Iran.

Perhaps a more pressing question: to what degree is this tradition being preserved and carried on in the Iranian diaspora? Even seemingly simple and insignificant childhood memories held by Iranians both inside and outside of the nation’s borders point to a lineage of homeopathic and plant-based healing. For example, being served chai nabat as a treatment for illness seems to be an almost universal memory of Iranians around the world. Additionally, many Iranians grew up constantly being reminded of the importance of balancing garmi (heating) and sardi (cooling) foods during meals. Iranians even use plants as a form of spiritual healing, such as the burning of esfand to protect against cheshm nazar (the evil eye) to mamans serving chai nabat every time their child

has a cold.

On a larger scale, the U.S. and Europe have seen in recent years a resurgence of interest in “alternative” modes of healing. “The problem is that the stories are being lost,” Babak tells me. While certainly happy to see people interested in plant-based healing, Babak remains weary of this trend. He fears that what was once a legacy passed on from generation to generation is now being co-opted and exploited by a capitalist medical industry seeking to profit off of this ancestral knowledge.

Babak’s emotional and affective relationship to his craft is rather apparent when looking around his store. Each item in the store seems to have been procured with great intentionality, and each item carries with it a story. One jar might contain a syrup made by a 90-year-old Kermani villager woman. Another might be host to a tea made of herbs brought from northern Iran and blended by Babak’s own mother. Where an average person might see simply an herb, oil, or spice, Babak sees not only a biological purpose for that spice, but also a story, a lineage, and a community. Babak tells me that “thousands of years of use is the most glorious clinical study.” These products have all been proven effective over time, passed on not necessarily through medical texts and academies, but through intergenerational and oral learning.

The task, then, is assuring that these traditions are continued. Perhaps we should view diaspora and migration not as forces that fracture our community and our traditions but that increase the need to strengthen them. Babak warmly affirms the work of recording this history of healing. “It is, at its core, an act of memory,” he says. Perhaps the resilience of the Iranian diaspora lies in this act of memory. In a time when our very existence in this country is under attack, perhaps the best thing we can do is not to forget our shared lineage of healing and resilience.

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The Piety of Financial Institutions in Iran Saalar Aghili One forgotten contribution that stems from the roots of Islam, specifically the Prophet Mohammad, is impactful entrepreneurship. A waqf (plural awqaf), more commonly known today as a bonyad in Farsi, is a charitable endowment intended to fund social programs upholding Islamic values.

Many features of a bonyad resemble the modern structure of philanthropic endowments and missions of social entrepreneurships across the globe.

Historical texts refer to what is known as a bonyad in Iran today as a waqf in the early days of Islam (7th century), making it one of the earliest forms of endowments intended to assist the poor with a range of resources tackling health, education, and food.

The word waqf stems from the Arabic word for a charitable endowment and is the original term for this institutional concept, while the term bonyad is more specific to a present-day context of Islamic endowments in Iran.

Before legal frameworks and financial regulations formalized awqaf, the charitable pillars of Islam drove the Prophet Mohammad to encourage his followers to go beyond sim6 PERSPECTIVE

ple donations. The story follows that Omar Ibn al-Khattab approaches the Prophet Mohammad with a farm that he wants to donate, but Mohammad tells him rather to “make it a waqf, so your family, the needy and passers-by might also benefit from its fruits.”

Bonyads are meant to fulfill needs of the impoverished and can be any type of good or service contributing to economic, social, or community development. The broad applicability of a bonyad's mission leads to investment in a multitude of sectors, allowing bonyads to invest in almost any sector of the modern global market.

Today, the ambiguity of these endowments has led them to grow into one of the largest financial institutions in the Islamic World. The Islamic Republic of Iran has capitalized on bonyads, making them an integral part of Iran’s economic structure. Some of the most influential economic players in Iran today are the leaders of the largest bonyads in the country: Bonyad-e Mostazafan va Janbazan (Foundation for the Oppressed and Disabled), Bonyad-e Shahid (The Martyr’s Foundation), and Bonyad-e Astan-e Quds

(The Imam Reza Foundation). Contrary to what their names suggest, the missions and beneficiaries of these bonyads have since changed following the Islamic Revolution of 1979. While these are only three of over a hundred bonyads in Iran, they are by far some of the most influential enterprises in the country.

The growth of the bonyads’ new aims was a product of the Islamic Revolution’s goal to achieve social justice for the Iranian people. Revolutionaries like Ayatollah Khomeini gave speeches during the Revolution that revealed the mission of bonyads by touching on social equality: “Islam is a balanced and moderate regime that recognizes ownership and respects it in a limited form of production and consumption. If this is implemented, a sound economy and social justice will result from it, for social equity is a prerequisite for having a healthy regime.”

Early on, bonyads played a critical role in the economic transformation of Iran’s economy. They have now grown alongside the rest of Iran’s development to become some of the

largest corporate enterprises in Iran and the Middle East.

Historically, bonyads (or awqaf) invested in the high demand for feeding the impoverished, so farmland was often allocated to bonyads and the harvests from these respective lands would be distributed to communities in need. Bonyads still play a role in the agriculture industry in Iran, but more as a financier than a landowner. Investments in several agriculture companies that are commonly found in Iran’s grocery stores remain a part of the portfolios for bonyads, like Bonyad-e Mostazafan, but the bonyads do not manage the agricultural operations or any of their subsidiaries. The largest bonyads provide financial resources, including garnering funds for companies in a range of industries to providing mortgages to lower-skilled workers.3 Most bonyads today gather their funds through large-scale donations from worshippers. The Imam Reza Foundation in Mashhad (Bonyad-e Astan-e Quds), debatably the largest bonyad in the country with an estimated 7.1% of Iran’s gross domestic product (GDP) in 2007, has an annual budget of $2 billion, mostly gathered through almsgiving. The issue with financially evaluating bonyads is that the Iranian government exempts these financial institutions from taxation, leading to alternate claims by the

largest bonyads in Iran. Legally, they are exempt from taxes, among other certain legal restrictions, leaving outsiders to question the accuracy of evaluations of bonyads.

The ownership of bonyads has also been up for question since the Islamic Revolution. Under the traditional Islamic values calling for bonyads to be led by the ulama, or Muslim scholars, it makes it hard to not see an affiliation between the clergy and theocratic Islamic Republic. Pressure to legally define the relationship between the Islamic Republic and bonyads finally came to majlis, or Iran’s parliament, in 1997 when they defined bonyads to be under the “supervision of the president and the auspices of the supreme leader.”

Nevertheless, bonyads remain somewhere between the public and private sectors and are often referred to as “parastatal” organizations by scholars who study them. The development of bonyads grew alongside the Islamic Republic since 1979, but despite their shared missions to create a socio-economically egalitarian society, they are distinguished from government social security and welfare programs.

Bonyads have control over a substantial amount of Iran’s GDP today. Poverty rates in Iran have dropped since 2009, but experienced an increase in 2014. Whether bonyads are effective relative to the enormous amounts

of funds they collect is questionable given the lack of financial statements and supervision they face, leading to much scrutiny connecting the mission of a bonyad and the outcome its funding produces. Like every other financial institution in the world, corruption is a criticism that bonyads face both domestically and internationally due to the great amount of influence they carry with the allocation of their funds. What distinguishes bonyads from other financial institutions is that their philanthropic mission stems from Islamic values that overlap with an influx of funds experienced in the past four decades with the emergence of the Islamic Republic. Bonyads in Iran are a unique contemporary reflection of the historically ubiquitous awqaf that are meant to be a preservation of Mohammad’s vision for Islam’s role in society. However, proper assessments of bonyads’ impact in Iran are hard given the absence of transparency for the lack of regulation they face. Regardless of the financial activity that takes place within the confines of bonyads, consecrated mosques associated with bonyads protect these financial institutions from any noncompliance of regulation or digression from the original mission of bonyads — to relieve poverty.

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On Wednesdays, We Wear White Jasmin Toubi In March of 1979, only a few months after the Islamic Revolution of Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini decreed a mandatory hijab legislation with non-compliance punishable by law. Although many Iranian women from a variety of social classes and religions poured into the streets to protest this mandate, they ultimately did not have a say in the laws surrounding their fate. Similar protests endure to this day, however embodying a stealthier, more modern approach. Specifically, the White Wednesday Campaign popularized by My Stealthy Freedom, a Facebook page and community advocacy movement, spotlights this modern resistance to the compulsory hijab laws of Iran. Iranian women utilize this platform to share videos of themselves walking or driving in public wearing white headscarves, or none at all. Though mostly telling their own personal stories of facing harassment, their message is always one of resilience in light of and in spite of their adversity. Those who prefer to remain covered wear white clothes or scarves on Wednesdays in protest of the mandate, and in solidarity with all the women of Iran whose freedom is constrained. Despite the fact that Facebook, along with other social media sites like Twitter and YouTube, is subject to official government censorship, Iranians frequently skirt it through the use of VPN services which allow private access to the site.

Counter to the present paradigm, the hijab was used during the revolution as a populist symbol of protest against the previous Pahlavi regime. Beginning in the 1930s, rules regarding hijab were in stark contrast to what they are now. Head coverings were completely banned, and as a result instances of police violence against women were com-

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mon; scarves were forcibly torn off, even escalating to the extent that police were beating women and searching their homes for having the audacity to choose what to wear.

Today, women in Iran experience similar persecution for behaving oppositely; they face verbal and physical harassment from morality police if their hair is a little too visible, their coats are a little too short, or their clothes are a little too tight. Defying the compulsory hijab mandate is punishable by law with imprisonment or up to seventy-four lashes.

Yet against all of this pressure the women of Iran have not given up, taking to social media to reclaim their freedom. Founded by now exiled Iranian journalist Masih Alinejad, My Stealthy Freedom represents a place for Iranian women to voice themselves and be heard by the world with regard to their struggle for freedom and equality. Out of this platform was born the White Wednesday campaign, in which Iranian women engage in a peaceful form of protest against the compulsory-hijab law. Although its goal is to abolish the law that mandates them, the campaign is not anti-hijab; it is anti-compulsory hijab. This makes the movement unique in its ability to reach across religious and cultural boundaries, promoting an inclusive kind of equality that both veiled and unveiled women can choose to partake in. Through the posting and sharing of images and videos the women of Iran not only depict their stories, but form a unified online community which embodies values that support the rights of all its members equally.

Upholding the notion that all women should have a choice with regard to what they wear, the covered and uncovered women of the campaign stand in solidarity with each other by expressing their right to choose how to present themselves. As a movement, My Stealthy Freedom constitutes a subtle way for typical Iranian women of all faiths to be activists for their cause, without putting themselves in serious danger or trouble with the law if they so choose. Not only does it allow women to be vocal

about their lives and struggles, it encourages them to reshape the way their identities are perceived in the public realm through their strong social media presence in a self-empowering way. By choosing how others see them, the posts depict a reflection of how they see themselves. In doing so, women have put power into their own hands, as they are both in front of the lens, and behind it.

One anonymous submitter filmed and described a situation in which a man who was harassing her for her “bad hijab” backed down and ceased to curse at her once she started filming him. She characterized her act of filming as a weapon, where in this instance her exposition of injustice worked to stop it. The My Stealthy Freedom page is full of submissions like this one where women stand up fearlessly against inequality both individually offline, and collectively online by documenting and sharing their experiences. Embedded within this movement are the echoes of the diverse class of the preceding women of the revolution.

Like its predecessor, the movement is for Iranian women a rebellion against being told what their fate is, a rejection of values being imposed upon them, and a reclamation of their identities by their own authentic means. The frequency with which posts are shared demonstrate how the women of Iran face discrimination every day— which is why on Wednesdays, they wear white.

The Harmony in Persian Calligraphy Anahita Ghajarrahimi When I think of Persian culture, rugs and poetry first come to mind.

The iconic presence of Persian rugs in every household, coupled with the ancient, rich tradition of Persian poetry, embodies Persian culture for me. However, I only recently became acquainted with the artform of Persian calligraphy, and its significance in our culture, through my chat with calligrapher Masud Valipour. Born in Southwest Iran, Masud Valipour has practiced Persian calligraphy since his adolescence.

Valipour used to create calligraphy designs for his high school, such as announcement papers for his class— or anything in high school that he worked for. He began his art informally almost 45-47 years ago. He now owns a shop in Westwood, Los Angeles that my family stumbled upon accidentally during our visit to Southern California this past August.

Mr. Valipour later graciously accepted to be interviewed about his history with the art form.

The type of calligraphy he creates today is a combination of the styles he accumulated throughout his life. Valipour did not take any class on Persian calligraphy as a teen when he was in Iran. Instead, he was self taught since Persian calligraphy ran in his family. His uncles and older brothers created calligraphy, so Valipour learned from them. In fact, one of his uncles was a famous calligrapher who created artwork at a professional level. Valipour states that he was always surrounded by Persian calligraphy, so it became a passion of his own.

He offered up an analogy for me: “When older people play piano, there’s a chance you get a piano lesson.” But in the case of Valipour, the lesson was not in piano, but in Persian calligraphy.

Besides familial influence, Valipour cited classical music as another influential part of creating his art. When I asked what kind of classical music he listens to when creating calligraphy, he specified that Western classical musical composers, such as Beethoven or Mozart, are his first choice.

Since arriving in the United States from Iran in 1988, Valipour did not always intend on making and selling his art. He opened up a book store, which still stands in Westwood today, and only had a few of his pieces displayed for sale. Valipour mentions that the birth of his daughter in 2001 motivated him to make more calligraphy. Due to the birth of his daughter and the rise of the internet age, when more books and media became digitized, Valipour’s shop began selling “less books and more art.” He has kept it the same ever since.

The style of Persian calligraphy called “Nas’taliq” is the “base and basic of Persian calligraphy,” says Valipour. Another style based on that is the “Shekasteh-Nas’tilaq,” which is cursive calligraphy. Valipour concludes that his own calligraphy is a similar type of cursive script that is unique to his own style. He creates his pieces on either canvases or pieces of paper that is well-suited for framing. He also made about ten calligraphy pieces on wood, sizing up to be almost 2.5 ft × 5 ft large. As of today, he only has one of these ten pieces still; the rest have been sold.

As for the content of Valipour’s calligraphy, he creates works with people’s names or lines of poetry. One of his favorite pieces, pictured above, was made for Mother’s Day. The words on the canvas are two lines of a poem by Saadi:

Rejoicing this world for the world rejoices Him In love with this world for this world is all from Him The poem originally has a spiritual message, but for the context of Mother’s Day, it expresses the happiness that one and the world has for the mother figure because the whole world exists because of her. The imagery in the artwork itself resembles a circle, which reminds viewers of the spherical shape of our own world. The poem’s lines encircle this world, reinforcing the idea that the whole world exists because of the mother, just like how this circular shape exists because of Saadi’s poem.

Other poets that Valipour has used as source material for his calligraphy pieces include Rumi, Omar Khayyam, Attar of Nishapur and Hafez. Valipour uses material from Persian poetic masters to intrinsically tie the art of Persian poetry with Persian calligraphy.

“Persian poetry, particularly Persian classical poetry, is one of the major symbols of Persian culture,” Mr. Valipour says, “along with calligraphy and painting.” Valipour believes that these different forms of Persian art complement each other; “Calligraphy and poetry in Persian art have many, many things to give to each other.” His piece for Mother’s day echoes this ideology by tying the two artforms symbolically together. The harmony created by combining both Persian calligraphy and poetry allows Valipour to represent Persian culture in each piece he makes, and in turn keep the Persian artistic tradition alive.

Valipour’s combinations of calligraphy and poetry strengthen the pride that Persian-Americans feel in their cultural heritage. Both Persian poetry and calligraphy are mediums of art that we pride ourselves in as a group of people because they have become symbolic representations of our culture. Valipour epitomizes our pride by unifying both art forms together in his work. Due to their symbolic importance, Persian calligraphy and poetry have become tied to Persian identity, especially for those who live outside Iran. Since both Persian poetry and calligraphy have gained international acclaim, these images created by Valipour become iconic portrayals of Persian artistic ability and cultural history.

These images also allow us outside of Iran to identify and connect with our heritage. Our ability to share these art works allows us to appreciate the harmonious beauty of Persian calligraphy and poetry alongside the rest of the world.

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e h T

Beauty of

Linguistic

Difference

by DONNA FOTOOHI

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Iranians’ favorite thing to do is connect with one another in whatever way they can, whether it’s bonding over a cup of chai or dancing together. Their interactions grow warmer as conversations continue, and soon there will be no telling whether these people just met, or have known each other their whole lives. Often, they enter into an amalgamation of Farsi and English, deemed Finglish— or switch straight into Farsi. Upon hearing their mother tongue, Iranians laugh and respond easily. Like with American English, there is a standard spoken form of Farsi, known as Tehrani, which became popularized in the nineteenth century. But not all Iranians speak with this Tehrani lahje or accent, as there are varying accents across all regions of Iran. Since Tehrani is the dominating form of the language in both Iran and the United States, it has been modernized and therefore maintained and reproduced at a higher rate than other region-specific accents in both countries.

Even the untrained ear can identify when a nonstandard accent of Farsi is being spoken. Frequently, the seemingly harmless question “What part of Iran are you from?” shapeshifts into a form of judgement. Because Tehrani is the most dominant form of Farsi spoken, it has become the expected speaking form for people all over Iran, leading to a need for people of other cities with different accents— Isfahan, Mashhad, Shiraz, and Yazd— to assimilate. Many natives to these cities will adopt the Tehrani accent when speaking to people outside of their city. Interestingly enough, however, it is known that although it is “not uncommon for a Yazdi to try to speak like Tehranis when visiting Tehran, the opposite case is very rare.” Political pressure from the broader Tehran-centered Iranian society forces families to stop utilizing their traditional languages, leading to dialect extinction and historical erasure.

The first time I realized my Farsi differed from others’ was in a class I took at community college. When people discovered I was from Yazd, they were intrigued and enSongs: joyed hearing me speak because of my accent. Until that “Tabestun Kutaheh” Zedbazi moment, I1.had never noticed there –was anything different 2. “Palang” Alireza about the way I spoke. –My mom, JJthough born and raised 3. “InjatoIrane” in Yazd, moved Tehran– Bahram eventually, and has since di4. “Berim Fazaa” – Zedbazi vorced herself from her Yazdi roots. She reproaches my accent often, telling me – toLeito speak Tehrani. This rhetoric 5. “Sargarmi” intensified as time went on. During a trip to Washington D.C., I visited the Iranian embassy with my father to get my documents to travel to Iran for the first time. While speaking with a clerk, I was taken aback when he told me to learn the dorost or correct way to speak Farsi. Silenced by his patronizing tone, the color in my cheeks rose as I shrunk back, grimacing. As I walked back to my father, shame arose within me, rendering me unable to tell him

the truth about the interaction.

Ignominy for my accent only heightened as I struggled with my already broken Farsi. Who decided the dorost way to speak Farsi anyway? The multitude of backgrounds of each Iranian, whether they be diasporic or native, makes the concept that their languages should all match, unrealistic. Growing up in America, my only option was to learn Farsi within the confines of my home. My father’s Yazdi became my Farsi, making it the dorost form for me, even if not for someone else. Another person’s dictation of the correct way to speak became a tactic used to silence me and my culture, so I refused to adhere to what was expected of me.

Yazdi is easily detected by its accent, but it is also a dialect with words that differ completely from Tehrani. Though it is a less common form of Farsi, it is historically significant due to its roots in Zoroastrian language. Maintaining any form of a language is imperative as a record of languages; as families continue to assimilate to popular culture, dialects diminish and eventually die out completely. Yazdi dialects are being abandoned in Iran today due to pressure to conform. The utilization of nonstandard spoken languages is “often regarded as [an] indicator of low intelligence, relational disharmony, and social unacceptability.” Accents have commonly been used to determine a person’s social status, and therefore a tool wielded to categorize persons and discriminate against them. In this way, differing accents have been used to further the modernized perception that Tehran is the focal point of Iranian intellect and development, as other parts of Iran are left behind.

Many other Iranian cities are just as modernized as Tehran, and it is shocking to see discriminatory sentiments against different regions. Instilling judgment upon those whose background differs from your own instead of attempting to learn indicates an unenlightened perception of humanity. In Yazd, I meet a variety of exceptional people who talk just like I do. In America, I meet even more who speak nothing like me at all. The beauty of our humanity lies in navigating this dichotomy of similarity and difference with curiosity and compassion.

My pride for my Yazdi roots transcends any of my prior feelings of disillusionment regarding my Farsi. Comments on my accent range from shukhe to enteghad, joking to criticism, yet I am constantly reminded of the beauty of my linguistic difference. The intergenerational transmission of languages is essential to facilitate the preservation of different dialects to ensure they are not lost, and histories not erased. I no longer cower when people make fun of my lahje, but rather flash a smile and repeat myself louder, insisting that I am here to stay.

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Shahrzad Love Story Breaks Records

by Mina Shahinfar

It was my evening ritual. As soon as the opening words of the adhan— or call to prayer— signaled the end of a long day of fasting, I was the first to sit and stare at the beautiful, delicately organized iftar sofreh on the ground. My eyes wandered as I glanced across the spread: first the dates, then the bread and cheese, then the herbs, then the saffron-imbued tea— everything in its own perfect place. Just as I eagerly took my first bite, I realized I had forgotten about the most important part of iftar for my family, especially while vacationing in Iran: turning on the TV and watching the latest episode of the current TV series.

Shahrzad is the latest and the most popular among Iranian epic drama series. Its style of gripping filmmaking has infiltrated many Iranian households— including my own. Once a week, when a new episode is released, the show has the whole nation glued to their screens. Moreover, posters of leading actors Shahab Hosseini and Taraneh Alidoosti are found on almost every street corner in Tehran. But what makes this one TV series so special?

Imagine this: “Footsteps resonate on cobblestones, snooker clubs are open, women and men go partying together, cabarets are full, the alcohol flows, chapeaux are fashionable, the national theatre is showing Othello and, in the small cinemas along Lalehzar— old Tehran’s Champs-Elysees, Casablanca is showing.”

The Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB) is the primary broadcasting company in Iran, holding the monopoly of domestic radio and television series.

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However, Shahrzad, a privately produced series, was developed outside of the state apparatus and instead was produced with a license issued by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, which is operating under the supervision of President Hassan Rouhani. With an estimated cost of about 120 billion rials ($3.7 million), Shahrzad is viewed as one of the “largest and most expensive” in the history of Iran’s private cinema and television. Notably, the serial is a symbolic step toward giving Iranian directors and producers the chance to compete with the big-dogs of global broadcasting, and they produced something beautiful, attention-grabbing, and most shockingly, political.

The show breathes life into the world of Iran circa 1950s. It portrays the story of a love broken apart by the events in the wake of the 1953 coup d’etat that overthrew the democratically elected Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh. The historic drama focuses on a family saga, which becomes even more complicated with power struggles, corruption, jealousy, and mafia links.

Aesthetics aside, it is Shahrzad's political undertones that surprised the public.

The 1953 coup, engineered by the CIA and British intelligence to safeguard Western oil interests, consolidated the Shah’s rule until the 1979 Islamic revolution. It was a defining moment in Iran’s modern history, the reverberations of which are still felt today. Topics regarding Iran’s past politics especially fascinate me as an Iranian-American viewer, curious to know the varying beliefs behind what makes up the

Iranian identity. The serial goes on to capture the repression that took place at the hands of the Shah’s forces, with journalists and intellectuals summoned, intimidated or jailed arbitrarily and newspaper licenses revoked. Such scenes not only strike a chord in many of our elders who have lived through these transformative events, but also speak to today’s Iran, in the light of more recent crackdowns against journalists and activists, especially after the 2009 post-election unrest.

But unlike previous series, the characters in Shahrzad are not depicted in a binary of the good Islamist versus bad monarchist. Those close to the Shah are left deliberately ambiguous in character and even occasionally likeable and relatable. In the past, you couldn’t approach such characters in a humanizing way, but characters allied to the shah such as Bozorg-Agha at times even evoke sympathy and that’s something new. Although it may not sound like it to you or me, this is edgy stuff and again, it doesn’t hurt to emphasize that this is a significant departure from what Iranian television is used to.

Coming from a family of avid television viewers, I have always appreciated a good TV show much more than a movie, for it allows me to deeply connect with the characters, understand their world, and navigate their progression and growth over time. Persian serials are especially compelling as they tap into the complex lives of Iranian men and women, highlighting contemporary and historical issues of love, family honor, sacrifice, and corruption. While watching, I sometimes feel moments where I cannot blink. The series gets you so emotionally attached to the characters and the storyline that you may even think of them for hours after watching each episode.

Anyone can be drawn into the Shahrzad saga. The drama symbolizes a lot of things for a lot of different people— a new step toward open creativity in broadcasting, a milestone in the political fight for a more moderate society, or simply, a refreshing, enlightening portrayal of Iran’s historic past. For me, it has become a family ritual during Ramadan— one that is almost as sacred as the breaking of the fast.

What's in a Name?

Khaleej-e-Fars Mahshad Badii It’s December in Qeshm, but the sun is merciless. My mother and I, along with ten-some other tourists, are crammed in a beat-up, white van. Our driver is a local eagerly explaining Qeshm’s various historical sites as we bump along an unpaved road on the countryside. Even here, on an island known to few, my American-accented Farsi is welcomed with open arms— the young woman with bright red lipstick to my right laughs as she asks if I know George Clooney, while the elderly woman in a chador to her right smiles knowingly. Suddenly, the driver waves a hand out the window. “And here is the Persian Gulf. Look out far enough, and you can see American ships,” he chuckles. Suddenly, someone yells “Margh bar Amrika!”— “Death to America.” It’s the red lipstick-wearing woman whose favorite movie was Forrest Gump. The car erupts in cheers, and I cannot decide whether to shift uncomfortably or cheer along.

Khaleej-e-Fars, or rather the Persian Gulf, is just a small body of water located just under the belly of Iran. Yet, the slightest mention of the Gulf to an Iranian can cause an onslaught of emotion and, even among the most cynical of Iranians, patriotism. Economically, its value is indisputable— in 2006, nearly 28% of the world’s oil supply came from the Persian Gulf, and the Gulf ’s proven oil reserves of 728 billion barrels represented over 55% of the world’s oil reserves. The resource richness of the Gulf thus makes it easy to understand the Iranian regime’s motive in repeatedly emphasizing ownership over the Gulf in the international community, both in regards to the United States’ growing presence and claims by surrounding Arab nations. Most recently, the regime collaborated with popular rapper Amir Tataloo in his song “Energy Hasteei,” where Tataloo raps, “This is our absolute right/to have an armed Persian Gulf,” while standing on an armed vessel surrounded by soldiers in the music video.

Yet, while it’s easy to dismiss this movement as propaganda, the sentiment of “Persian Gulf for Persians” is one widely echoed among Iranians at home and abroad, and one that has historical precedent.

This possessiveness originally sparked in the 1950s, when a wave of Pan-Arabism among Arab Nations led to a movement to rename the Persian Gulf to the Arabian Gulf, the argument being that the body is mostly surrounded by Arab nations, and thus the nomer “Persian” was inappropriate. While this movement never gained legal traction and the Gulf is still recognized as the “Persian Gulf ” among international bodies, simply mentioning the phrase “Arabian Gulf ” to an Iranian today can often instill a very hostile reaction— even among Iranian-Americans who have never actually stepped foot in Iran.

When revealing his decision to withdraw certification for the Iran

Deal, President Trump noted at one point in his speech that the Iranian regime “harasses American ships and threatens freedom of navigation in the Arabian Gulf.” Despite the fact that the Iran Deal itself was in danger, when Iranians took to the Internet, their grievances were primarily directed toward Trump’s usage of the term “Arabian Gulf.” On Twitter, journalist Arash Azizi tweeted, “[the] Persian Gulf is older than the discovery of the Americas,” while others snidely tweeted pictures of ancient maps clearly displaying the label “Persian Gulf ” or simply longlines of Iranian flag emojis. Ultimately, Guardian reporter Negar Mortazavi said it best when she tweeted, “Trump's biggest mistake today was calling the Persian Gulf, the Arabian Gulf. Now even those Iranians who don't follow politics, hate him.” Even I, with my accented Farsi and tourist-like experience of Iran, can recall how my blood immediately boiled over in my Intro to Near Eastern Studies class, when a classmate offhandedly referred to the Gulf as the Arabian Gulf. “It’s the Persian Gulf,” I snappishly corrected her, the words leaving my mouth without a beat.

So, why the sudden surge in patriotism? Why are Iranians, many of whom are usually hesitant to discuss politics or alternatively would be the first to grumble about the current regime, so up in arms about a Gulf that they will most likely never even see in their lifetimes? The answer is found at the center of a complicated mix of culture, politics, and history.

To Iranians, the Persian Gulf is a symbol of being one of the oldest civilizations on Earth. In fact, the term itself dates back to the 5th century BCE under King Darius the Great, the third ruler of the Achaemenid Empire and arguably the king under which the Persian Empire reached its peak— an empire that Iranians remember when they bang their chests with fists and roar “Ey Iran,” or spill in the streets after winning a mere eight medals out of hundreds at the 2016 Olympics. It’s the older generation remembering Prime Minister Mossadegh's nationalization of the oil industry and standing up to foreign powers. It’s an empire rich in culture that Iranian-American children who can barely say “Salaam” feel through bedtime stories of Hassan Katchal and jumping over fires at Chaharshanbe Soori. The Persian Gulf is the Persian legacy. Thus, at its core, to refer to the Gulf as anything but Persian is a challenge to thousands of years of Persian history, civilization, and legacy.

In the backseat of that beat-up, white van on Qeshm, the sun is slowly setting behind me, diving into the depths of the mysterious Persian Gulf. The waters are calm and seem to extend for thousands of miles, a calm that stands in ironic contrast to all the weight the small body carries. Khaleej-e-Fars, Persian Gulf, the Gulf— at the surface, these labels are just semantics, unimportant and unassuming. But unwrap their history, and deep within the waters, one can find the proud, ever-beating pulse of Persia.

PERSPECTIVE 13

Reminds Me of Home Dorrin Akbari

I tentatively adjusted my scarf, which was serving as a makeshift hijab. As I looked around the airport, I was greeted by a mass of veiled women and mustachioed men. It had taken me eight years, but I had finally returned home—Iran. I had been hesitant about my visit. Having left Iran at the age of seven, I had essentially come of age in America. I did not go to mehmoonies; I went to parties (well, birthday parties). I did not set up the haftseen for Nowruz; I put up the tree for Christmas (mainly for the presents). I had been to more churches than mosques (at the behest of my friends who generously offered to convert me). I was, for all intents and purposes, Americanized. The little connection I still had to Iran was my ability to read, speak, and write Farsi— albeit at a third-grade level. To this day, I still meet eight-year-old Iranians with more advanced vocabularies than me. It would come as no surprise, then, that I was terrified of feeling like a stranger in my own home.

Yet, that was not the feeling that overtook me as I was hit by the smell of gasoline and overly polluted air upon stepping out of the airport. I experienced, instead, a sense of true belonging that I had not felt in all of my time in America. I was 14 PERSPECTIVE

surrounded by people who looked like me, spoke my language, and ate my food.

Though I had no memory of it, staring up at the Milad Tower from the backseat of my khaleh ’s Peugeot felt right. I spent two months of my summer of 2012 with my family in Iran. I got used to the smell of fresh noon barbari in the morning and shir-e-moz made by my grandma in the afternoon. I came to look forward to my grandpa, a former nurse, giving me long, detailed speeches about the various uses of medicinal plants when he caught me alone (information that he felt was of vital importance). I mastered hokm and every other card game under the sun. I even smoked hookah for the first time after being peer pressured by my mom and her cousins. I had once again grown accustomed to the life I had lived years ago.

History, however, was doomed to repeat itself. At the end of my two-month stay, I was forced to say another tearful goodbye to my family. In that moment, I understood why my other grandfather had left America after thirty years to spend the rest of his life in his vatan. Vatan translated means both home and fatherland. It is a term unique to the Persian language that encompasses both ideas— intertwining them into a notion that perfectly

conveyed my feelings during my trip. The concept of vatan, for me, goes beyond simply the idea of birthplace. I have had Iranian friends who did not grow up in Iran visit for the first time late in their lives only to feel the same comfort and longing that I felt in that airport. Yearning for one’s vatan is something that exists deep within one’s heart. There is something about Iran that intrinsically draws Iranians from all geographic backgrounds in, invites itself into their hearts, and serves them a warm cup of chai to make them feel at home. Whether one was born in Iran and returns after many years like me or whether they were born in a different nation altogether, spending time in Iran feels like coming home.

The scattering of the global Iranian diaspora can be identified in three major waves. Beginning in 1950 and lasting until the 1979 Revolution, the first significant phase of emigration from Iran was triggered by Iran’s economic recovery and resumption of oil production post-World War II. Revenue from oil exports gave way to rapid changes in Iranian society from traditionalism to modernization, motivating middle- and upper-class families to send their children abroad for higher education. In the 1977-1978 academic year, approximately 100,000 Iranians were studying abroad, 36,220 of whom were enrolled in U.S. institutions of higher learning; the rest were largely in the France, Germany, United Kingdom, Italy, and Austria. In the following academic year, the number of Iranian students enrolled in the U.S. rose, peaking in 19791980 at 51,310. According to the Institute of International Education, more Iranian students studied in the U.S. at this time than students from any other country. After the Revolution, not only did many of these students elect to remain abroad, but many of their relatives also joined them.

The second phase of emigration took place after the Revolution. Socialist and liberal factions were the first to leave, followed by young men who fled military service and the Iran-Iraq War, followed by young women and families escaping

newly established gender restrictions.

This second wave contributed to the "brain drain” as large numbers of professionals, entrepreneurs, and academics left the country. According to the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education, prior to the Revolution and ensuing closure of all universities in 1980, there were 16,222 professors teaching in Iran's higher-education institutions. When the universities reopened in 1982, this figure had plunged to only 9,042. Like the members of the first phase, the individuals who emigrated during this phase did not consider their departure permanent, believing instead that they would resume their lives once the revolutionary government was overturned. However, as time has passed, the possibility of a permanent return has grown progressively more unlikely.

Lastly, the most recent third wave of emigration has spanned from approximately 1995 to the present. This wave consists of two distinct populations— highly skilled individuals, a continuation of the previous trend, and working-class labor migrants and economic refugees, often with lower education levels and less transferable skills than previous emigrants.

In the year 2000 alone, Iranians submitted 34,343 asylum applications, the highest rate since 1986. Unlike the two previous waves, this wave was caused by Iran's economic crisis, deteriorating human rights record, diminishing opportunities, and the enduring tension between reformist and conservative factions. The countries hosting the largest populations of Iranian refugees were Germany (39,904), the United States (20,541), Iraq (9,500), the United Kingdom (8,044), the Netherlands (6,597), and Canada (6,508).

Whether they found themselves in the aforementioned countries or elsewhere, the members of Iran’s diaspora and their offspring often discovered ways to maintain ties to Iran. Sensory memory has been of particular significance for my Iranian friends here in the United States. I asked them to share stories of the sights, sounds, and smells that remind them of Iran and bridge the gap between them

and their vatan: “The smell of dry sabzi. When I was in Turkey over the summers and my relatives would return from Iran, I would always know which luggage was theirs from the distinct sabzi smell.”

— Nina Orellana “Scattered high-rises and dusty mountains take me back to the view of the Tehran skyline I would gaze at as a child from the window of my grandparents’ apartment.”

— Negin Shahiar “The smell of gasoline.”

— Omid Zargham

“The adhan. I heard it in San Francisco during the 'No Ban No Wall' Protest. It was a very profound moment for me.”

— Saalar Aghili “Air pollution.”

— Arman Arbab

“Persian music I used to listen to as a kid.

I listen to it to remember the friends and family I left behind back in Iran.”

— Roham Ghotbi “The smell of Yazdi shirini.”

— Donna Fotoohi “Kabob on zoghal and the smoke that comes off of it.”

— Afshar Hassani “Footballs. When we were kids, we'd play in the streets and use our neighbors’ parking lot doors as goals. We’d take the cheap plastic balls and put one into the other to keep them from tearing. If that thing hit you, you'd get a huge bruise. My pants would rip all the time from doing sliding tackles on the asphalt.”

— Danial Golforoush “Packing for road trips. It reminds me of jamming ourselves into a tiny car to go traveling everywhere in Iran.”

— Azin Mirzaagha PERSPECTIVE 15

KINDNESS IN CULTURE Naseem Ghasemiyeh The second the doorbell of my grandparents’ house in central Tehran rang, my grandma grabbed her chador (cloak-like covering) in one hand, a bag of dast nakhordeh (untouched) food collected from the wedding we had just returned from in the other, and asked me to bring the bag of meeveh (fruit) downstairs.

As I struggled slowly down the steps, feet halfway in a pair of dampayees (sandals), my grandma had somehow gotten herself and all the food she was holding down the stairs and to the door, quickly opening it so as not to keep the person waiting.

Behind the door stood a woman.

Weary and middle-aged with a dull, limp chador gathered under her arm, she leaned slightly against the wall. When the door opened, she quickly stood up.

She and my grandmother exchanged their salaams (hellos), and I was introduced. I expected my grandma to hand her the food and go back upstairs, but upon seeing the bags of food, the woman outside began to cry.

“Tahereh Khanom (Miss Tahereh), thank you so much,” she choked out, and my grandmother reached out a hand.

“What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” my grandma asked her.

And she began to tell us of her troubles, and her ailments, and her children, and their ailments. And as she spoke, I watched my grandma too begin to tear up.

16 PERSPECTIVE

I’ve never been at such a loss for words, but as I watched these two women crying together, I saw my grandmother’s incredible empathy for the woman on the steps in front of her as she earnestly tried her best to comfort her.

It didn’t matter that her eldest son was upstairs visiting from America for only two more days. It didn’t matter that the berenj (rice) on the stove was probably becoming shefteh (overcooked) at that very moment.

And it certainly didn’t matter that it was cold outside and all she was wearing for warmth was her thin, floral, indoor chador. My grandma stood there on the steps and listened to this woman’s heartaches and hardships, occasionally reaching out, holding her hand, doing whatever she could in that moment.

What I saw that night is what I know of Iran.

My grandma saving untouched food from parties and venues to bring to those who need it, the people selling ab talebi (melon smoothies) on the street, willing to fill it to the brim if it was a hot day and you looked like you could really use it, and the general feeling of good will of the men and women haggling over the price of aloo (dried plums) at the bazaar.

There is a feeling of friendliness among the people, which is unique to Iran, and it’s noticeable in these little things.

My uncle, phoning the highway

patrol office to ask about traffic on the way to Qom greets the person on the other end of the line with a “khasteh nabasheed.”

Translated directly, this means, “don’t be tired,” but in Farsi it carries a meaning closer to, “Thank you for all your hard work.” Although minor, and part of everyday speech in Iran, the idea of recognizing the humanity of the people you’re dealing with has been lost in many other places in the world.

Another time, driving through Darband in the hills of Tehran, a man walked by the open window of our taxicab and asked if any of us wanted any watermelon. He passed in three shotoree pieces (cut with the rind) and walked away, never asking for any money. As we kept driving we saw there was a group of people cutting up watermelons on the side of the street, amidst tents of vendors, passing out pieces for a celebration taking place that night.

Although these are isolated incidents, there is an indescribable feeling of being on the streets in Iran.

Everyone is engaged in what is happening and people banter and help each other out. My grandmother has been delivering food to the hungry for 45 years and this cultural generosity is one of the things that makes being Persian so incredible.

Although the country is far from perfect, as a Persian growing up in America, it made me proud to say I was from Iran.

T Identity

and Art: A Collective Narrative Charlotte Laurence

Last January, President Trump signed an executive order preventing refugees from entering the country for 120 days and barring immigrants from seven nations for three months. Iran was one of these proscribed nations. To the backdrop of legal appeals questioning the constitutionality of the order, a groundswell of acute uncertainty has been dredged up within the Iranian-American community. The administration’s travel restrictions have also pari-passu evoked a proportionate resilience in our Iranian community, most viscerally through the artistic media.

American art has always been the refuge of its immigrants— such is its power to speak no matter the accent or language proficiency. One such voice, raised earlier this year, was Beyond the Ban. This exhibition, hosted by the Susan Ellis Gallery, celebrates this dynamic tradition of diversity in American art by showcasing the Iranian artist community.

Among those represented is Nahid Hagigat. Her prints (shown here) speak to the experience of women in Iran during the years antecedent to the Revolution. This photo-etching incorporates elements that evoke the climate of repression and suspicion that permeated society in the mid-1970s. In the context of today’s social and political milieu, her work continues to illuminate the contemporary struggles that Iranian women face, and underscores the larger tradition of reliance embodied by Iranian women. Among many other notables on display, Shirin Neshat and her work in film, video, and photography is emblematic of the rich stylistic and thematic art being produced today by the Iranian artists living in the U.S. The show includes one of her photographs, which addresses the religious and cultural challenges women face in Islamic societies. Another featured artist, Nicky Nodjoumi, is known for his massive narrative paintings, featuring characters who grapple with political and societal unrest.

Art notwithstanding, our modern sensibility for communication is for knowledge that equates with facts and logical frameworks. Long before Greeks persuaded the Western World that we needed to look to an external “language” of logos and reason in order to ask “the right” questions and “find” the right answers, man had been looking inward

for understanding and equanimity, with ethos. This is why art was mankind’s earliest extant form of narrative expression and incidentally why we deem the eyes to be “the window of the soul.” So, while we may not all, in unison, grasp the subtleties and intricacies of how policies like travel restrictions affect our society not just corporeally but psychologically— attacking and poisoning our collective memory— art as a medium can express these in a vernacular that requires only the common seed of humanity for translation. Beyond the Ban frees us from the solipsistic trick that denies the other past in the face of the present, and reminds us that most of us were strangers to this shore at one time by sharing our collective immigrant experience— our collective American memory.

It feels now like the world is more stochastic than we would like, the abyss a little bit closer, the divisions— to paraphrase George W. Bush— “deeper than that which binds us together.” Now is a time to be more cognizant of how we all translate our collective “immigrant” experience—all that we share in harmony, and all that we disavow in discord.

North Korea, the Iran Nuclear Deal, Charlottesville, statues, hackers all conspire to confound and confuse. When words fail, and logic and facts are weaponized, perhaps we should turn inward for respite— to a simpler language that reflects our unspoken truths. The exhibition at the Susan Ellis gallery and the artistic community it represents speak eloquently in a uniquely Iranian tongue, giving us a small window into our collective soul.

PERSPECTIVE 17

a poem by AZIN MIRZAAGHA

Your being here Shows me the beauty that there is in life

Your being here Puts me at ease in the darkest times

Your existence Is my escape from all sadness in the world

My laughs The light in my eyes Come to life when I am with you

My love The light of my eyes What meaning is there in the world without you?

Stay here so that I can live

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FOREIGN TO MY HOMELAND Yaron Moaddel

If you hopped on a flight to Iran right now, what would be the first thing you would want to do?

Would you go visit family, indulge in the authentic food, or visit Iran’s ancient monuments? The only answer here is “all of the above.” However, for many young Americans of Iranian descent such as myself, it is difficult to visualize the reality of everyday life in Iran because we have not been there. Sure we have seen photos, and maybe some videos in the media— which are often not exactly the most accurate representations— but the core of Iranian culture truly lies within the stories that my parents and grandparents have repeatedly told me throughout the years. I like to imagine that Iran is very similar to America, with shopping malls, gardens, and an exotic nightlife culture that is solely unique to Iran. I recently asked my mother what she loved most about Iran, and she told me that she misses “the beautiful mountains, cities, pistachios, apples, and especially the citrus in Northern Iran. Every city has its own unique set of arts and crafts, so you’ll find more hand-knit items in the humid North near the sea.

My favorite memory is going to the North to see the waterfalls and the jungles that are reminiscent of Big Bear and Hawaii.”

I would hear from my elders in dohrehs (friendly gatherings) about how I can go anywhere in Isfahan or Tehran and I would always get either high-quality chelo kabob or ghormeh sabzi, two Persian dishes that everyone regardless of race or ethnicity should taste at least once in their lifetime. Persian cuisine is another topic about which I could write an entire book, so we’ll save that for another time (special shout-out to bademjoon).

The capital city of Tehran is like many other major cities worldwide, and with the population

rising dramatically over the past few decades from 28.5 million in 1970 to 80 million in 2016 according to the World Bank, there will be more Persians in the world to share their beautiful culture. From what I’ve seen in images and old family videos, Tehran is a city with beautiful skyscrapers towering high with breathtaking mountains in the background. At night when all the lights are lit, some may say it bears a striking resemblance to Los Angeles. Despite this, Iran receives more than its fair share of snow in the winter, as it can get up to the mid-30s Fahrenheit, specifically in the north and northwestern regions. This turns Iran into a gorgeous winter wonderland.

People always tell me that if I ever go to Iran, I should always bring a couple rugs back with me. Iran is known for making the highest quality rugs in the history of the world, and it has definitely earned that reputation. The rug stores and bazaars of Iran are unlike anywhere else in the world, which adds to the aesthetic of Iran. On another note, I think it would be interesting to see foreigners introduced to tarof culture, and noting the implications of how far generosity can extend to. It would be hilarious to witness an authentic tarof exchange between merchants and consumers in the famous bazaars and farmers markets that surpass even our beloved Trader Joe’s. After going through countless old scrapbooks and watching videos of the country on YouTube, I can proudly say that I will eventually take the trip to Iran to see where my culture originated. There is only one true way to indulge and immerse yourself into a culture, and that is to be there in the physical form. I aspire to visit the land my ancestors called home for centuries and look forward to an experience of a lifetime.

PERSPECTIVE 19

The Forgotten Conversation Ali Setayesh The Safavid Empire is considered one of the greatest empires of Iranian history. It’s credited with building Esfahan and creating a national identity for Iranians. However, its most enduring contribution is often overlooked. This great empire forced Iranians to convert from Sunni to Shiite Islam. The main difference between these two branches is that after the Prophet Muhammad’s death, Shiites chose to follow his son-in-law Ali while Sunnis followed Abu Bakr. This led to differences in practices and beliefs. The conversion is disregarded by the Iranian government, which merely claims that the Safavid Empire was the first empire to establish Shiism as the main denomination, leaving most Iranians unaware of their past. In fact, a lot of tension remains between Shiite and Sunni Muslims. Some Iranian Shiites consider Sunnis to be as distant to them as they do those of Jewish and Christian faiths. The root of this tension traces back to the Safavid period in the sixteenth century.

The conversion from Sunni to Shiite Islam is perhaps one of the most significant events in history because it changed Iranians’ perception of government and distinguished Iran from other Muslim countries.

Before analyzing its impacts, however, one must look at why this conversion occurred in the first place. Although Shah Ismail, the first Safavid king, was a devout Shiite, the main reason for his desire to turn Iran into a Shiite country was more political than spiritual. At the time, the Ottoman Empire was a superpower in the region and an imminent threat to the newly established Iranian government. The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire had declared himself the spiritual leader of all Sunni Muslims and had support throughout the Muslim world. In order to cut the sympathy of Iranian citizens to the Sultan and form a united country, Shah Ismail decided to convert the population to Shiite Islam.

By doing so, he separated the people under his realm from their neighbor, essentially keeping them from pledging allegiance to anyone else.

Nevertheless, converting people to a new denomination was not easy.

Thousands of people died defending their faith and many others immigrated to neighboring countries to seek refuge from persecution. On the other hand, many Shiites from Sunni majority countries immigrated to Iran after Shah Ismail invited them to the country. Many of these people were theologians who taught Shiite practices to the local people.

Gradually, these conflicts were resolved and Iranians forgot their Sunni past.

Today, Iran is one of the only Shiite majority nations and has become a champion for Shiites across the globe. It frequently supports Shiite governments in Lebanon, Iraq, and Yemen. Many of the strongest mi-

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litias in the Middle East are formed of Shiites trained by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, one of the most prestigious armed forces in the world. These Shiite militias often impact not only their country’s but also their region’s political and social structures. A prime example of such a militia is Hezbollah, which is in Lebanon. This militia has become so strong over the last thirty years that it has essentially replaced the Lebanese military, protecting Lebanon from Israel and more recently ISIS. Since its creation, the Shiites of Lebanon, who had faced decades of oppression by Sunnis and Christians, have gained huge influence in their country and are receiving equal rights.

The power that Iran has gained from being Shiite, however, does not come without a price. Saudi Arabia, which is another power in the Middle East, has consistently confronted Iran in multiple Middle Eastern countries, and although Saudi Arabia has largely been unsuccessful, it has hurt Iran by lowering oil prices. Last year, the Saudi-Iranian rivalry escalated to the point where Saudi Arabia closed its embassy. Such conflicts have caused nothing but damage to the Middle East.

Conversion to Shiism has not only shaped Iran’s international policy; its domestic policy is the result of Shiite philosophy as well. The individual perceived with the highest regard in the Iranian government is the supreme leader or velayat-e-faqih. The idea of a ruler who can lead both politically and spiritually comes from Shiism. Shiites believe that such a ruler is necessary until the 12th Imam returns. Had Iran remained Sunni, such a role would probably have never existed since Sunni Islam tends to separate clericalism from government. This means that the Islamic Republic could have never been established.

Iran’s conversion to Shiism is by far one of the most significant events in its history. Without Shiism it would be impossible to predict what Iran and the Middle East as a whole would look like today.

A Path to Cultural Appreciation Cameron Salehi

“Eideh shomah mobarak!” yells my whole family in unison as a Persian broadcast station on our TV indicates that the clock has struck twelve in Iran, marking the arrival of the Persian New Year, or Nowruz.

It is March 20, 2012, and the majority of my extended family and family friends have gathered at my grandparents’ home in Woodland Hills, California to celebrate the significant Iranian holiday. As the new Persian year commences, each of my family members grants the other the best of wishes. With children playing and screaming and adults conversing and laughing, I sit back and take in the rowdy scene. Looking back on this moment, I remember experiencing a strange feeling— the bizarre notion that, while I was part of a family with strong cultural values, I simultaneously felt secluded on the larger perspective. Reflecting on that moment, I now realize that, while I viewed Nowruz as wonderful, it oftentimes felt somewhat odd to me as a child because I was the only Persian in my friend group; thus, undergoing experiences that were seemingly exclusive to my ethnic culture sometimes made me feel out of place, at least in my personal outlook on the American society in which I lived.

Growing up, I had mixed feelings about my culture and idiosyncrasies that were a result of my “Persian-ness.” While I enjoyed and appreciated some aspects of my Persian heritage as a child, such as homemade Persian food and social gatherings, I felt dubious about other aspects. For instance, I often received critical stares from friends and peers at school when I

would speak to my parents on the phone in Farsi. In elementary school, I was also sometimes unnerved at being the only child to bring food from home— especially unconventional foods, such as ghormeh sabzi and khoresht gheymeh, which turned heads with their unusual odors. Many a time, components of me and my lifestyle that were shaped by my Persian heritage made me feel out of place in society as a child, more explicitly in school and among peers. Often, I would feel isolated because I spoke and acted differently from others around me.

Experiences like these ultimately shaped my childhood view of my Persian heritage into an ambivalent one, generating a generally negative outlook on my ethnic background.

As I grew older, I began to better understand and recognize this ambivalence to my Persian heritage that had developed over time. After arriving at this understanding, I then pondered whether it was fair for me to feel the way I did about my heritage. “Maybe I’m not as secluded as I think I am,” I thought to myself. “Maybe others share some of the same values as I do.” While I had friends from diverse ethnic backgrounds as a child, I never questioned them about their heritages and cultural backgrounds. Potentially, this could have been because most of my friends, unlike me, did not outwardly express components of their ethnic heritages.

Reaching young adulthood, however, I began bringing up this topic more often with my friends and peers to learn more about their cultural idiosyncrasies, primarily in an effort to better understand my place in the society in which I lived.

While speaking with one of my closest friends since elementary school, who is of Chinese origin, I asked him what values he and his family upheld as Chinese-Americans. He then proceeded to explain to me that cultural celebrations, such as the Chinese New Year, and family gatherings are venerated by him and his family, and that the same held true for the majority of Chinese-Americans whom he knew. Furthermore, he described how his family placed an emphasis on respect for the elderly. While listening to my friend speak, I began to smile upon realizing that I was not a cultural outlier. Just like me, my Chinese-American friend cherished similar family and social values—

values that I long thought set me far apart from my peers.

After conversing with that friend of mine, I decided to expand my inquiries about social and cultural values to other friends and peers, both old and new.

Enthusiastic and intrigued, I sat down to speak about ethnic values with peers who were of various backgrounds, including those of Indian, Pakistanian, Korean, and Indonesian origins. Through such conversations, I grasped what cultural values my ethnically diverse peers upheld and, more importantly, realized that a number of those values were shared by me in regards to my Persian heritage. Ranging from a fondness for traditional art and music to an affection for cultural ceremonies and cuisine, multiple values were homogeneously cherished by my peers and I, despite our different backgrounds.

It was through these interactions that my outlook on my stance in society began to shift, transforming me from a boy who used to be apprehensive about expressing his “Persian-ness” to a young adult beginning to cherish and take pride in belonging to such a rich culture.

Reflecting on the past, I now understand the significance of sharing and expressing one’s values and beliefs with others. Through doing so, one may gain appreciation for others’ ideas and ways of life while simultaneously strengthening one’s regard for his or her personal and cultural values. For certain, this has allowed me to open my eyes to others’ cultural viewpoints and has provided me with a better perspective on my Persian culture while also enabling me to appreciate it more fully.

PERSPECTIVE 21

DORSA DERAKHSHANI: MAKING MOVES

Kayla Fathi

Chess is traditionally considered a board game that exemplifies the strategic skills of its players. Despite the fact that the chess pieces vary in name from King to Bishop, politics are not actually expected to be a part of the game; that is, of course, unless you are a member of the Iranian national team. Sports in Iran have long been affected by the region’s strict cultural norms and political stance. As the head of the Iranian Chess Federation, Mehrdad Pahlevanzadeh explains Iran’s national interests hold priority over all other matters.

At times, political undercurrents between opponents from countries that do not share official relations have surfaced over the chessboard as well. This is highlighted in Pahlevanzadeh’s decision to bar fifteen-year-old Borna Derakhshani from the national team due to the fact that he played an Israeli opponent. It is on record that Iran does not recognize Israel as a state, which translates into its policy of not competing against Israeli athletes.

Due to standards set by domestic law, Pahlevanzadeh also barred Borna’s sister, Dorsa Derakhshani, a nineteen year old international chess master, from his team when she competed at the Tradewise Gibraltar Chess Festival with a headband pushing back her long hair rather than a traditional hijab.

Although Dorsa has been making international headlines quite recently, the root of her controversy can be traced back for years. In the year 2000, Derakhshani made her premiere on a children’s TV show as a two-year-old who would read children’s

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books to the audience, and continued to appear on television regularly for a few years. She captured the audience’s attention as the remarkable two-year-old who finished first grade and went on to finish the fourth grade by the age of four. Her time as a child prodigy on Iranian television came to an abrupt end when she refused to wear a headscarf upon turning six.

Dorsa’s success in chess came as a surprise not only to those surrounding her, but herself as well. She describes her first win at the Iranian National Youth Under-8 Tournament saying, “I came out of nowhere, and I won the tournament. I remember that everybody was wearing a scarf, even under 8. But I wore a princess dress and a tiara.” Dorsa has gone on to win three straight gold medals at the 2012, 2013, and 2014 Asian Junior Championships, and as far as numerical chess ratings go, Dorsa is at the top for the majority of worldwide rankings. She left Tehran and moved to Barcelona in 2015 after she received an invitation by a chess club that also supported her studies. By 2016, she was awarded the title “International Master” by the World Chess Federation, and it was only one year later she had received the news that she is no longer welcome to play for the Iranian national women’s team.

The loss of Derakshani's talent representing Iran highlights a much larger pattern occurring in Iranian society in recent years. The brain drain is defined by the vast numbers of brilliant and talented individuals that have left Iran to pursue

opportunities in other countries, mainly North America and Europe. The reasons to take their talent elsewhere range from situations similar to that of Borna or Dorsa where foreign policy or domestic law gets involved, to taking advantage of opportunities not yet available in their native country. Iran’s Minister of Science and Technology, Reza Faraji Dana, has noted, “Every year, about 150,000 of our elite emigrate from Iran, costing our economy $150 billion.” Attempts have been made to plug the so-called brain drain through economic incentives. For those who emigrate, for example, anyone who receives a government scholarship to study abroad can have that loan written off if they return to Iran to work for a certain number of years, but that has only been effective for a small percentage. To really get to the root of the issue, some argue changes would need to be made in a wider context both in terms of government and education system standards.

The saying “when one door closes, another opens” certainly rings true for the Derakhshani siblings. The year of 2017 has brought many changes and opportunities for the young international chess masters: Borna Derakhshani is currently attending school in England, and Dorsa Derakhshani has moved to the United States where she attends St. Louis University and plays chess for the school’s team.

She has her sights set on achieving the Grandmaster title, and will continue her beloved sport of chess playing for Team USA—headband, headscarf, or tiara optional.

lost in translation DORNA MOVASSEGHI In addition to 23 of my 46 chromosomes, my mother, Sharareh, also provided me with my sense of Iranian identity. Much like the genes that evolved when shared with me, the cultural and ethnic facets bestowed upon my existence were not mere reflections. The experience of being an Iranian within the confines of the United States has been incredibly dynamic, and that very volatility, which was present four decades ago, shall persist. Discussing the beauties and burdens of childhood with my mother elucidated the paradox that less ignorance bred more ignorance.

My mother came to America when she was thirteen in 1976. Her older sister Gity, and older brother Farshid, were the only kin she could lay claim to in the new, foreign territory of Ocala, Florida.

All that existed was illuminated by the rays of the sun or by the screens of the television; for a country like Iran, when referenced, only yielded a furrowed brow amongst my mother’s new peers.

Well, where is that? The Middle East.

So you rode camels? Do you know what a TV is? The incessant questioning became seemingly bearable for her when contrasted with the actual academic portion of going to school.

In the midst of Ocala, a place where skin darker than the peach-colored crayon garnered a second look, teachers struggled— when they cared to— in aiding my mother. Her desk was crammed with the presence of two great, ominous dictionaries meant to translate from Farsi to English, and from English to Farsi.

Mahdar, she would tell me, by the time I finished translating the first question on my biology test, half the time had gone by.

ESL didn’t exist. Many of them couldn’t care less that Sha Na Na was behind. Sha

Na Na— an American rock ‘n’ roll band from the 70s became my mother’s new name, as her classmates found difficulty in pronouncing Sharareh. Her own identity and education, slipping through the cracks.

Aside from my name being the punchline of some ‘Doorknob’ joke, I could not relate to the deeply alienating adventure, if you will, that my mother had undergone during her early teens. The world had not yet come to witness the pivotal moment in history— the Iranian Revolution and all that would be birthed from it. The year of 1979 came to harbor unfathomable difficulties for the Iranian-American community— which encompassed my sixteen-yearold mother— not to mention those who still resided back in Iran. Violence bled through the streets and anger clutched the souls of those who felt so wronged, so violated by Iran. Where the hell are our people?! What did you do to them?!

The threats. The chasing. The beatings.

It was then, Dorna, that they knew Iran when they heard it. They would say it before you did. The questions were no longer about camels.

I stared in the mirror at sixteen, flashing my braces-laden teeth, yearning for the day they would be removed. My angst rooted in something intangible, the feeling of being oh so misunderstood. Bodies were not littered in the streets of my country. It was not ripping itself into a newly perceived freedom.

No. The news is not saturated and overwhelmed with the letters I-r-a-n. But at sixteen, my peers were raised by those who had lived through the times with my mother. The legacy of Iran had been tortured and mutilated, and now, somehow, associated with 9/11. Those who

shrieked Give us our people back! were informing their children, They took our people. I did not need a dictionary to complete my exams, but rather one to define terrorist. It isn’t an Iranian. The ignorance my mother had encountered at thirteen metamorphosed to an almost surreal paradise.

The disparity between our stories at the age of nineteen is further characterized by an innate lack of opportunity, rather than the identification as an Iranian-American. Granted, however, that the absence of possibility could be wholly traced back to the revolution and the deterioration of amicable relations between the United States and Iran.

Nevertheless, at nineteen, my mother had only been relieved of the symptoms of the Hostage Crisis a year, and the remnants of such ugly emotions had not stopped radiating. The discrimination she faced cannot be fairly compared to that which I continue to face. There is no consistency in the ethnically degrading remarks towards me, and the degree to which they are made is not nearly as belligerent. Make no mistake, the plight of the Iranian-American has not been resolved. Growing up in this country with that title will be a perpetual challenge, but as history is forged into the soil of the Earth each day, these challenges shall transmute for the coming generations. The world knows of Iran now, Ocala knows of it too, and yet the sheer ignorance pertaining to it endures, lingering on poisonous lips.

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IRAN’S NEW WAVE OF POP MUSIC Sean Adibi Mass street dancing in the Islamic Republic isn’t exactly a common occurrence.

However, as recorded by YouTube user “Freedom Messenger,” sometimes significant political events— like Hassan Rouhani’s 2017 re-election— combined with the sweeping vocals of Hamed Homayoun’s hit single “Mardome Shahr,” or “People of the City,” can get folks out and dancing in the city streets of Mashhad.1 Homayoun— a 34-year old, Shiraz-born, former engineer— who has been described as integrating aspects of pop music with traditional Iranian blends, is unique among artists in his ability to appeal to both homegrown and overseas Iranian listeners.2 Upon the releases of his first singles in the spring of 2016, his dance songs attracted a large audience across the Islamic Republic. On Radio Javan, a U.S.-based Iranian music streaming service, Homayoun’s tracks have accumulated over 300 million listens.3 In response, countless Homayoun covers and dance renditions have been posted throughout both American and Iranian social media circles.

While naturally much of Homayoun’s success stems from the sheer catchiness of his Western-influenced fusion beats, he has been able to cultivate a significant following due to the differences between his positive, pop-y motifs and the much more somber, melancholic lyrics of previous homegrown hits.

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Contemporary domestic artists typically sing slower-paced songs in order to comply with the regulations of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance. In order to ensure songs are in accordance with the Ministry’s “[promotion of] moral values based of faith and piety,” many artists avoid dance music entirely.4 Homayoun’s music, with its poetic, yet uncontroversial lyrics, has made the Ministry’s censorship cut.

As 19-year-old Roya Amjadi of San Jose, California, said, “He was able to be unique. His songs provide hope, happiness, and positive energy through simple, yet traditional songs. Everyone can listen to Homayoun: young or old, of all ages, from all over the world.”5 However, Homayoun initially received mixed reception from overseas listeners, who were surprised to see the Islamic Republic developing its own dance music scene to compete with the likes of diasporic singers Arash, Hossein Tohi, Kamran & Hooman, or Sasy Mankan. A Western-influenced, Iran-based fusion artist who had somehow been able to placate domestic censors was quite unexpected.

In a televised interview on the Iranian-based program Shadtarinha, Mohsen Rajabpour, a producer who much of Homayoun’s success can be attributed to, explained his methodology: “We transformed ancient Iranian texts into a form simple for the average listener to under-

stand. His song’s easy comprehensibility and traditional rhythms have made him successful.”6 Homayoun’s approach certainly seems to have worked; his release of dance singles such as “Sheydaei” and “Chatre Khis” have led to unprecedented social media explosions both in Iran and overseas.

Over a year later, “Chatre Khis” has received nearly 45 million listens and currently holds the title of most popular song on Radio Javan. All of Homayoun’s other tracks have received dozens of millions of listens as well.7 Mohammad Khanbeygi, a 28-year-old resident of Tehran, suggested that Homayoun’s stellar popularity could be attributed to repeated plays throughout major events like weddings and parties.

“This [dance music] trend . . . has received quite good feedback from the public. Although [Homayoun] isn’t the first singer [to produce] legal dance music in Iran, he is the first solely-dance artist who Americans listen to as well,” Khanbeygi said.8 Homayoun might be the first, but he is surely not the last. While his January 2017 album Dobare Eshgh skyrocketed to the top of Radio Javan’s charts, a newcomer, 30-year-old civil engineer Behnam Bani, released two dance singles— “Ashegham Karde” and “Akhmato Va Kon”— to widespread acclaim and social media

buzz, with over 130 million listens on Radio Javan over the summer.9 By following the same styles of pop-traditional fusion that Homayoun pioneered, Bani has been riding Homayoun’s dance wave in recent months.

Perhaps Khanbeygi puts it best: “A wonder lasts but nine days. [Hamed Homayoun] is no exception. His decline in the art scene is even faster than his rise.”10 This author, however, doubts there is anything for Mr. Homayoun to fear. After all, Homayoun’s songs are dance songs, and the people of Iran love to dance. Homayoun hasn’t merely filled a temporary niche for dance music, but has also set a precedent for other Iran-based pop singers to follow. Behnam Bani, among other emerging artists, exemplified this new wave: Islamic Republic-approved dance music that a wide variety of Iranian demographic groups can enjoy.

On October 21, 2017, producer Mohsen Rajabpour announced to the Islamic Republic’s Mehr News Agency that Homayoun has held 239 concerts throughout Iran and Europe in the past six months, potentially setting a world record for hosting the most concerts among any artist.

“This is a very significant figure, so regardless of the ultimate title he receives, the past year should be considered the ‘Tsunami of Hamed Homayoun,’” Rajabpour said.11

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A Censorship of Love Leila Zarifi

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In Shariar Mandanipour’s novel, Censoring an Iranian Love Story, the author makes clear that an Iranian love story can hardly be written at all, as it is pitted against the censorship of love. Censorship appears to be the “co-author” of the book, deliberately omitting offensive phrases and replacing them with politically appropriate phrases. The love story of Dara and Sara cannot be told naturally, but rather Mandanipour provides authorial, uncensored commentary that is literally crossed out on the pages. The symbolism of this piece further illustrates the harsh censorship in Iran, both in literature and love.

The conflict between marrying who you love and following the tradition of Islam is still one largely prevalent in Iran today. Under the strict enforcement of Sharia law, dating is considered illegal in Iran. Despite the strict censorship, many, namely the younger generations, have discovered loopholes in the rules enforced by religious authorities. With dating applications like Tinder banned in Iran, the young turn to other outlets in an effort to follow passion or simply deviate from enforcement. The emergence of messaging apps like Telegram have made dating culture possible in Iran. Members can join certain channels based on shared interests and are able to discuss a range of topics, a type of societal interaction made difficult by the government.

In recent years, the state has taken measures to improve the growing number of divorce rates, a majority of which are occurring in the under-30 age group. The aim is to motivate people to find a spouse, a large part of traditional Islam. With the rise of the media and growing access to internet among Iranians, the authorities have struggled to grapple with the emergence of new forms of dating websites disguised as “spouse-finding” sites. In response, the government’s launch of staterun Internet dating sites like Teyban aim to “solve the problem of marriage amongst young people,” as stated by Mahmoud Golzari. Users on Teyban enter basic details, as well as information about their family, but do not include personal interests. Additionally, candidates are unable to view each other's profiles or photos, an act deemed immodest by religious authorities. The government, then, matches couples they believe are compatible. The state-run site is an effort to curtail activity from existing dating sites in Iran, of which about 350 exist unofficially.

Another trend that has grown common among the young in Iran is ‘white marriage,’ a form of cohabitation between young couples who live together without exchanging vows. This practice is deemed controversial by religious authorities, as men and women must register a marital union under Sharia law.

White marriage also appeals to younger couples for its economic appeal. Traditional weddings in Iran can grow to be extremely expensive for young Iranians, as well as the cost of mehrieh, or dowries, causing them to stray away from pursuing marriage. It is also a way for young Iranians to date without being bound by the weight of marriage. Couples often memorize each other’s family trees and wear fake wedding bands to conceal the practice from police. The alternative to traditional marriage is siqeh, a temporary marriage under Islamic law, which can last anywhere from a few hours to a few decades. Siqehs have become another outlet for Iranians to circumvent the binding marriage laws, which do not allow for much interaction prior to marriage.

It is uncertain whether the future of Iran will lead to greater freedoms, especially in choosing a spouse, the timing of marriage, and whether one wants to be married to begin with. Regardless of Islamic law, the people continue to find loopholes around the censorship surrounding their lives. Like in Mandanipour’s novel, Iranians are stuck in a paradox of passion and repression.

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