tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14887205296959066632024-03-13T06:24:50.200-07:00Deconstructing HairyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-72665883597513303782009-06-20T00:55:00.000-07:002013-05-04T14:43:08.011-07:00Dirt and Dust? or a Sea of Green?<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygfxNgZHI/AAAAAAAAEk4/ezBImlQ0dvo/s1600-h/n9806998_7267.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349326925055681650" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygfxNgZHI/AAAAAAAAEk4/ezBImlQ0dvo/s400/n9806998_7267.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<br />
I wrote this piece for The National (Abu Dhabi newspaper), it came out in yesterday's paper<br />
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http://www.thenational.ae/article/20090619/REVIEW/706189942/-1/OPINION<br />
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Ahmadinejad referred to them as "dirt and dust" but they took the insult and re-appropriated it. Yes, we are dirt and dust, they say. Watch this storm we breed. <br />
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You can not dangle the word "democracy" in front of people, and expect that they don't demand it.<br />
<br />
During the day they take to the streets in "silent" rally. "Turn off your TVs", turn off the lies. "Silence will win against bullets" their banners say, what they cannot utter. In the night, they cry their anger and passion from the satellite strewn rooftops and window sills, where dust still collects. And the ants continue their march to my pale blue bathroom sink.<br />
<br />
Last night, until dawn, the mass call to prayer "Allah Akbar" was louder and more powerful than all preceding. It is a call to prayer, but also a call saying Listen! Listen to the injustice.<br />
<br />
Today there is to be yet another sea of green in the broken streets of Iran's cities - despite the leader's recent callous, and threatening statement.<br />
<br />
We are all praying for our brothers and sisters in Iran, that they may keep their strength throughout this battle for justice, and for their voices to be heard.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygggTVzeI/AAAAAAAAElQ/Zxm-qcgyuHE/s1600-h/where+is+my+vote+black.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349326937696620002" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygggTVzeI/AAAAAAAAElQ/Zxm-qcgyuHE/s400/where+is+my+vote+black.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 105px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjyggYiGfGI/AAAAAAAAElI/hnRoAn8vIYU/s1600-h/4740_116512455198_612990198_3279018_950999_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349326935611047010" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjyggYiGfGI/AAAAAAAAElI/hnRoAn8vIYU/s400/4740_116512455198_612990198_3279018_950999_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"We are Dirt and Dust?!"</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjyggIjxjLI/AAAAAAAAElA/_GYOkpd96uQ/s1600-h/Silence+Rally+III+342.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349326931323096242" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjyggIjxjLI/AAAAAAAAElA/_GYOkpd96uQ/s400/Silence+Rally+III+342.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Silence"</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygfhOm9dI/AAAAAAAAEkw/8ymOmhpPEKI/s1600-h/4996_516314646383_223201244_753664_4116973_s.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349326920765339090" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjygfhOm9dI/AAAAAAAAEkw/8ymOmhpPEKI/s400/4996_516314646383_223201244_753664_4116973_s.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 130px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 100px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Peace</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-23688261315566520172009-06-12T23:17:00.000-07:002013-05-04T14:53:58.584-07:00Death to Potatoes<span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/may/14/potatoes-iran-election-protest">Potatoes for Votes?</a> or Angels?</span>Was this a true act in populism, or a complete sham?<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></span><br />
So I guess those "rumors" that we were supposed to ignore are that the elections have been rigged. Now many Rumors are indeed running around.........<br />
<br />
Mobile phone txt messaging service was cut off last night, many websites and newspapers blocked...the reformists are disputing the outcome. Now we wait to see how far they take the dispute, and how the people will stand behind them - unfortunately it is much more difficult to take a stand in defiance, than in peace. I've heard that Moussavi is supposed to speak in a few hours, but so far we can't get much info from National TV here. <br />
<br />
Everyone is shocked, so far eerily quietly and grave. A sort of sad humor lingers around. I've heard some mumblings displaying the sudden change in mood:<br />
<br />
"People were tricked into coming out and voting. It was all planned. The ballot boxess were ready from the beginning."<br />
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"Democracy is a lie."<br />
<br />
"Everyone voted for Moussavi!! ...but the 'angels' came and voted too (for A.N.)!"<br />
<br />
and so on...<br />
<br />
So it seems, the people came out, for their country, in an attempt to make a change, peacefully and within the law. They voted in record numbers, people who had never voted in their lives or at least in the life of this regime, in Iran and around the world. Only for this to happen. <br />
<br />
Some good updates here at <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/blog/2009/jun/12/iran-middleeast">Guardian's live blog</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-8177744743514549952009-06-12T07:46:00.000-07:002009-06-12T23:15:19.087-07:00Election DayYesterday a woman who works as a nanny told us that if she voted, she would vote for Ahmadinejad. When asked why, the best answer she could give was that he was President for 4 years, and well that is how it works here. He's been there, and now he knows. Everyone in the room sighed, noooo, that's not true, etc. She said Ahmadinejad is for downtowners (payin shahr) and Moussavi is for uptowners (bala shahr). Again everyone denied this, reminding her that Moussavi also comes from humble background, and has promised not to take back any of the help AN has given recently, but only to make it better.<br /><br />Anyone who says they won't vote is chided by young and old. The elderly say they want to vote for the future of their kids, and the younger kids wish they were old enough to take part in the voting - although they have been quite active in the campaigning.<br /><br />Meanwhile, sitting around the satellite TV, munching on fruit and nuts, people around me recount the most recent jokes over and over, as well as the chants that were circulating, and they sing "Ahmadi bye bye, Ahmadi bye byeee." <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346465635503118178" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 336px; height: 211px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ2Ky__F2I/AAAAAAAAEiw/8b6QNaKL18M/s400/ahmadi.jpg" border="0" /> <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div align="center"><em>"bye byee"</em></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>One example is interesting, but it wont really translate interestingly, but it basically relates Ahmadinejad to street kids or lower class people, and Moussavi to spoiled rich kids.<br /><br />AN fans chant:<br />"Moussavi, kam miyareh<br />Bacheh soosool avardeh."<br /><br />Moussavi fans chant:<br />"Ahmadi, kam miyareh<br />Bache gedah avardeh."<br /><br />Although all campaigning was officially forbidden as of yesterday, there were still youth out late into the night, sneaking peace signs with green laced wrists, and whispering "Moussaviii." In one of my relative's streets, kids parked their cars and danced in the streets, having a full on party.</div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346466517173729330" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 270px; height: 176px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ2-Heo-DI/AAAAAAAAEjI/8364GVvwvdQ/s320/09iran-337.jpg" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346466523515024242" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 292px; height: 178px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ2-fGhc3I/AAAAAAAAEjQ/LnFoMO4hitI/s320/car.jpg" border="0" /><br />In the past days, some people wondered - "Turn on the TV, is there a revolution?" And they get angry when the satellite channels from USA tell them not to vote. Many believe that something will really change, or at least it will be the start of something...<br /><br /><strong>VOTE</strong><br />Today, we went to the polls early. It was already full - there were queues forming even at the earliest possible time, 8am, which is impressive considering the fact that Iranians are usually late for everything.<br /><br />Waiting in line everyone whispered about recent news or things they had overheard, and studied everyone who exited the polling station commenting on who they might have voted for. One man told his wife, as they walked out, "Did you write down AN??" Whispers hissed down the line like a telephone, repeating what they just heard. Everyone brought their own pen - it had even been announced on national TV the night before, to bring along a pen just to be safe. </div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346466526656261458" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 313px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ2-qzc7VI/AAAAAAAAEjo/rIYBdOHexZY/s320/Iran-Election-Day5.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>In one of the news reports earlier today, an election commisioner announced that the "enemies of Iran were not so happy with the impressive turnout, and they are spreading rumors..." He urged people not to believe those rumors, and to continue their support. Who those "enemies" were or what the "rumors" were he did not specify.<br /><br />Otherwise, the mood has been exxageratedly jovial and friendly, with interviewers and interviewees praising their mighty, dear, wonderful. proud country....<br /><br />Millions have already voted, and there is a chance we will beat the record of 1998's 70% turnout.......We just can't wait for the outcome!</div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346466527797310178" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 275px; height: 183px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ2-vDf8uI/AAAAAAAAEjg/BDqRpIKxhzM/s320/iran_elections_mousavi_supporters.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-52302544705106325482009-06-11T00:24:00.000-07:002009-06-20T01:50:55.495-07:00Liar, Liar Pants on fire<div><br /><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8luXneBI/AAAAAAAAEhw/RcuCP_9xeHM/s1600-h/Mousavi-and-Zahra-Rahnavard-Shiraz1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345980113977047058" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 296px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8luXneBI/AAAAAAAAEhw/RcuCP_9xeHM/s400/Mousavi-and-Zahra-Rahnavard-Shiraz1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I recently cut my hair very short. When I first got to Shiraz a few days ago, an auntie of mine told me my face has gotten a bit chubby - now that I am pregnant. My granny said, no it's probably because I cut my hair that my face seems bigger, because I haven't really gained weight yet. My auntie proceeded to tell my how much long hair suits me. Hmm, should I that a compliment? Yes, I should.<br /><br />Beauty is a very important concept in Iran, like the entire Middle East really. Long hair definitely represents beauty for women (you should have seen the looks on the faces when I insisted that the stylist chop it all off). "Why did you cut it?" people ask, as if I had some kind of disease, or was struck briefly mad.<br /><br />Even in the presidential race, beauty has been one issue, for some people at least. Everyone complimented Michelle Obama's most recent outfit, discussing her great but minimalist style. One woman here commented, while watching Moussavi speak, "now that would be a good looking president!" And everyone knows of a certain President whose looks, according to many, has tainted the image of generally good-looking Iranians. From the beginning of his presidency jokes about his ugly looks have been prolific.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC9vHlTpKI/AAAAAAAAEiY/rf1TOg8inBA/s1600-h/ahmadinejad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345981374875804834" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 205px; cursor: pointer; height: 182px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC9vHlTpKI/AAAAAAAAEiY/rf1TOg8inBA/s400/ahmadinejad.jpg" border="0" /></a>This is nothing new, and it's not just in Iran of course. Something new however, has been the presence of women - specifically Mir Hossein Moussavi's wife Zahra Rahnavard - in the campaign spotlights. For the first time in Iran, a candidates wife has campaigned along side him. In one interview, when asked if she did this because of the popularity of Michelle Obama (many parallels have been drawn between the Iranian campaigns and Obama's), she said no she did it because it is a normal thing around the world and that a woman should not be hiding in the house. She should stand next to her partner and her role can be very useful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8mHQE3uI/AAAAAAAAEiA/SJdRgXxL3OE/s1600-h/first-lady-hopeful-embodies-irans-reformist-voice-mousavi-iran-quest-iran-election-iran-news-zahra-rahnavard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345980120656305890" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 337px; cursor: pointer; height: 256px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8mHQE3uI/AAAAAAAAEiA/SJdRgXxL3OE/s400/first-lady-hopeful-embodies-irans-reformist-voice-mousavi-iran-quest-iran-election-iran-news-zahra-rahnavard.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8lzToqwI/AAAAAAAAEh4/ybJV7S2Yon4/s1600-h/Iran2_1418601c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345980115302525698" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 250px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8lzToqwI/AAAAAAAAEh4/ybJV7S2Yon4/s400/Iran2_1418601c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One of Ahmadinejad's staunch supporters, journalist Fatemeh Rajabi, sees this, however, as exploitation of woman. According to Rajabi, that a woman is being used as a pawn in her husband's campaign, as she sits beside him, silently, it is against Islam and women's rights. But Rahnavard did not seem at all to be a silent or passive bystander.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC9vJiZwQI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/DHWZWyyQ0O0/s1600-h/f4f39f6b4b1762feaa1256b9ae1556a5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345981375400493314" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 375px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC9vJiZwQI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/DHWZWyyQ0O0/s400/f4f39f6b4b1762feaa1256b9ae1556a5.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Rajabi</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8lc0F4xI/AAAAAAAAEho/5EVbbmHRrLE/s1600-h/Zahra-Rahnavard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345980109264642834" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 216px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC8lc0F4xI/AAAAAAAAEho/5EVbbmHRrLE/s400/Zahra-Rahnavard.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Rahnavard<br /><br /></span></div>Last night AN came on national TV one last time - he had asked if he can defend himself and actually more so "the dear nation of Iran" against unfair accusations. He once again repeated, without mentioning specific names, all the wonderful things his government has done in the past four years, and that if he was a liar - as everyone claims - then how come he is so proud? One who lies and one who is afraid just doesn't go together, according to him. He also mentioned once again, a certain person (referring to Rahnavard) who has unfairly gotten her PHD and even teaches at university - which is a disrespect to all the professors who studied for 10 years, etc.<br /><br />Lies and liars have been a central theme in the campaigns. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346468623012199218" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 290px; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ44sVp-zI/AAAAAAAAEjw/pst8Oz6FkIs/s400/5.jpg" border="0" /> </div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346468819460312402" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 292px; height: 219px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjJ5EIKiTVI/AAAAAAAAEj4/3chUOLkX56E/s400/art_mousavi_rally_afp_gi.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Lies Forbidden" - in a rhyming word play with "Entrance Forbidden"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Doroogh Mamnoo" ("Vorood Mamnoo")</span><br /><br /></div>It has now come out that Rahnavard plans to sue AN, who very openly defamed her on national TV a few days ago during the debate with her husband.<br /><br />Yesterday there was a huge rally for AN in the streets of Shiraz, following a speech in support of him at the Hafez shrine's hall. The crowds of AN fans were followed by the green branch wielding Mousavi fans. Rumors are circulating that some of the AN supporters got a bit violent, throwing stones and getting in fights. This morning the streets have been quite thoroughly cleaned.<br /><br />According to some sources, Moussavi is up at 54%, and taking the lead in 10 major cities, while AN is at 39%. Anything could happen though...although everyone is quite certain that a record will be set tomorrow with participation in the elections.<br /><br />Another first has been the extensive use on online campaigning - especially on Facebook and especially with Moussavi reporters.<br /><br />The aging Karroubi (who has also promised to put a woman in his cabinet, and to advocate for women's rights) has said he won't sleep after his prayers on Friday - promising not to let any election shenanigans slip in his wake. Rafsanjani has called for a clean election.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC-znGI8yI/AAAAAAAAEig/V5eJk2rw6Ek/s1600-h/610x.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345982551566119714" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 296px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SjC-znGI8yI/AAAAAAAAEig/V5eJk2rw6Ek/s400/610x.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Karroubi</span></div><br />Today it is quiet, after, and before the storm......</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-38453625577144520242009-06-09T22:55:00.000-07:002009-06-10T08:59:19.019-07:00Green Wave<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDk19DhI/AAAAAAAAEhA/tcFoPKv-zyE/s1600-h/green+fingers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345596897257917970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 291px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 194px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDk19DhI/AAAAAAAAEhA/tcFoPKv-zyE/s320/green+fingers.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong> </strong><br /><strong>Painting the Town Green</strong><br />Yesterday I was wandering around the streets, and all the kids were complimenting my green sunglasses - "oooh green, nice". Green is the color of Moussavi, and wearing it in any form has become a statement. My eyes are green too, I was thinking. Lucky me.<br /><br />At the fruit juice stand, in a comradely exchange, a young passerby was tying green ribbons on each of the juice boy's wrists. I ordered an orange juice, but I really should have gotten the fresh green melon - it tastes better too.<br /><br />In the streets of Shiraz, people gathered, covered head to toe in green. Anything green is dressed, tied, draped, pasted, or painted onto bodies. Some people tore off tree branches, with green leaves of course, waving them around at the passing cars. Poor trees, my uncle bemoaned, although a Moussavi leaflet sat on the table in front of him. The youth danced in the streets to Bandari music(a beat infused music from the Gulf). Police are around, but they dare say nothing.<br /><br />A fiery green wave - "mowj-e sabz" - is crashing the cities of Iran. In Tehran people formed a green tinged human-chain - "zangir-e ensaani" - along the entire 25 kilometers of tree-lined Vali Asr Street, from Tajreesh market in the north, all the way to the train station in the south.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9jTz9T9BI/AAAAAAAAEhg/luWSp8Xz23U/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345600474728100882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 131px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 87px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9jTz9T9BI/AAAAAAAAEhg/luWSp8Xz23U/s400/images.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDYFQx7I/AAAAAAAAEg4/xMH3UTWH7lw/s1600-h/IRAN_ELECTIONS_JPEG_505061b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345596893832464306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 177px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 277px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDYFQx7I/AAAAAAAAEg4/xMH3UTWH7lw/s320/IRAN_ELECTIONS_JPEG_505061b.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDqC2bVI/AAAAAAAAEhI/X8GjjvB-oUM/s1600-h/_32495_Mousavi_supporters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345596898654186834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9gDqC2bVI/AAAAAAAAEhI/X8GjjvB-oUM/s320/_32495_Mousavi_supporters.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Moussavi Supporters</span><br /></div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Debates</span><br />The debates are over now, and our nights are free again. They have made quite an impact. Here are a few highlights from those, as far as I understood, and can remember:<br /><br />Ahmadinejad's strategy against Moussavi was to criticize the "20 year" era of rule in Iran before his time. During that time, he said, Iran was only bowing down to the West and meanwhile they only wanted to "destroy" Iran. It is only in the last 4 years, thanks to him of course, that America no longer threatens to attack Iran. He proceeded his blame game, citing various names including Khatami, Rafsanjani and others; at one point he said something to the effect of Rafsanjani and his son being at the "bottom of it all". Ooohs and aahs followed. "terroresh mikonan!?" (they will assassinate him), one viewer wondered....<br /><br />Some saw Ahmadinejad's defensive stance as a sign that he is in a corner. Also, he was appealing to the same target group that won him the last election (highlighting the corrupt aspects of Iran's power base), and trying nothing new. Many agreed that he went too far. Others feared that some people would only think how proud he is standing and revealing the truth. And in fact some did appreciate it. The following day many people, with rancor in their bellies, listened to him being praised. "I am voting for Ahmadinejad now, he really unveiled everything." There was an excited rumor that Rafsanjani asked to speak on national TV, to defend himself, and that it was going to happen. But this was untrue. (just heard that Rafsanjani has issued an official letter to the Supreme Leader - read<a href="http://www.boston.com/news/world/asia/articles/2009/06/10/ahmadinejad_slammed_for_fabrications/"> here</a>)<br /><br />Although some complain that Moussavi is not very eloquent (he uses the word "chiz" a lot, which means "thing"), he did however get the final words in, and he was pretty heated up - especially following the comments about his wife. All Ahmadinejad could do at that point was smile - I am not sure what the smile means, sometimes it looks like he is mocking and sometimes as if he's a fearful child.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9iuHAIR9I/AAAAAAAAEhY/4zM0VtPRN4U/s1600-h/iran-quest-iran-news-iran-election-irans-mousavi-takes-lead-in-presidential-campaign.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345599827005163474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9iuHAIR9I/AAAAAAAAEhY/4zM0VtPRN4U/s320/iran-quest-iran-news-iran-election-irans-mousavi-takes-lead-in-presidential-campaign.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Moussavi</span><br /><br /></div>When Karroubi was debating with Ahmadinejad he got so angry he was practically frothing at the mouth, which he kept wiping with a hanky. K brought up the episode at the UN in New York when AN claimed he had a yellow halo around his head, and when he said that he was going to be stolen from the USA. He also said that the worst sin in Islam is to lie, and he kept pointing out to AN's lies. AN showed a bunch of graphs which he claimed showed that Iran is economically in a better position than it ever was.<br /><br />During K and M's debate, they both used the opportunity to defend themselves against AN's accusations, and of course to talk shit about AN.<br /><br />AN and Rezai's debate, the final debate, was by far the best. Rezai, calmly and clearly, logically explained how Iran is not doing well economically and where the previous government, especially the president has erred. He clearly had a lot of information and knew what he was talking about, and many people who watched gathered this. Ahmadinejad only denied each of the claims, saying that everyone is exaggerating and is against the government, all the time twisting words and playing his games. R did not fall for any of the games though. And he kept his cool. At one point, when AN's lies were just verging on the ridiculous, R concluded that his main issue with AN is that he thinks so highly of himself, that he knows about everything, and is not wrong about anything. This is very dangerous, he warned his "dear brother Ahmadinejad". He said AN is not a "liar" (as the others bemoaned), but a "spinner of the truth". AN kept trying to get the last words in, unsuccessfuly trying to blame Rezai of having no experience managing government. The debate was scheduled to conclude with R. and it did, and Rezai ended it quite strongly and effortlessly, again facing those elusive tight-eyed grimacing smiles.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9iWL6wKiI/AAAAAAAAEhQ/LxWf2MMyPLY/s1600-h/rez.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345599416007928354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 243px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si9iWL6wKiI/AAAAAAAAEhQ/LxWf2MMyPLY/s320/rez.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Rezai, with former Economy and Finance Minister</span><br /></div><br />The debates seem to have had a profound effect. The same skeptics who thought nothing would change a few days ago, now believe there may be a good chance that reformists can win.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Campaigning</span><br />On those first nights, supporters would hit the streets right after the debate finished cheering and honking. By the last days of the debates, however, there didn't really seem to be a link, and the celebration, under the guise of campaigning, thickens into the night. Imagine the dedication, campaigning until 3 in the morning. The streets, however are not littered with leaflets. The are pasted on cars and store fronts. The majority of stores, in the center of Shiraz have Moussavi's face on them. Meanwhile Ahmadinejad supporters caravan around in motorcycles, looking sort of like a ghetto Hell's Angels.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">SMS-baazi</span><br />Mobile phone SMSs about the elections are spreading like wild fire. There are at least a few new jokes about Ahmadinejad each day. The only translatable one I can think of had to do with a yellow halo, but this time around his pants (after the Rezai debate). Other SMS's announce meeting points and times - for Moussavi supporters. One SMS warned not to wear green on election day, as your vote may not be counted. Another advised voters to bring their own pens, - rumor had it that the pens at the ballots might contain disappearing ink!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-29125025949270042252009-06-09T00:13:00.000-07:002009-06-10T08:43:43.088-07:00shirazi girlI am back in iran after a year. It took a couple days, but I did find one of those moments, amidst all the chaos, where I realized what I like about it here. They are brief flickers, especially in the heat and pollution of the summer, but they are still there.<br /><br />For this post, you will have to bear with me, or I'll have to bear with myself, as I am working with quite a crappy key board, at this internet cafe...<br /><br />I arrived not only in the heat of the summer, but also right in the middle of a heated presidential campaign. four candidates are running, including incumbent president ahmadinejad. also in the mix are 2 reformists - Mousavi and Karroubi. and one pragmatic conservative, Rezai.<br /><br />i was happy to discover that everyone is quite into the elections, watching the debates everynight, then immediately switing to bbc persian or voa persian to see what everyone is saying (although for many, the satellite signals have been scrambled - we still cant get bbc persian for example)...and to my initial surprise, many from my family are going to vote. for the past 6 nights there have been live debates between pairs of candidates broadcast on state television - a first in iranian politics. many of the 'debates'have been an excuse to defame eachother, but there have been moments of decent discussion.<br /><br />the first night i got here debate was between ahmadinejad and moussavi. moussavi has the most support out of all those running against the president, therefore the most chance, so of course everyone was excited. ahmadinejad was acting below the belt, when he started threatening to talk about someone moussavi knows - he taunted moussavi, "should i say it? should i, should i??"-with that bush-like smirk on his face. moussavi calmly replied yes go ahead, but im sure he was surprised later when it turned out to be moussavi's own wife that ahmadinejad was defaming - accusing her of having unlawfully attained her phd. he even pulled out a picture of her as he spoke - for all to see. the whole room watching gasped, and echoed the disapproving "sts sts sts" with stiff wagging tongues. later when moussavi spoke, he sternly defended himself and his wife and when he told ahmadinejed not to interrupt him - in a tone that basically said "shut the - up" everyone loudly cheered.<br /><br /><div align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345226245619108482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 157px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/Si4O8z44yoI/AAAAAAAAEgw/5iyENopU3so/s200/Mir-Hossein-Mousavi.jpg" border="0" /></div><div align="center"><em>moussavi</em></div><div align="left"><br />in the streets of shiraz crowds of supporters campaign in the streets - but many of them are using the occasion to be out, gathered until the wee hours of the night, honking their horns, yelling slogans, and dancing around. each night there seem to more and more, and they come out earlier, staying out later and later..</div><br />interestingly some candidate suppprters have taken up some inspriatin frm obama's campaign. some karroubi supporters bear the logo "change" not even translating to persian, in giant letters on bright t shirts. ahmadinejad often repeats the slogan - "yes, we can, our country can" - in persian, but quite reminiscent of obama's famous slogan!<br />one ahmadinejead supporter yelled from the side of the street "ahmadinejad, for the health of our country's future!" while everyone in my taxi snickered.<br /><br />a rumor was going around that some suspicious looking people were taking photos of those with moussavi posters on their car- supposedly photographing the license plate number.<br /><br />but each day just seems to get more and more vibrant, with traffic intensified, gossip abound, people rallying and letting loose out on the streets. and i've heard tehran quite exciting right now.<br /><br />mean while shirazi home life hasnt changed much: small talk is still an art form; and eating is the central activity of daily life, aside from sleeping - i literally felt like i was back in day care yesterday, when i was almost forcefully put to sleep, promptly after lunch, for the obligatory 2 hr afternooon nap. you wake up to tea and more eating...<br /><br />well, this is about all i can take from this keyboard for now. will try to update more soon.......Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-40766476128392528812009-02-01T08:00:00.000-08:002009-02-02T22:15:05.816-08:00Lost in Dubai<o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region" downloadurl="http://www.5iantlavalamp.com/"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place" downloadurl="http://www.5iantlavalamp.com/"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">In <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> I lived with the dust of history. Lost memories, demolished buildings and drifting nostalgia, among a host of other things, filled the air with thousands of tiny particles.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Every morning I would wake up to find a transparent skin of dust precariously clinging to every flat surface of the house.<span style=""> </span>I spent hours wiping, scrubbing and dusting.<span style=""> </span>But the dust was persistent.<span style=""> </span>Just like the ants, who always managed to find their way back, after I’d zapped them away, drawing a long queue from the bathroom sink, marching out to some well planned destination. I could never figure out the logic of where they were going, as if it was just some old, well-maintained habit they were carrying out.<span style=""> </span>One morning, the bathroom sink was black with the tiny ones; they had staged a coup.<span style=""> </span>It failed of course, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city> we live with the dust of the future. Today, outside our apartment window, on the 31<sup>st</sup> floor, we counted 60 cranes within our view.<span style=""> </span>The first time we turned on the air conditioner, a cloud of dust formed over our heads.<span style=""> </span>Under the bed, the dust gathers into hundreds of little fuzz balls, and if the wind is a bit strong the sand from the surrounding construction blows right up into us.<span style=""> </span>The spectacular view, however, makes up for it. <span style=""> </span>As I was sweeping today, acting out that never ending drama versus the microscopic tumbleweed of desert landscapes, known in this case as my floor, I was reminded of my dust adventures just one year ago, not so far away in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>I realized that these disruptive little speckles were all somehow connected, at least in the smooth surfaces of my brain’s memory, and I wondered if we would ever really win the battle against dust.<span style=""> </span>Become one with the dust. Hmmm.<span style=""> </span>That didn't work with the clock's thunderous tick-tocking in the bedroom, and I don’t think it will work here.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=1488720529695906663"><br /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We arrived in Dubai a month ago, hunting for a place to live and getting to know this jungle of concrete and glass, which we are to call ‘home’ for the next few years. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbHlB81GAI/AAAAAAAADks/rNZJ8eBRJuk/s1600-h/neenee+in+dubai.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbHlB81GAI/AAAAAAAADks/rNZJ8eBRJuk/s400/neenee+in+dubai.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298141450640627714" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Aside from the sun, one of the first things I noticed was the friendliness of people - but it was a different kind of friendly. Unlike the rest of the <st1:place st="on">Middle East</st1:place> this is a true service society, at least that’s what it feels like.<span style=""> </span>Once you dig a bit deeper, you are met with cases inefficient bureaucracy, late arrivals, canceled appointments and confusing traffic.<span style=""> </span>And it’s all a bit more frustrating here, because you aren’t expecting it – with polished surfaces, looks so modern and functional right? <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We quickly learned that you can’t buy alcohol in the city until you get licensed, so everyone stocks up in the airport’s duty free, where each person can purchase up to 2 units, which varies depending on the drink (1 case of beer, 2 bottles of wine and 1 bottle of liquor each equals to 1 unit). We already have quite a hefty collection in the ‘liquor cabinet’.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Bars can be found only in hotels, so it’s pretty difficult to find a hole in the wall type place - unless it’s a ‘bring your own’ establishment or a brothel.<span style=""> </span>We asked one guy to recommend us a bar, and he described one that he liked as “Lost in Translation-y.”<span style=""> </span>We liked that description, and he was right - but this whole place has that sort of mood.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbIJ6f-WrI/AAAAAAAADk0/14LsszLsPqU/s1600-h/2008+dubai+064.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbIJ6f-WrI/AAAAAAAADk0/14LsszLsPqU/s400/2008+dubai+064.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298142084295711410" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">'Lost in Translationesque' bar in the top floor one of the "Emirates Towers"</p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So we finally moved in a week ago, into our new home, right smack in the middle of a giant construction site known as ‘<st1:placename st="on">Business</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:placetype>’ – a huge development intending to skyrocket (literally) <st1:city st="on">Dubai</st1:city> into the ranks of <st1:city st="on">Manhattan</st1:city> and Ginza in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Tokyo</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>The center piece of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Business</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place> is the notorious 'Burj Dubai', set to be the highest building in the world with 160 stories, and to be surrounded by an idyllic pool of water once it’s completed – a real castle of the future complete with moat and bridge.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbKDxaXBdI/AAAAAAAADlE/d0us0HgDWZ4/s1600-h/dubai+2009+123.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbKDxaXBdI/AAAAAAAADlE/d0us0HgDWZ4/s400/dubai+2009+123.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298144177800283602" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Burj Dubai - view from our balcony</span> (click on images to see larger)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We were told that a few years ago the area around us was nothing but desert, with just one small road trailing through the sand.<span style=""> </span>People who’ve witnessed the transformation can’t find enough words to express their awe at the extent and pace of the development.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <before and="" after=""></before></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbL9drh5lI/AAAAAAAADlU/RH-UOjYXLjU/s1600-h/dubai+before.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 222px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbL9drh5lI/AAAAAAAADlU/RH-UOjYXLjU/s400/dubai+before.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298146268447630930" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">"Sheikh Zayed Road" Before (around 1992)</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbL9eg_m3I/AAAAAAAADlc/Eb83GjOf_V8/s1600-h/dubai+after.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbL9eg_m3I/AAAAAAAADlc/Eb83GjOf_V8/s400/dubai+after.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298146268671875954" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">After (2006)</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile the entire city of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city> is actually under construction, with huge projects sprouting at every corner of the city.<span style=""> </span>These developments, along with various malls, buildings and free zones, often have an Orwellian chime to their name:<span style=""> </span>‘Knowledge City’, ‘Media City’, ‘Healthcare City’, ‘Discovery Gardens’, ‘The Greens’, ‘The World’, ‘Dubai Land’, ‘Global Village’, ‘Silicon Oasis’, ‘Nutrition World’, and so on.<span style=""> </span>All services perfectly situated in their propagandized islands, with a designated neighborhood for just about everything.<span style=""> </span>As <a href="http://www.newleftreview.org/?getpdf=NLR27503&pdflang=en">Mike Davis</a> aptly describes, it’s the concentrate, the ultimate exaggeration, of consumerist culture.<span style=""> </span>Others refer to it as the ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Las Vegas</st1:place></st1:city> of the East’.<span style=""> </span>For me it’s the ultimate Post-Modern fantasy, with whimsical lost castles rediscovered, unfathomable sky scrapers, air-conditioned bus stations, snow skiing when it’s 40 degrees Celsius outside….</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbVEHGWL5I/AAAAAAAADt8/k_WjWIAy82U/s1600-h/dubai+2009+011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbVEHGWL5I/AAAAAAAADt8/k_WjWIAy82U/s400/dubai+2009+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298156278249828242" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Ski Dubai" inside The Mall of the Emirates<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbUtPpi6yI/AAAAAAAADt0/TR9O00x7d6w/s1600-h/dubai+2009+036.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 457px; height: 171px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbUtPpi6yI/AAAAAAAADt0/TR9O00x7d6w/s400/dubai+2009+036.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298155885407955746" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">"The lost city of Atlantis"</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The view of the apartment building across from us is a cross between the film-scapes of Jacques Tati and moody Lost in Translation - vertical rows of big glass windows, each with an identical glowing flat-screen TV and minimal décor.<span style=""> </span>30 stories down is our idyllic pool, shaded by umbrellas and palm trees.<span style=""> </span>30 meters to my left is a giant crane inching towards our living room windows.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbN7ViHIII/AAAAAAAADlk/J8SswkPSQkI/s1600-h/dubai+2009+124.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbN7ViHIII/AAAAAAAADlk/J8SswkPSQkI/s400/dubai+2009+124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298148430924161154" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A walk in the clouds</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbN7nEhMEI/AAAAAAAADls/dPpJfNZXAY4/s1600-h/dubai+2009+127.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 184px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbN7nEhMEI/AAAAAAAADls/dPpJfNZXAY4/s400/dubai+2009+127.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298148435631878210" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cloudy view from our window - Burj Al Arab in the distance</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbTuJg8GUI/AAAAAAAADpE/3TYiPWjPGP8/s1600-h/dubai+roof.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbTuJg8GUI/AAAAAAAADpE/3TYiPWjPGP8/s400/dubai+roof.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298154801429485890" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A famous photo of Dubai taken from the Burj Dubai</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">One of the favorite pastimes here is reciting random statistics and superlatives about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city>:<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">-25% of the world’s <a href="http://archive.gulfnews.com/articles/06/05/13/10039528.html">cranes</a> are located in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city> (a big percentage of those just outside our window), with a population of about 2 million and area of just 1,500 square miles<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">-the biggest mall in the world, biggest man-made islands, the longest man-made shoreline, the biggest aquarium, etc.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbP5gwzO9I/AAAAAAAADmM/Vgz2shiKlGE/s1600-h/dubai+2009+219.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbP5gwzO9I/AAAAAAAADmM/Vgz2shiKlGE/s400/dubai+2009+219.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298150598602079186" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aquarium at The Atlantis Hotel</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">-<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city> hosts the only 7 star hotel in the world</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbOhryIhTI/AAAAAAAADl0/Myr05q-dwt4/s1600-h/dubai+2009+057.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbOhryIhTI/AAAAAAAADl0/Myr05q-dwt4/s400/dubai+2009+057.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298149089731970354" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><burj al="" arab=""></burj></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">'Burj Al Arab' - with 'The Atlantis' in the distance, on the right</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">-80% of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dubai</st1:place></st1:city>’s population is made up of expats, only 20% are ‘locals’.<span style=""> </span>Of that 80%, 60% are low-wage workers from South East Asia - most of who provide the city with its hard labor and service sector, and many of who live in what are called ‘labor camps’.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbPbsWjkBI/AAAAAAAADl8/PebTT7VpXig/s1600-h/2008+dubai+075.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbPbsWjkBI/AAAAAAAADl8/PebTT7VpXig/s400/2008+dubai+075.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298150086317150226" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A 'labor camp' - and the city they are building </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The list goes on…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But what has ceased to amaze me here so far has been the construction, day and night, which seems to never end.<span style=""> Not only is it rampant, but every building has a very unique design, whether it twists up into the sky, is decked out with sparkling glass, or topped off with a cherry of intricate imaginative lines and shapes and dramatic lighting. </span>On New Year’s Eve we took a stroll around the ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Marina</st1:place></st1:city>’ area, another eye-candy of sky-scraping development, where our midnight toll was the sound of cranes sweeping across the shiny black sky above us, lit up by twinkling lights which are pinned to the metal monsters dangling from tops of buildings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><marina></marina></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbP5aNosRI/AAAAAAAADmE/_hmenWIRYWI/s1600-h/dec-jan+2008+139.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbP5aNosRI/AAAAAAAADmE/_hmenWIRYWI/s400/dec-jan+2008+139.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298150596843974930" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Dubai Marina</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The malls - where you do anything and everything, from grocery shopping and getting your nails done, to attending court -<span style=""> </span>are getting a bit boring, but I’m sure once summer hits I will be thanking the gods for the air conditioned mammoths.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbQ3nj1yqI/AAAAAAAADmU/jjpPvqr9VEc/s1600-h/dubai+2009+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbQ3nj1yqI/AAAAAAAADmU/jjpPvqr9VEc/s400/dubai+2009+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298151665578658466" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Neenee at 'The Dubai Mall' - with Olympic size ice skating rink and giant Christmas Tree<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I still haven’t had a chance to deal with the dust on my upper lip since we arrived though, the locals must be horrified!<span style=""> Time to hit the mall...</span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/WelcomeToDubaiFirstMonth?feat=directlink"><br /></a></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/WelcomeToDubaiFirstMonth?feat=directlink"><span style="">More Photos Here - click on this:</span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/WelcomeToDubaiFirstMonth?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYbTE6Wi8bE/AAAAAAAADxo/pqsjqFnDArk/s160-c/WelcomeToDubaiFirstMonth.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" height="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/WelcomeToDubaiFirstMonth?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Welcome to Dubai - First Month</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-17187521760859446152008-12-30T08:22:00.000-08:002009-01-29T03:49:38.850-08:00Zagreb Park Benches<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxBgs6FI/AAAAAAAADi0/q8FB9V1k8Ms/s1600-h/08+zagreb+%2816%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxBgs6FI/AAAAAAAADi0/q8FB9V1k8Ms/s400/08+zagreb+%2816%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296678206704511058" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVm38gpKI/AAAAAAAADjc/ob_g77uM9rk/s1600-h/zagreb+park+bench.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVm38gpKI/AAAAAAAADjc/ob_g77uM9rk/s400/zagreb+park+bench.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296679131849729186" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVm1kdMMI/AAAAAAAADjU/NWK7Et7KozI/s1600-h/08+zagreb+%2820%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVm1kdMMI/AAAAAAAADjU/NWK7Et7KozI/s400/08+zagreb+%2820%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296679131211968706" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVmvpGJwI/AAAAAAAADjM/r_tNdvNYrWM/s1600-h/08+zagreb+%2819%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGVmvpGJwI/AAAAAAAADjM/r_tNdvNYrWM/s400/08+zagreb+%2819%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296679129620817666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxYIE3GI/AAAAAAAADjE/fw1Dqj3qQbU/s1600-h/08+zagreb+%2818%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxYIE3GI/AAAAAAAADjE/fw1Dqj3qQbU/s400/08+zagreb+%2818%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296678212775238754" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxGM_n2I/AAAAAAAADi8/PS-M1KcX79Y/s1600-h/08+zagreb+%2817%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SYGUxGM_n2I/AAAAAAAADi8/PS-M1KcX79Y/s400/08+zagreb+%2817%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296678207964028770" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-40550714638690145642008-12-20T09:27:00.000-08:002009-01-18T00:51:44.599-08:00Diary of a Snaika in SerbiaOver the past year I have written, as many do, of my accounts (of stereotypes) from the Middle East, more specifically Iran. Now that I've spent a substantial amount of time in Serbia, I feel I should summarize a few of the generalizations I've come up with about this area. As most of my writings, this is also about me - Neenee - and my perspective, standing on a point among a whirlwind of complicated issues and cross-hatching facets of life’s space and time. Ultimately, I think we should all come to our own perspectives (however confusing and multitudinous they may be), try to be comfortable with them, while acknowledging that that is all they are, hairy little things.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXD9rpRkJI/AAAAAAAADcM/L9_VCBAzhao/s1600-h/08+november+belgrade+%282%29.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288848801871794322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXD9rpRkJI/AAAAAAAADcM/L9_VCBAzhao/s400/08+november+belgrade+%282%29.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">The first time I came to Serbia, a few years ago, someone asked me if it looks more like Europe or the Middle East.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I said Middle East.<span style="font-size:+0;"> I had just spent an excruciating train journey from Western Europe, across to Eastern Europe, getting slower and slower as we trickled down into Serbia. I had also been living in the Middle East for a time before this, and somehow a similar feeling struck me. My father often refers to Iran as "the old country." This was also an "old country."<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Serbia, and probably the Balkan region in general, lies on a point between north, south, east and west - physically, historically and culturally. Maybe that's why no one here uses those directing points. You never hear someone say "it's north of so and so", or "the south-west corner of..." They are just way too confused direction-wise, being right in the thick of it, in the eye of the storm.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXJ_fxOX4I/AAAAAAAADdM/I3PuUQw8sv0/s1600-h/dec-jan+2008+018.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288855430113419138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXJ_fxOX4I/AAAAAAAADdM/I3PuUQw8sv0/s400/dec-jan+2008+018.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">bananas 4 Serbia</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">From the north-west, a European facade, still in the making, glosses over the rampant corruption and bureaucracy. From the south-east (the 'Near-East' or 'Middle-East' as some like to call it), deeper cultural traits and habits have merged into local culture and identity. From the east Russia, who most people see as Serbia’s only 'friend', fights against those who desire swift transition into Europe. And straight from the blood of the soil, building further into the identity-under-construction, a rural, tradition-infused Serb dances the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kolo_%28dance%29">Kolo</a>. Depending on which part of the country or in which room you find yourself in, these influences factor in more or less.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUJasgFiI/AAAAAAAADfc/Xsy6KERdmmI/s1600-h/newyork+to+serbia+2008+264.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288866595666400802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUJasgFiI/AAAAAAAADfc/Xsy6KERdmmI/s400/newyork+to+serbia+2008+264.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the 'heart' of Serbia<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXJ_JPjlOI/AAAAAAAADdE/p7bENNqlHQs/s1600-h/cropped+tractor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288855424066622690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 323px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXJ_JPjlOI/AAAAAAAADdE/p7bENNqlHQs/s400/cropped+tractor.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">on the way to EU!</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">Other apparent contradictions contribute to this stormy feeling.<br /><br />A gypsy shanty town reflects off the polished glass walls of a developing high rise. The biggest Roma camp lies just across the river, minutes from the heart of Belgrade. Supermarket Vero's giant red white and blue banner beams just across the road from the sprawling trash heaps of the black market beneath the decrepit train station which has no time-tables, just a grumpy old woman who tells you from behind the sharp hairs in her protruding mole that the train comes once every hour, and it's your lucky guess to find out which part of the hour that might be. Okay, I think it's safe to just ignore the trains.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXK9h2NEwI/AAAAAAAADdU/L_dq0ZIGXiA/s1600-h/DSC04176.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288856495823065858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 287px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXK9h2NEwI/AAAAAAAADdU/L_dq0ZIGXiA/s400/DSC04176.JPG" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUJpn_cXI/AAAAAAAADfk/5aLCAJJMmPI/s1600-h/08+november+belgrade+%286%29.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288866599674016114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUJpn_cXI/AAAAAAAADfk/5aLCAJJMmPI/s400/08+november+belgrade+%286%29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As for the tramway, I won't even go there, it would take pages of frustration. But I will say I was pleasantly surprised when I found a used ticket for the tram sitting quietly in the ticket-punching slot, for the next lucky passenger to reuse.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUw5606RI/AAAAAAAADfs/Xs3KLkjmoS0/s1600-h/2004+057.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288867274062883090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXUw5606RI/AAAAAAAADfs/Xs3KLkjmoS0/s400/2004+057.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Belgrade Trolley</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">The smells of Turkish cuisine billow up the commanding corridors of Socialist building blocks. Turkish coffee (or Serbian coffee as some like to call it), stuffed cabbage leaves, baked pies stuffed with meat and cheese, and 'Vegeta' (THE all-purpose seasoning of vegetable stock powder used in every recipe). Other olfactory delicacies include the burning rubbery fume of the city's central heating plant - which is turned on to automatic in the winters – blasting from early morning to late night. Residents like their heating extra hot and there is one round of complaining to the city to turn up the heat - some people's homes feel like a sauna. The burning rubbery mixes with the smell of burning red bell-peppers, which are being roasted in bulk for winter supply. The air is cooling and the leaves are yellowing. And giant buckets of souring cabbage marinate on utilitarian balconies.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM-4LUB7I/AAAAAAAADeE/SPvInhArGkk/s1600-h/newyork+to+serbia+2008+265.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288858718020306866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM-4LUB7I/AAAAAAAADeE/SPvInhArGkk/s400/newyork+to+serbia+2008+265.jpg" border="0" /></a>Old men with weathered faces sit on park benches in soft hats, fondling their fists behind their backs or a tall beer. Young girls with chiseled faces pace around the city's catwalks with towering legs tucked into short outfits. Men wear purses under their arms, a remnant from the chaotic 90s, and its rampant inflation, when everyone carried around wads of cash.<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXLaV1mSwI/AAAAAAAADdc/AUw8DJ7OTY4/s1600-h/DSC03198.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288856990815505154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXLaV1mSwI/AAAAAAAADdc/AUw8DJ7OTY4/s400/DSC03198.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">The sky is grim as winter nears, but beautiful, above the crossing of two of the world’s epic rivers, Sava and Danube.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXHIstr6aI/AAAAAAAADc0/EPwvjdudHuo/s1600-h/2004+068.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288852289672178082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXHIstr6aI/AAAAAAAADc0/EPwvjdudHuo/s400/2004+068.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXEc14tomI/AAAAAAAADcU/uXNhjU0rFSg/s1600-h/08+november+belgrade+%2812%29.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288849337196847714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXEc14tomI/AAAAAAAADcU/uXNhjU0rFSg/s400/08+november+belgrade+%2812%29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Women color their hair white-blond, jet-black or red - they could be German, Greek, Iranian, or Russian.<br /><br />Hospitality is reminiscent of the tradition infused eastern neighbors, combined with a frankness more similar to the west, and a brutally sarcastic sense of humor like the Russians.<br /><br />Superstitions - of the east, along with the more local ones - amount to more than I have ever witnessed.</p><p class="MsoNormal">They eat their soup tepid.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Kebabs are made with pork. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Yogurt is consumed by the liter.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXLaTJ4j1I/AAAAAAAADdk/LEy3sRDaGx0/s1600-h/DSC03240.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288856990095282002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXLaTJ4j1I/AAAAAAAADdk/LEy3sRDaGx0/s400/DSC03240.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Old fountain</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">Belgrade is famous for its vibrant party scene, although I always went home too early and the party always got good soon after I left.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Rakia, the national, often home-made spirit, helps get you dancing all night. Days spent snoozing in cafes or browsing one of the various winter film festivals...<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">At various glances the city looks very European with flourishes and even entire neighborhoods of Central European architecture especially toward the north (where Serbians escaped Turkish rule, towards Austria-Hungary), a variety of Ottoman relics (the region was under Turkish rule for nearly 500 years) present an Oriental flavor, elephantine Serbian Orthodox churches link to the Christian east, while the modernist Socialist monuments and blocks of a ‘better’ time dominate the urban cityscapes. They all remind you of the mixed history of this place.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXZX7sdKcI/AAAAAAAADgM/VNi8sFMFIqo/s1600-h/Siege_of_N%C3%A1ndorfeh%C3%A9rv%C3%A1r.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288872342600886722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 216px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXZX7sdKcI/AAAAAAAADgM/VNi8sFMFIqo/s400/Siege_of_N%C3%A1ndorfeh%C3%A9rv%C3%A1r.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Fighting the Ottomans</span><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXZXlQxzAI/AAAAAAAADgE/xNg6zpdc8pk/s1600-h/180px-Gardos_tower_Janos_Hunyadi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288872336579218434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 275px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXZXlQxzAI/AAAAAAAADgE/xNg6zpdc8pk/s400/180px-Gardos_tower_Janos_Hunyadi.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Hungarian tower in Zemun, Belgrade</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXME6UBlTI/AAAAAAAADd0/rNF1Kj0TKcw/s1600-h/DSC03365.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288857722161304882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXME6UBlTI/AAAAAAAADd0/rNF1Kj0TKcw/s400/DSC03365.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">What did the Turks do for us!? They built bridges.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXHI0AeVRI/AAAAAAAADc8/Ob2LlyGd2ZI/s1600-h/DSC04154.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288852291630028050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXHI0AeVRI/AAAAAAAADc8/Ob2LlyGd2ZI/s400/DSC04154.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">St. Sava Temple, Serbian Orthodox</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXMERKXCmI/AAAAAAAADds/R7b8jMk_foE/s1600-h/DSC03269.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288857711114914402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXMERKXCmI/AAAAAAAADds/R7b8jMk_foE/s400/DSC03269.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM-_yQzbI/AAAAAAAADd8/ACPFj_3m79s/s1600-h/london+-+serbia+summer+2008+048.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288858720062721458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM-_yQzbI/AAAAAAAADd8/ACPFj_3m79s/s400/london+-+serbia+summer+2008+048.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Monument</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In the language you will also find a mixed heritage of words - I find particularly interesting those from the Turkish, which often trace back to Persian or Arabic, and I am always chuffed when we (my partner is Serbian) find shared words in Serbian and Persian.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>A favorite is “maymoon” which means monkey in Serbian, Turkish and Persian.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>It's a common insult in Serbia and it always makes me giggle.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /><br />The issue of Kosovo is quite mixed up, with divided opinions across and between generations and styles of people. A few young people adamantly defend the right of Kosovo's independence, recognizing the unfairness of the declaration but emphasizing the brutality of treatment by Serbians towards Albanian-Kosovars in the 90s. These people also generally desire a speedy transition into the EU, and see the independence of Kosovo as practical and inevitable. Others are more skeptical about Kosovars, and emphasize the present unfairness in the deal, and backwardness of Albanians in Kosovo. At different levels of fervency, these people regard Kosovo as the heartland of Serbia, the site of the most historical moments in the narrative of Serbian identity, and physically - many important monasteries. The more liberal youth tend to, sometimes rather harshly, write off this religious nationalism, resulting in a widening gap between the ideologies, and a lack of constructive negotiation - a phenomenon I found in Iran also, something which probably happens, to some extent, everywhere.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNrFJr8DI/AAAAAAAADek/NJMUomhlgX4/s1600-h/newyork+to+serbia+2008+177.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288859477417390130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNrFJr8DI/AAAAAAAADek/NJMUomhlgX4/s400/newyork+to+serbia+2008+177.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNq3nXhNI/AAAAAAAADec/YaNHRETGOIM/s1600-h/newyork+to+serbia+2008+217.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288859473783784658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 128px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNq3nXhNI/AAAAAAAADec/YaNHRETGOIM/s400/newyork+to+serbia+2008+217.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Northern 'Serbian' Kosovo</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">Moms are truly "moms" here. They are care-takers, they worry and fuss about. They cry when their kids leave, and wonder if they should have protected them from the education that sent them off abroad exploring the opportunities that their education made them realize. That way they would be ignorant, but still here with them. Most of them just fuss about this, but know deep inside that they made the right decision. There is always something to complain or worry about, perhaps to bring some meaning to their life. This reminds me of a middle-eastern trait. They cook wonderful meals and, no matter what time of day, always ask you if you're hungry. Families often live together, or in the same building. <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]-->I am known as a “snaika” – name for the wife of a fellow Serb, and they actually call you that.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>When my mom came to visit, she was called “priya” which is the mother of the snaika.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXPqYTjYcI/AAAAAAAADfE/lwnpiDDoypM/s1600-h/dec-jan+2008+033.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288861664402432450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXPqYTjYcI/AAAAAAAADfE/lwnpiDDoypM/s400/dec-jan+2008+033.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama with snaika-Neenee-in-training</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXTsCQ2IfI/AAAAAAAADfU/8rWat4NqdLU/s1600-h/DSC04272.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288866090891747826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXTsCQ2IfI/AAAAAAAADfU/8rWat4NqdLU/s400/DSC04272.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Priya in Belgrade</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Serbians adore nicknames, and everyone has at least 3.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The first time I visited I was actually confused at what to call my partner, whose name was already weird to me.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>His name is Slobodan and his nicknames – all of them actively in use –<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>include the following:<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Slobo, Sloba, Slobs, Bslo (Slob backwards), Boko, Boban, Chicha (which means grandpa).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I also gained my present nickname here in Serbia – Neenee, which is how you say my name in one of the grammatical declinations (different endings for or formations of nouns, in different parts of speech).</p><p class="MsoNormal">My last weekend in Belgrade was that of the famous Slava ('Saint Day') of Saint Nikolas. In Orthodox tradition, which is on the rise since the 90s, each family has a Slava. This particular Slava is the biggest because, for some reason, half of Serbian families have St. Nik as their family saint. The Slava families host their friends and relatives for a feast with various traditions taking place. Everyone likes to tell you that on this weekend half of Serbia has Slava and the other half is visiting a Slava. It has therefore become a sort of unofficial holiday.<br /><br />On this evening I was sitting in the dingy tram with my bottle of wine in its tall gift bag. Everyone on the train, like me, was headed for a Slava feast prepared bearing gifts of wine or flowers, and silently bearing the ride. The windshield wipers were tick-tocking back and forth, even though the rain had slowed down and was barely noticeable, making a sound as irritable as scratching on a chalk board, over and over.<br /><br />I started going over all the petty little things, adding up that day, that annoyed me, trying to convince myself that my irritated mood was not vain: My toes immediately get wet in the rain in my brand new boots; The zipper of my coat never works the first time and the cloth always gets stuck in it; My umbrella, if I remember to bring it, catches on to my sleeve when I'm opening it; It's too cold outside and too hot inside, and I'm sweating half the time; I ran for the tram, looking like an idiot, once again; My cheeks are starting to sag and I have one tiny wrinkle growing along the right side of my lips; I banged my head on the low ceiling in the kitchen again; I bleed from the uterus every 3 weeks...<br /><br />Sitting in the bus now, feeling sick to my stomach because I decided to sit facing the back of the feverish bus and too lazy to move, we are headed for the outskirts of Belgrade, but I’m going backwards as if rewinding reality. The windows steamed up and X-mas lights twinkled outside under the rain, swept about like strings of chewed up gum. Turns out it really was raining, and I was just being unfairly grumpy earlier after all. The doors squeaked, the windshield wipers squeaked, brakes squeaked, and bus jerked, over and over. </p><p class="MsoNormal">And the rain outside accelerated in the exhaust in front of a car's headlights, which looked like shining eyes of a frog finding its way through wet blankets of fog... and I was reminded of beauty once again, whatever it is, existing even in this dark dreary rain, and I snapped out of my false misery.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">And I remember more blissful moments.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNrC5NB9I/AAAAAAAADes/YpAy_ZjwkdU/s1600-h/IMG_0929.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288859476811384786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXNrC5NB9I/AAAAAAAADes/YpAy_ZjwkdU/s400/IMG_0929.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">At the rakia factory - in my element</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXVUxckQcI/AAAAAAAADf0/D987Ie5k5d8/s1600-h/DSCF1976.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288867890263769538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXVUxckQcI/AAAAAAAADf0/D987Ie5k5d8/s400/DSCF1976.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">"<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slatko">Slatko</a>" - "sweet" plum preserves<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXPql8aHJI/AAAAAAAADfM/T1nFiKrC11w/s1600-h/DSC03334.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288861668063452306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXPql8aHJI/AAAAAAAADfM/T1nFiKrC11w/s400/DSC03334.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-size:85%;">Surrounded by pork</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM_elaNzI/AAAAAAAADeQ/5QV4NGIDWIQ/s1600-h/newyork+to+serbia+2008+280.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288858728330311474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 363px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SWXM_elaNzI/AAAAAAAADeQ/5QV4NGIDWIQ/s400/newyork+to+serbia+2008+280.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">In a quiet place in the country, with my Serb</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-28731229814546391962008-11-14T03:37:00.000-08:002008-11-26T02:52:39.874-08:00The 6th Player<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Euroleague Basketball: Partizan Belgrade versus AJ Milano<br />Pionir Arena. Belgrade, Serbia. November 5, 2008. <br /><br />On the way to the game, I really had no idea what was in store. Just a basketball game, right? I did think it was strange that the Italian team was called “Armani Jeans”, but that was the least of the curiosities waiting in the night ahead. The first deviant sign I noticed was the special force of riot police, planted menacingly outside in front of Belgrade’s Pionir arena. Upon entering the stadium we were patted down. A woman searched my bag and told me I must part with my lip balm. I wasn’t too happy about this and very surprised actually. On the ground next to the search team were piles of small objects – lighters, matches, pens. Why does she want my lipstick, I wondered aloud. “Because sometimes people throw things at the players,” my friend filled me in. Somehow however, perhaps in the same manner that I snuck away with my lip balm after all, people managed to light their cigarettes with something. The large arena was packed and hazy, with swathes of itinerant smoke, which made it all look more surreal, almost 1-dimensional, like a projected screen backdrop of a movie set. <br /><br />As the players were warming up, the chanting and singing in the stands began. I was already quite impressed by the dedication of these fans, and their knowledge of so many songs. But my friends kept telling me that this was only the beginning, “Just wait!” they urged, eager to see my reaction. When the first play began, a high shriek shuddered the stands, in what sounded like thousands of whistles squealing at once. It was the defense taunt, that horrific screech reeling across a deep “Boooooo”, and at times so loud we had to hold our ears. Then began the songs, one after another, always in perfect unison- and you hardly heard the same one twice.<br /><br />Compared to an NBI final that I went to in Dallas a couple years ago, there was definitely more glitz in that game. The arena is much bigger, sound system is amazing, etc. And the size of Shaquille O’Neil’s feet is entertaining in and of itself. When the lights went down, all the fans shook their lit up pom-poms –each seat was equipped with one, along with a plastic clapper- creating a dramatic effect. During every time out, a brief but elaborate show was staged down on the court -- jugglers, acrobats, circus freaks, fire shows, comedy acts, souvenir give-aways, cheerleaders and various dance troupes -- true to the culture of big American entertainment. But Dallas's fans and their cheers, although quite energetic, were nothing compared to those in Pionir Arena. In the NBA game there were a few basic cheers like “DE-FENSE” “Let’s go Mavericks Let’s go” and “We Will, We Will Rock You.”<br /><br />Here is just one example of the endless songs and chants (this one I couldn't get out of my head for days, especially as I was editing the clip below), keep in mind it works much better in Serbian :)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Da volim crno-bele</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ponosno kazem svima,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Volim to slavno ime,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I divim se samo njima</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Yes, I love black & white</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> I proudly say to all</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> I love that glorious name</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> And it is the only one I admire</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Na svetu nista lepse</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ne moze da postoji,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Nego sto je nasa ljubav</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Prema Crno-beloj boji</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> There is nothing more beautiful</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> That exists in this world</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Than our love</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">For black & white </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ljubav prema klubu,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ne moze da prestane,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Dok zivim klicacu njemu:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> "Volim te Partizane!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> The love towards the club</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Cannot be stoped</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">'till I'm alive I'll cheer:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> "I love you Partizan"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ja volim Partizana,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I svakog novog dana,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Kucace srce moje,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Za Crno-bele boje</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> I love Partizan</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> And every new day</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> My heart will beat only</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> For black & white<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span> And, here is one very popular chant:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Gde god ti da igraš tu su tvoji Grobari</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Samo tebi verni samo tebi odani</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> OOOO Partizane, volimo te</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Srcem svim!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Where ever you play, your Grobari ("gravediggers") are with you</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Only to you loyal, only to you faithful</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> OOOO Partizan, we do love you</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> With all our hearts!</span><br /><br />The lingering cigarette smoke rose up to the ceiling like holy incense, ascending to the sports gods, in prayer. At times the crowd would wave their extended arms up and down and side to side, acting, at once, as ritual pawns and as a human fan. The cheering only got more enthusiastic as Paritzan fell behind by 23 points. At half time any normal, or naïve, observer would say they have definitely lost it. But the crowd only rallied on, beating their drums, ripping off their shirts in a sweaty, masculine, euphoric rage. <br /><br />I learned that these are some of Europe’s most famous fans, and that many teams love to come and play here because of the unique atmosphere, even though they usually tend to lose, thanks to the ‘6th player’- the fans. There are various Partizan fan groupings – for example there is the “South Guard” which gathers at the south end of the arena, (where they are located during the derbies, with arch-rival Red Star Belgrade fans at the north end); and there is “Alcatraz”, which are the core fans, the leaders of which initiate all the songs and chants throughout the games. The fans are generally known as “Grobari” or gravediggers, a name that was initially bestowed upon them by their rivals, and later reappropriated by the vibrant enthusiasts. The typical fan is dressed in black and white, team colors, with a scarf tied around their neck and perhaps a cross necklace, as they are often connected to nationalism and thus Serbian Orthodox Christianity. The men hug each other while singing and jumping, sometimes throughout the entire match, usually smiling, sometimes on the verge of crying – but not for long.<br /><br />The most amazing thing, however, is that no matter if they were winning or losing, the fans never lost faith. In what looked like a cross between drunken-hooligans and religious-cult, it almost felt as though a miracle took place. When, in the 3rd quarter, Partizan started sneaking back into the battle, and then all of a sudden into the lead, after such a great disadvantage. When I said this, I was told, No. The miracle was that Armani Jeans Milano had such a lead to begin with. Most teams who come to Pionir arena don’t usually get so lucky, first time players are always shocked and awed. By the second half, the 6th player definitely got under the skin of the opponents, and into the hearts of their beloved players. Partizan won 81-76.<br /><br />And here are some clips from the game! For basketball fans only ;)<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzjmeCWnvVpofM4_r6-1iunqfinEUZgGLT6W4oldLYa690lsB4uD5EAgj7viyRZPwjyRfSPNuH0TjU_4B5eng' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-9665418480597049612008-11-02T03:00:00.000-08:002008-11-03T11:08:23.374-08:00Lettuce Vote!Arugula, also knowns as Rocket or Rucola, is a leafy vegetable which was widely used in Mediterranean regions since ancient times, when it was also considered an aphrodisiac. It has a "rich, peppery taste" and contains many essential vitamins and minerals, a great source for anti-oxidant, cancer fighting and detoxification.<br /><br />I discovered the wonder of arugula a few years ago in Europe, where it is quite common. Today, you can find it in many American supermarkets as well (not only "Whole Foods"), usually hiding amongst the sprightly "wild leaf" mix, but more and more coming into its own. It is more expensive than lettuce, but there is much more nutrition inside those leaves than iceberg or even romaine lettuce.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DyrzuZyI/AAAAAAAACLI/EoJB1Lg_t1g/s1600-h/obama-arugula.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DyrzuZyI/AAAAAAAACLI/EoJB1Lg_t1g/s400/obama-arugula.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264078814986528546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Arugula Jugula</span>r<br /><br /></div>About a year ago Barack Obama made some comments about arugula to some farmers in Iowa, which started this whole wave of ridicule about his disconnection with 'real' people, who have no idea what arugula is, something only fancy urban people eat. He was talking about the difficulties facing farmers, and how high consumer prices were not being reflected in the farmers' earnings, when he asked, "Anybody gone into Whole Foods lately and seen what they charge for arugula?" Then everyone freaked out, because there is no Whole Foods (a health oriented supermarket) in Iowa, and Obama was 'out of touch' with the 'average American'. But that was not the point. Obama was suggesting a diversification in crops - as opposed to the reliance on a mono-crop of corn or cotton, which actually makes a lot of sense. Planting niche products, such as Arugula or Wasabi for example, has proven to be very successful, at least in some cases I have heard about. But of course this didn't stop the rampage and insinuations of elitism and moralizing on Obama's part, vis-a-vis arugula.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.humanevents.com/article.php?id=27978">"Arugula Gap"</a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.tnr.com/story_print.html?id=05eee5cc-7068-41d4-8370-0ce1c2c9594c">"The only thing worse than arugula is <span style="font-style: italic;">socialist</span> arugula"</a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://mediamatters.org/items/200709240012">"Obama's 'wine-track' affinity" </a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://blog.washingtonpost.com/the-trail/2007/10/05/people_in_iowa_know_what_arugu.html">Whole Foods?</a><br /><br /><a href="http://shacket.blogspot.com/2008/08/why-arugula.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Why Arugula?</span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/08/22/AR2008082202958.html">Salad Spinning - "John McCain drinks Cappuccinos!"<br /></a><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/32213">Fighting the Arugula Fator</a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/134398">Obama's 'Bubba Gap'</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_AFEcB1I/AAAAAAAACKw/WOFfHig9fJE/s1600-h/Newsweek-Cover-Arugula-Beer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_AFEcB1I/AAAAAAAACKw/WOFfHig9fJE/s400/Newsweek-Cover-Arugula-Beer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073547547674450" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It seems that if a politician doesn't shoot for the lowest common denominator of the American citizens' supposed understanding of things, they are lambasted as arrogant and 'European'. If you don't eat meat and potatoes you are not a 'real' American - or a 'Bubba' as some put it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-_tgFKTI/AAAAAAAACKg/J2_jS598AeA/s1600-h/barackarugula.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 210px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-_tgFKTI/AAAAAAAACKg/J2_jS598AeA/s400/barackarugula.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073541221165362" border="0" /></a>Arugula has become a symbol of the elitism and otherness that desperate Republicans are gripping on to, in order to paint the picture they want the 'masses' to see in Obama, and the fact that it has a funny European name makes this even easier for them to manipulate. I am glad to see that for the most part, Obama is not dumbing down to these standards. (As one commentator interestingly stated, it's usually the elite that have been labeling Obama as an elitist.) He even came back to the subject a few months later, during another speech, talking again about the diversification of crops away from heavily subsidized staple crops, in an attempt to clarify the media's trivial pandering: "People in Iowa know what arugula is. They may not eat it but they know what it is." Obama calmly and courageously faces his critics.<br /><br />Lets stop underestimating American audiences, as passive 'masses'. I believe people tend to act in the way you treat them - if you treat someone like a baby they behave as one. Obama's thoughtfulness towards the American public/s feels like a breath of fresh air in US politics. Of course he still has to play the dirty game to some extent, for which some people call him a sellout, but these things can only move slowly, and he is playing to win. And I think it's a fine start...<br /><br />Anyway, Obama got one hairy Texan vote from me!<br /><br />This recipe is dedicated to the future American president. My favorite dressing for arugula, give it a try. It's very easy and much healthier than iceberg lettuce with ranch - which by the way is not healthy at all, just because it's called 'salad'.<br /><br />1/2 fresh squeezed lemon<br />1 teaspoon dijon mustard<br />1 tablespoon Olive Oil<br />couple pinches of sea salt<br />fresh black pepper<br /><br />Pour all the ingredients over a big bowl of washed arugula. This works best in some tupperware - put the lid on it, and shake it up. The tangy lemon and mustard tones down the bitterness of the arugula.<br /><br />Green food is not snobby, it's just healthy! Add a little spice to your life, and don't forget to vote!!!!!!!!! And if you have any arugula recipes or experiences, please do share them with us - you can comment below.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-mbk0DOI/AAAAAAAACKY/nlSOusXklSk/s1600-h/barack_obama_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-mbk0DOI/AAAAAAAACKY/nlSOusXklSk/s400/barack_obama_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073106912447714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Obama thinks, and reads</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-ll9SoqI/AAAAAAAACKQ/BDiqjj20OC0/s1600-h/barack+obama+loves+hot+sauce+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-ll9SoqI/AAAAAAAACKQ/BDiqjj20OC0/s400/barack+obama+loves+hot+sauce+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073092519600802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Obama enjoys hotsauce</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3Dzg9hkuI/AAAAAAAACLo/CnS807WgYe0/s1600-h/young_obama+-+baseball.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3Dzg9hkuI/AAAAAAAACLo/CnS807WgYe0/s400/young_obama+-+baseball.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264078829254709986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Healthy young Obama plays baseball<br /><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-lBI-eYI/AAAAAAAACKA/ELC1-ZmNGLE/s1600-h/arugula+do+you+eat+it.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-lBI-eYI/AAAAAAAACKA/ELC1-ZmNGLE/s400/arugula+do+you+eat+it.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073082636499330" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Do you eat Arugula? Now you do :) </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_AibT3WI/AAAAAAAACLA/TJb541uPJO0/s1600-h/Obama+hot+dog+July+4+2008+Butte+MT+-+AP.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_AibT3WI/AAAAAAAACLA/TJb541uPJO0/s400/Obama+hot+dog+July+4+2008+Butte+MT+-+AP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073555428236642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">He eats Hotdogs, mmm<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DzLMel1I/AAAAAAAACLY/Bw3PeSWlyh8/s1600-h/obama-drink.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DzLMel1I/AAAAAAAACLY/Bw3PeSWlyh8/s400/obama-drink.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264078823411849042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">And beer???</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3FTuSarBI/AAAAAAAACL4/ryGF1QlkW-Y/s1600-h/125-6web-Obama_Beer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3FTuSarBI/AAAAAAAACL4/ryGF1QlkW-Y/s400/125-6web-Obama_Beer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264080482099440658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bitter Beer Face<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3FTqoHr1I/AAAAAAAACLw/cpHMWnDcVmE/s1600-h/hot+obama.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3FTqoHr1I/AAAAAAAACLw/cpHMWnDcVmE/s400/hot+obama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264080481116729170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bitter arugula face</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-_3eoUZI/AAAAAAAACKo/aCQpb3_7mgs/s1600-h/barack-obama-reading.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2-_3eoUZI/AAAAAAAACKo/aCQpb3_7mgs/s400/barack-obama-reading.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073543899435410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Reading, again!?</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DzYsBJRI/AAAAAAAACLg/eGBQVbpPYyI/s1600-h/obama-young.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3DzYsBJRI/AAAAAAAACLg/eGBQVbpPYyI/s400/obama-young.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264078827033797906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Just call me Barack ;)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3Dy-f02JI/AAAAAAAACLQ/6Gqn96yfQsA/s1600-h/obama-class-race-NA01-wide-horizontal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 222px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ3Dy-f02JI/AAAAAAAACLQ/6Gqn96yfQsA/s400/obama-class-race-NA01-wide-horizontal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264078820003338386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Obama!</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_Ae-K5_I/AAAAAAAACK4/PRnJL1sufkY/s1600-h/obama+-+lion+king.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 190px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQ2_Ae-K5_I/AAAAAAAACK4/PRnJL1sufkY/s400/obama+-+lion+king.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264073554500708338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Lion King<br /><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-57589439380427077752008-10-27T14:00:00.000-07:002008-10-29T13:36:19.840-07:00Driving Miss Hairy<div style=""> <table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"> <tbody><tr> <td style="padding: 0in;" align="left" valign="top"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div>I recently spent 8 months in Iran. When I went (when I started this page) I think I was going to try to discover, or figure something out about, my being Iranian. I’m still not sure I can describe my feelings about those experiences adequately with words. I didn’t really reach any huge epiphany about my identity. But I guess I decided that it’s nice, that I am Iranian, but really not such a big deal. I decided that from one perspective, it is all just chance. Identity is more about the decisions I make.<br /><br />Iran was beautiful, and full of wonderful things, and more a part of me now. I experienced things there that I never felt anywhere else, discovered how things there were interwoven in my life and my past. The personal factor I felt there never really figured in anywhere else. The same exact thing might offend me in Tehran, and make me smile in Belgrade. At the same time, this is way too simplified- it was personal, but foreign at the same time. At times very awkward indeed. I also saw a lot of things I didn’t like. And, although I am eager to go back to Iran, and it holds a special place in my heart, I am also eager to visit other places and people.<br /><br />So I choose to keep some things about 'Iran' in my identity (of course some parts of that I couldn’t escape anyway), but only as one of the many facets that equally define who I am, and that confusingly grow everyday.<br /><br />The world is full of wonderful things, and ugly things, the ugly things can be wonderful also, and many other kinds of things. I think it’s a good sign, however bewildering, when we come to a conclusion like this in life, where we sort of start from scratch, but knowing so much more. Like one little boring climactic moment in a long boring novel.<br /><br />That is about where my journey on this page left off. I’m still here, miraculously, figuring things out about myself and the world(s) which I find myself inside…<br /><br />Moving on…I left Tehran in late spring, back to Slobs, and our then headquarters in London. It was a divine feeling to dance and jump outdoors, with exposed arms and legs, alcoholic beverage dangling from my tanned wrist (the 'Tehran-Tan'), care-free. But I also missed the adventure, the layers of neglected, crusted over history and amusing nostalgia-riddled coincidences I came across every day in Iran...and had even become accustomed to, like the Jello, and the dusty chandeliers. I even got used to the dress code (but did not really miss it), and used to the other various codes and details you have to live by there – especially as a woman- not just concerning the government and the law, but also the society and family. Pitching a scarf over my head before leaving the house became a routine tic, like when you twist the tips of your hair, or check your teeth before you leave the bathroom. I admit it felt weird riding around on the back of our scooter with short shorts on, my yellowing arms and legs bare to all…<br /><br />A few weeks in London, draped in the beloved schizophrenic weather, alternating sunny and rainy, consisted of two camping trips - one for court-side seats at Wimbledon, where we stylishly supped on strawberries and sipped Pimm’s ; and another for a much raunchier episode at Brighton Beach (It’s a beach, yes, but don’t think it has anything to do with bikinis - think 1960s Rockers and Mods meet 1990s trash carnival, hipster music scene, giant killer seagulls, and a haunted looking beach), where we feasted on frisky fried fish with friendly chips and unenthusiastic English Ale, and in the shade of one giant gray cloud, we mused through the exhausted elegance of Brighton's streets.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYAVKzhv_I/AAAAAAAACH4/FzqFodfLj_g/s1600-h/Brighton+pier+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYAVKzhv_I/AAAAAAAACH4/FzqFodfLj_g/s400/Brighton+pier+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261893578306732018" border="0" /></a><brighton pic="">A couple days after I left in July, an easy breezy summer finally settled in London, and meanwhile I was greeted by a scorching heat which was comfortably sunk into a sweaty leather couch waiting impatiently to be peeled off , and a feisty air-conditioning gusting in my face…whistling vigorously, “Welcoooome Home!” I already felt bacterial assault on my sinuses (One tip for Texas visitors – pack winter clothes for summer and summer clothes for the winter, and your cowboy hat of course).<br /><br />At the JFK airport in New York, where I laid over for one day, we patiently waited for baggage claim number 4’s carousel to start moving. After a few minutes, rotating island number 6, a few meters down, twitched into motion. Shortly after, we were kindly instructed to move to 6, as the location of our baggage arrival had changed… “Morons!” the lady next to me knowingly and nonchalantly sneered, as if she expected this incompetency. Welcome to New York, I thought, as a mischievous smile tickled my lip hairs. My Texas welcome would be much different.<br /><br />I had been thinking about Texas, where I grew up, for a while now. During my last few months in Iran, I began to notice some similarities between the country I was living in – which my family was from - and the country, especially the state and city, which I grew up in. I believed that most people would be quick to nervously chuckle (or worse) at my idea that Texas and Iran are similar, believing only the contrary, that they have absolutely nothing in common. But once it popped in my head the more I thought about it, and the more similarities I came up with.<br /><br />Many people in these two places - Dallas and Tehran - thousands of miles away from each other, might focus on their differences. You could even say that the two are rarely allowed any articulation other than as enemies. So why not, for a change, let’s look at some similarities, if only for some fun, if only to make the differences funny as well. This is the list I came up with back when in Tehran:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wild Wild West v. Wild Wild East<br /><br /></span></brighton><brighton pic="">Shopping - the ‘Mall’ or ‘Passage’ (Arcade) and newer Iranian ‘Malls’ aspiring to the American model - and people who spend their days in them<br /><br />Cosmetic surgery hubs – Tehran is one of the biggest and Texas is second only to California in the USA – and probably girls (and guys in Iran) in both places ask for “J-Lo nose”<br /><br /></brighton><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb1sKgPR7I/AAAAAAAACJA/gUu-7pZi96M/s1600-h/nose+job.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 201px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb1sKgPR7I/AAAAAAAACJA/gUu-7pZi96M/s400/nose+job.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262163353711626162" border="0" /></a><br /><brighton pic="">Big hair<br /><br /></brighton><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQbzZEahTnI/AAAAAAAACIw/56EAHZ0juxM/s1600-h/texas+big+hair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQbzZEahTnI/AAAAAAAACIw/56EAHZ0juxM/s400/texas+big+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262160826636258930" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQby5i8kZuI/AAAAAAAACIo/KjwYa2gSahs/s1600-h/tehran+big+hair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 221px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQby5i8kZuI/AAAAAAAACIo/KjwYa2gSahs/s400/tehran+big+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262160285076317922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tehran</span><br /><br /></div><brighton pic="">Excessive make-up<br /><br />Friendly people, who may or may not be faking it - ‘Southern Hospitality’ in Texas and ‘Ta’arof’* in Iran<br /></brighton><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(*Ta’arof is difficult to translate to English. It is an everyday practice of some sort of friendly ritualistic hesitation/encouragement binary. For example there is a practice of refusing at least a couple of times when someone offers you something, and vice versa to insist on the offering at least a few times. Or, the taxi drivers always insist that you don’t pay but they never mean it. But there are thousands of other illustrations of ta’arof. Southern Hospitality could be described similarly, I think it is usually more sincere, but perhaps more often an unconscious habitual reaction. This is probably why they both seem artificial to me, as I am socialized into neither of the ritual codes.)</span><br /><br /><brighton pic="">Beautiful girls<br /><br />Rampant nationalism - Iranians dream about back when there was a Greater Iran and Texans of when it was its own nation<br /><br />Belt Buckles<br /></brighton><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsaK-_29I/AAAAAAAACGQ/QDsabAJ5Qco/s1600-h/Slobs+in+Iran+125.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsaK-_29I/AAAAAAAACGQ/QDsabAJ5Qco/s400/Slobs+in+Iran+125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261801305277455314" border="0" /></a><brighton pic=""><br /></brighton><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9ekkVEI/AAAAAAAACFI/pvK8NmWug6s/s1600-h/DSC04464.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9ekkVEI/AAAAAAAACFI/pvK8NmWug6s/s400/DSC04464.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261799712807474242" border="0" /></a><brighton style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" pic="">Tehran Bazaar</brighton><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><brighton pic=""></brighton></div><brighton pic="">Isolationist inclinations<br /><br />Los Angeles obsession - they both look to LA for inspiration in various fashions<br /><br />Big Highways<br /><br /></brighton><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYKAD4dQNI/AAAAAAAACIQ/jj-7e2hyy5Q/s1600-h/highway_500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYKAD4dQNI/AAAAAAAACIQ/jj-7e2hyy5Q/s400/highway_500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261904210787385554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Dallas<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx946TqGI/AAAAAAAACHI/6p77GTTPXno/s1600-h/Afsariyeh+Junction+-+Tehran.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 224px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx946TqGI/AAAAAAAACHI/6p77GTTPXno/s400/Afsariyeh+Junction+-+Tehran.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261807416459372642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Tehran</span></div><brighton pic=""><br />Big Cars<br /><br /></brighton><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtduZH9NI/AAAAAAAACHA/Cp5rNl7g_e4/s1600-h/velcome+to+texas+050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtduZH9NI/AAAAAAAACHA/Cp5rNl7g_e4/s400/velcome+to+texas+050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261802465833514194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Texas- Ford</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb1r822DdI/AAAAAAAACI4/UmTjJ6QkShM/s1600-h/prado.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb1r822DdI/AAAAAAAACI4/UmTjJ6QkShM/s400/prado.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262163350048345554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Tehran- Prado</span><br /><br /></div><prado><brighton pic="">Big Polluters - Texas would be 7th in the world if it were a country and in Tehran thousands die every year due to air pollution<br /><br />Over-consumption<br /><br />Religious extremism<br /><br />Oversized religious buildings, and highway side Churches/Mosques<br /><br /></brighton></prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQcKAkqFh8I/AAAAAAAACJw/AdD2-5eHqgg/s1600-h/roadside+mosque.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 243px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQcKAkqFh8I/AAAAAAAACJw/AdD2-5eHqgg/s400/roadside+mosque.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262185694562191298" border="0" /></a><br /><prado><brighton pic=""></brighton></prado><prado><brighton pic=""></brighton><brighton pic=""> Vibrant counter/underground-cultures - Goth/Metal/etc.<br /><br />Fast food – lots of it!<br /><br />Fried food – lots of it!!<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9iMvfCI/AAAAAAAACFY/amjfjLV3XF8/s1600-h/Slobs+in+Iran+119.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 189px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9iMvfCI/AAAAAAAACFY/amjfjLV3XF8/s400/Slobs+in+Iran+119.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261799713781283874" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Iran</span><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9s09L1I/AAAAAAAACFQ/k7r9w8XuyVM/s1600-h/fried+what.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 165px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWq9s09L1I/AAAAAAAACFQ/k7r9w8XuyVM/s400/fried+what.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261799716634308434" border="0" /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Fried What? </span></a><a style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.friedwhat.com/"><span>Texas</span></a></prado><br /><prado></prado></div><prado><brighton pic=""><br />Eating in the car – Iranians do it because there aren’t many places where teenagers can hang out together without being bothered, Texans perhaps because they are too high or too lazy<br /><br />Traffic<br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWyJl9ifpI/AAAAAAAACHo/e3fzwIBP0N4/s1600-h/traffic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWyJl9ifpI/AAAAAAAACHo/e3fzwIBP0N4/s400/traffic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261807617531084434" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tehran Traffic<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb4abFtNaI/AAAAAAAACJQ/Ds0j2ldxQdM/s1600-h/dallas+traffic+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb4abFtNaI/AAAAAAAACJQ/Ds0j2ldxQdM/s400/dallas+traffic+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262166347460982178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Dallas Traffic</span> <prado style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"></prado></div><prado><brighton pic=""><br />Everyone thinks they are both only desert<br /><br />Oil economy<br /><br />Immigrants do most of the hard labor and are still resented: Mexicans in Texas, Afghanis in Tehran<br /><br />Big gay population (with a state in denial)<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsZrUHJEI/AAAAAAAACGA/w58yPyzY8IU/s1600-h/Georges+Restaurant.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsZrUHJEI/AAAAAAAACGA/w58yPyzY8IU/s400/Georges+Restaurant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261801296776078402" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Lubbock, Texas</span><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQcPq_7sq0I/AAAAAAAACJ4/lC5PuDEfH58/s1600-h/GayIran.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQcPq_7sq0I/AAAAAAAACJ4/lC5PuDEfH58/s400/GayIran.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262191920996461378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Ghazvin, Iran</span><br /><br /></div><prado><brighton pic="">Crazy Presidents (Bush might as well be president of Texas)<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYIcVHxjjI/AAAAAAAACII/DTunmATv_LA/s1600-h/Texas+443.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQYIcVHxjjI/AAAAAAAACII/DTunmATv_LA/s400/Texas+443.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261902497428114994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Crawford, Texas<br /><br /></span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQbpBzvgfpI/AAAAAAAACIg/fxwUT0oc8gM/s1600-h/Texas+-+bush+not+from+texas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQbpBzvgfpI/AAAAAAAACIg/fxwUT0oc8gM/s400/Texas+-+bush+not+from+texas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262149431907614354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">But some of us disagree...</span><br /><br /></div>Men who eat too much<br /><prado><brighton pic=""><br />Women who talk too much<br /><br />BBQ<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsZyG0a-I/AAAAAAAACGI/WhCuXSLXZlk/s1600-h/lubbock+BBQ.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsZyG0a-I/AAAAAAAACGI/WhCuXSLXZlk/s400/lubbock+BBQ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261801298599373794" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Hickory Pit - Lubbock, Texas</span><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb6RZUFBDI/AAAAAAAACJY/Lb_jpvcfgTo/s1600-h/iran+kabab+livers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb6RZUFBDI/AAAAAAAACJY/Lb_jpvcfgTo/s400/iran+kabab+livers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262168391388824626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Liver Kabab Pit - Tehran, Iran</span><br /></div><prado><brighton pic=""><br />Giant food servings– only 2 places I’ve seen with portions this big, in Iran the kabab hangs of your plate, in Texas the steak hangs off (sometimes they give it to you for free, if you manage to<br />finish it, in Iran you have to finish it and then they make you eat more)<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsaXyg36I/AAAAAAAACGY/4W8ANfzr0FQ/s1600-h/steak.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 342px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWsaXyg36I/AAAAAAAACGY/4W8ANfzr0FQ/s400/steak.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261801308714753954" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">'The Big Texan'</span><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb8WIzPgsI/AAAAAAAACJg/Ii4zcWUuzBI/s1600-h/big+iranian+kabab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQb8WIzPgsI/AAAAAAAACJg/Ii4zcWUuzBI/s400/big+iranian+kabab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262170671878734530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"The Big Iranian"</span><br /><br /></div><prado><brighton pic="">There is a 'Friday’s' restaurant in Tehran, 'Friday’s' is from Dallas<br /><br />Pantera, the band from my home town Arlington, Texas, is popular in Iran - even though they spell it wrong<br /><br /></brighton><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx-xP9QrI/AAAAAAAACHg/KpmdXsMLA4s/s1600-h/iran+%28213%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx-xP9QrI/AAAAAAAACHg/KpmdXsMLA4s/s400/iran+%28213%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261807431582565042" border="0" /></a><brighton pic="">Pathetic state of pedestrian infrastructure, and a cowboy-like eagerness to run over bicyclists<br /><br />Bored house wives who spend their days in a spa, or shopping<br /><br />Rich people with bad taste, and over-sized homes<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><prado><brighton pic="">Great Mexican food<br /><br />...<br /></brighton></prado></div><prado><brighton pic=""></brighton></prado><br /><prado><brighton pic=""></brighton></prado><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><prado><brighton pic=""><span style="font-weight: bold;">Texas Ruminations and Hallucinations</span></brighton></prado><br /></div><prado><brighton pic=""></brighton></prado></div><prado><brighton pic=""><br />Back in Texas, I was of course reminded of the various profound differences, not only between Texas and Iran, but between Texas and other parts of the nation. For example, </brighton></prado> in Texas, Ranch salad dressing is classic white, in Iran ‘Ranch’ is a glowing florescent-pink.<prado><brighton pic=""> Or, If you say you're from Iran – people curiously light up “Oh cool…” and if you say you are from Texas they say, with simpering smile “OH, sorry about that"... Well, the bastards I hang out with anyway.<br /><br />In general I was reminded of how I had become a stranger, once again. In my first few days there, I almost felt like I was in another dimension, on a planet with incomprehensible aliens. And in a wildly mundane twist, I was the alien.<br /><br />When people spoke to me all I seemed to hear was “Wawawawawa.” Lining up for a buffet (‘buffet’ is one essential element of the food pyramid here), one man made direct eye contact and smiled at me. Baffled, I thought to myself: What did I do? Do I know him? Is he hitting on me!? Did he want something? As if we spoke different languages. And just at that moment, another person did the exact same thing. OK, I thought, seriously. What’s going on?<br /><br />Driving around Walgreens (a pharmacy chain, and the closest thing to ‘corner store’ where you could just buy a couple of something and not family-sized everything) with my dainty shopping cart, people kept cheerfully mouthing the words “Excuse me”… “Excuse Me.” One after another. But the crazy thing was, they weren’t even near me.<br /><br />Incidents like this, however tiny, the threads of daily life, are what made it all feel so bizarre.<br /><br />When I go to Texas, I always make a point to watch all the TV I have missed over the past year. Television programming seems to reach a strange new low each time I arrive – before I get used to it again. Aside from a few creative gems –it now consists of a badgering attempt at entertainment, pathetically and manically competing for our ever fading attention and withering gaze. And it never ceases to amaze me. The campaign commercials, for example, were just incredible. In one, McCain matter-of-factly stated about Obama that “He made time to go to the gym, but not to visit wounded troops.” And he eats arugula, he’s just like Britney Spears, etc. The retorts were almost, unfortunately but necessarily, just as bad. For the record, I adore arugula.<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx-JLCECI/AAAAAAAACHQ/6ThBBCjF5KU/s1600-h/obama.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWx-JLCECI/AAAAAAAACHQ/6ThBBCjF5KU/s400/obama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261807420824490018" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Yee Haw!!</span><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><prado><brighton pic="">Outside my island of house with 2 car garage and 2.5 children, at the grocery store, one of several within 5 minutes drive, I was on a shopping safari. Some giant customers slowly rolled out heavy carts across the silent sun-stroked parking lot. In the distance, the gas station glistened under the sunshine and the donut shop sign twinkled unyielding, cheerfully beckoning. Inside, I was bombarded with aggressive sale tactics bathed in bad lighting and laborious labels. Almost every single product was tagged with some encouragement – “2 for $5!” “5 for $10!!” “Buy one of these get a free toothbrush!” and etc. Run! Duck! I realized that the only way to save money is to buy a lot. I resisted, was never sure which loaf of bread to buy, dodging dodgy promotions left and right, and in the end spent what seemed like way to much for not that much stuff. But I survived, I think.<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWrqdL8fXI/AAAAAAAACF4/b-iKDyzcfGE/s1600-h/grocerystore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWrqdL8fXI/AAAAAAAACF4/b-iKDyzcfGE/s400/grocerystore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261800485529877874" border="0" /></a></prado><span style="font-style: italic;">from Flickr user lyzadanger</span><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><prado><brighton pic="">On the mean streets of Suburbia, a ghost town yawned, midday, only a few stray cars and planes zipping here and there (DFW airport is a few miles away). Rows of houses quietly queued up, the only sound a bubbling of backyard pools or an occasional tongue-tied squirrel rustling, still neatly at work, or up to no good.<br /><br />Besides amusing myself with the TV, I also spend a lot of time sunbathing on our flaking backyard deck, scrutinizing the surrounds. On the house tops, the chimneys look lonely and wonder why they are here, on this hot Texas planet – existential chimneys. From our yard I stared at a few. I notice, with a primeval sigh of joy, that nature is still putting up a pretty good battle. Every summer we redo our pool’s tiling, and every year the earth moves beneath it, cracking the shiny blue veneer once again. Weeds dance in their Suburban theatre, parading each victory, one scrawny stem at a time; ravenous grapevines strangle the fence. The only noises I hear are the birds, who have saved the chimney’s raison d’être, and then an airplane, which for a few moments breaks their supremacy in the Suburban soundscape, draws a line through the picture of nature I have created with my field of vision, of trees, animals tinkering, a square of blue sky, and clouds of floating hippos, imagining out all the artificial surroundings.<br /><br /></brighton><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWqX4Tkp3I/AAAAAAAACFA/cvp6ikdvEGI/s1600-h/backyard+sky+vies.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWqX4Tkp3I/AAAAAAAACFA/cvp6ikdvEGI/s400/backyard+sky+vies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261799066880485234" border="0" /></a><br /><brighton pic="">I also drive a lot when I am in Texas, enough to make up for the entire past year of not driving. Coasting along wide endless highways, in the vast Texas sky corpulent clouds reminisce about the good old days of Texan independence, and the horizon steams like a hippy trance. My only companions are big menacing trucks. The trance is rendered all the more odd when a giant space shuttle church shoots up alongside the highway, or a massive billboard reads ‘call 1 800 WHY ISLAM’?<br /><br /></brighton></prado><div style="text-align: center;"><prado><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtc0xW2NI/AAAAAAAACGo/gWBltVrjxaM/s1600-h/WHY+ISLAM.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtc0xW2NI/AAAAAAAACGo/gWBltVrjxaM/s400/WHY+ISLAM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261802450365896914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Texas - Highway 183</span></prado><br /><br /><prado></prado></div><prado><brighton pic="">Sometimes I miss my exit (especially as you often turn off consciousness switching on auto-pilot) only to take the next monotonous exit one mile down and turn around.<br /><br />“Love’s Theme,” that epic disco anthem, was playing on the radio, and for a moment I amused myself with the idea that this could be hell – stuck inside the highway, where I keep missing my exit and loop around, with that song playing, and ambiguous flecks of discarded memories haunting the back of my mind.<br /><br /></brighton><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtdNh3ddI/AAAAAAAACG4/UpVtXCow_MI/s1600-h/stink+creek+rd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SQWtdNh3ddI/AAAAAAAACG4/UpVtXCow_MI/s400/stink+creek+rd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261802457011811794" border="0" /></a><br /><brighton pic="">Then I snap back into consciousness, startled, once again, by how I made it to where I was but didn’t know how I got there.<br /><br /><br /></brighton></prado><br /><prado><brighton pic=""><br /></brighton></prado>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-5794393698074171522008-06-28T03:01:00.000-07:002008-06-28T05:57:58.696-07:00Child Stars in Iran<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo4gaqbUI/AAAAAAAAB_M/bfHK1xziozU/s1600-h/children_of_heaven.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 165px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo4gaqbUI/AAAAAAAAB_M/bfHK1xziozU/s400/children_of_heaven.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216902169594850626" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There is a good chance you have seen or heard about an Iranian film. If so, there's an even better chance that the film's main star was a child...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo5aAL4UI/AAAAAAAAB_c/vI3tB2d1Yf4/s1600-h/running+children.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 149px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo5aAL4UI/AAAAAAAAB_c/vI3tB2d1Yf4/s400/running+children.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216902185053053250" border="0" /></a>There are several reasons for this. One of them being, that children would be more free to express themselves naturally than an adult or teenage woman or even man...they are less political, sexual, etc. Therefore, in order to make their films seem more realistic, many directors opt for a child centered plot. This, as some of you might know, worked wonders in International film festivals.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo5Gv2GDI/AAAAAAAAB_U/mAHVJS7wHpQ/s1600-h/friends+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 264px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYo5Gv2GDI/AAAAAAAAB_U/mAHVJS7wHpQ/s400/friends+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216902179884242994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYOemvLgkI/AAAAAAAAB-U/seKA3j7hdig/s1600-h/masuleh+048.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYOemvLgkI/AAAAAAAAB-U/seKA3j7hdig/s400/masuleh+048.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216873137312596546" border="0" /></a>While in Iran, I discovered a similar phenomenon in the billboards around the country. Children are also billboard stars. And it wasn't only the toy stores or sweet shops. Any type of store would employ the use of children for advertising, from photo shops to corner stores, various billboard product ads, or shops that sell specialty Iranian cooking products.<br /><br />Advertisements with men and women do exist, but basically, if you want to put some life in your ad, and not attract too much controversy (safer for the business), it's simple...just use kids.<br /><br />Sometimes they are quite funny and cute...sometimes scary!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYQ9QdMcvI/AAAAAAAAB-k/6lAOJyR55Gs/s1600-h/masuleh+066.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYQ9QdMcvI/AAAAAAAAB-k/6lAOJyR55Gs/s400/masuleh+066.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216875862930780914" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYXcTaZeLI/AAAAAAAAB-s/YHOv8iEuUNA/s1600-h/masuleh+067.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYXcTaZeLI/AAAAAAAAB-s/YHOv8iEuUNA/s400/masuleh+067.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216882993370069170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYXcms50kI/AAAAAAAAB-0/WpKy2Py68oA/s1600-h/masuleh+068.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYXcms50kI/AAAAAAAAB-0/WpKy2Py68oA/s400/masuleh+068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216882998547960386" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYOfMKy0nI/AAAAAAAAB-c/t4FRQPd_B4w/s1600-h/masuleh+049.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYOfMKy0nI/AAAAAAAAB-c/t4FRQPd_B4w/s400/masuleh+049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216873147360531058" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYManz4okI/AAAAAAAAB90/XW7aD1mZayU/s1600-h/DSC05836.JPG"><img alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYManz4okI/AAAAAAAAB90/XW7aD1mZayU/s400/DSC05836.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMa9STzAI/AAAAAAAAB98/5e9oEmabi-g/s1600-h/DSC05837.JPG"><img alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMa9STzAI/AAAAAAAAB98/5e9oEmabi-g/s400/DSC05837.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMa65yvVI/AAAAAAAAB-E/jehr6qOHlzg/s1600-h/DSC05840.JPG"><img alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMa65yvVI/AAAAAAAAB-E/jehr6qOHlzg/s400/DSC05840.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMbKTYMGI/AAAAAAAAB-M/LnIOyafOuVQ/s1600-h/DSC05872.JPG"><img alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYMbKTYMGI/AAAAAAAAB-M/LnIOyafOuVQ/s400/DSC05872.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYmWKxeG3I/AAAAAAAAB_E/JxO32w9nTcE/s1600-h/shiraz+%2836%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SGYmWKxeG3I/AAAAAAAAB_E/JxO32w9nTcE/s400/shiraz+%2836%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216899380646124402" border="0" /></a>Say Cheese!<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-51683317137156724322008-06-11T14:00:00.000-07:002009-01-18T00:49:40.730-08:00A Hairy Search<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SE5quTizm4I/AAAAAAAAB74/kJjPjhYNrjc/s1600-h/camelboot2EPA1805_228x429.jpg"><span id="formatbar_Buttons" style="DISPLAY: block"><span onmouseup="" class="on" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 4);ButtonMouseDown(this);" id="formatbar_Italic" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" title="Italic" style="DISPLAY: block" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);"></span></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210219162667031426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SE5quTizm4I/AAAAAAAAB74/kJjPjhYNrjc/s400/camelboot2EPA1805_228x429.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Hairy on the Road</span></span><br /><br /></div>In Google Analytics, a web-page tracker, I can see how many people come to my page, from where, how, from which country, which page they linked from, etc.<br /><br />I can also see how people arrived the via the keyword(s) they used on Google, or other search engines. It's interesting to see the kind of people who end up on my page, and how they got there... Some are quite hilarious, so I thought I'd share a few of them with you! I've copied them directly, exactly, with punctuation as originally found...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Following are the top 3 Keywords used to get to my blog in the last 30 days ("Hairy Mex" tops the charts nearly every month)<br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">1. hairy mex</span> (top of the charts with 16 hits)<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">2. arab city nicknamed bride of the desert </span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">3. hairy school</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The rest only get better. I had no idea that so many people have this fetish. There is just about every combination you can think of with the word "hairy" Just to recount a few...</span><br /><br /></span>hairy funny<br />hairy iranian women<br />iranian women's swimming pictures<br />ancient iranian shoes<br />bad iranian landlady<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">camel has thick and less hairy skin. why?</span><br />cameroon very hairy black women<br />chiraz hairy<br />deconstructing a swimming pool<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">free photos of young lads with hairy legs</span><br />green hairy pomegranite<br />hairy ancient photos<br />hairy and swimming<br />hairy bears swimming in ice cold<br />hairy bollocks pictures<br />hairy desert woman<br />hairy european lady<br />hairy bride or hirsute bride or unshaved bride<br />hairy desert woman<br />hairy face boys<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">hairy hard working gay yellow hat</span><br />hairy in the pool<br />hairy indonesian girls<br />hairy little old sexy picture or movie<br />hairy mex com<br />hairy moroccan girls<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">hairy old grannies</span><br />hairy old men blogspot<br />hairy older women locker room<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">hairy shoes</span><br />hairy shoe<br />hairy shir<br />hairy solo woman<br />hairy street <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><br />hairy teacher with young students</span><br />hairy women with great large hips<br />hairy women in saunas<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">hairy woman looking for men in los angeles</span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">iranian roosters</span><br />kurdish hairy woman<br />mecca hairy model<br />old hairy bear man links com<br />only free photos of hairy women, her name is iran<br />picture of hairy women of israel<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">serbian girls hairy?</span><br />shirazis lazy<br />shop hejab in london<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">steps to deconstruct a swimming pool</span><br />Ukrainian hairy everywhere girls<br />what human activities occur in dasht-e kavir?<br />what is the arab city nicknamed bride of the desert?<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">who invented tweezers?</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hirsutism"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">hirsutism</span></a> (from Latin hirsutus = shaggy, hairy) is defined as excessive and increased hair growth on women in locations where the occurrence of terminal hair normally is minimal or absent. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></span><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></span><br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SE8ZWeQ85II/AAAAAAAAB8I/Ql91Q87WlF4/s1600-h/Nuremberg_chronicles_-_Strange_People_-_Hairy_Lady_%28XIIv%29.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210411167762932866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SE8ZWeQ85II/AAAAAAAAB8I/Ql91Q87WlF4/s400/Nuremberg_chronicles_-_Strange_People_-_Hairy_Lady_%28XIIv%29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hirsutism"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-19182856968454839642008-06-07T03:15:00.000-07:002009-01-18T00:47:49.269-08:00On the RoadBelow the kitchen window of our tiny London apartment lies the garden of a dingy local pub, where neighborhood people with nothing better to do hang out and get drunk every day.<br /><br />"The only thing you fear is fear itself!" were Jonathon's repeated words of wisdom.<br /><br />The girl wore her bleached blond hair back in a ratty tail. They drank beer at separate tables in the garden, it was Wednesday around lunchtime - her with a chubby girlfriend him with the sports paper. She has recently broken up with her boyfriend, and can't get enough of talking about herself and asking everyone for advice. Jonathon is her broken ego's new victim, but he doesn't seem to mind giving his 2 cents anyway, even if it means looking up from the sports page for a half-hour or so. It's two days in a row now, we've been listening to her whining, as we wash the dishes and watch the clouds. Jonathon has just convinced her to give the ex-bloke a call.<br /><br />"We love Jonathon!" she moaned, flip flop-ing over to give him a hug. <br /><br />As her face contorted back into seriousness, "But deep down, from the bottom of you heart, Jonathon, you think I should really call him? Is it not chasing?" And then started the exact same conversation over again.<br /><br />.................<br /><br />"You fucking bAAAAhstad" a loud grumbly voice wailed. The typical weekend night drunken cry in our street, sometimes accompanied by smashing glass. "Yoouuu Wankaaah!" He continued, and on and on, in that cartoonish voice of impotent anger, like an R&B voice who lost its soul.<br /><br />...................<br /><br />So I'm back in London, it seems. 2 Weeks ago I left Iran, after 8 months. Believe it or not, I did hear some pretty funny things out of my Tehran window on a weekend night: mostly cars racing each other's engines or speakers, people screaming and clapping to loud Iranian music, the occasional lonesome dude strolling down the vacant street playing an accordion. Although the greatest street sound I ever heard would have to be in Paris, one late late night several years ago: After the noise of a car backfire 'BOOM!', one feeble sounding Frenchman cried softly, rather frankly, "Ouch." I laughed in bed for an hour.<br /><br />I was sad to leave Iran... although, I was also excited to leave, returning to London and to my own bloke. But then I was very sad to leave my friends and my strange life there in that crazy country. (I'm trying to resist these modern-global-villagey feelings of wanting to be everywhere always, but it's difficult, having loved ones scattered around every corner of the place.)<br /><br />Admittedly, Iranian society was not an easy one to live -or float around- in, having grown up in the West where we take for granted those tiny everyday freedoms (even though I lived with an Iranian family), which in Iran are imposed by the state, society, culture and family.<br /><br />For a while in my life now I've done pretty much what I wanted, all on my own, often alone, which was an empowering feeling - whether I knew it or not. I could do this in Iran as well, but not without consequences, albeit usually minor ones (and not always of course). Those minor dissuasions however eventually wear down on you, and just the fact that you are technically doing something unlawful most of the time sort of effects you psychologically. To most of the young people and women in Iran however, this is probably a more normalized feeling...Ironically I got hassled about "bad hejab" only once in my entire stay, on my very last day.<br /><br />Being an Iranian myself, I realized that because of understanding the language and culture, I sometimes felt more sensitive to various things that bothered me. Interestingly, I also realized how much the western way of living has influenced my tastes, although not exactly western but some nominally obscure melange of tastes I've picked up here and there. For example, I love the straightforwardness of Balkan and Arab hospitality, whereas the games played in Iranian hospitality and the whole 'taarof' business aren't really my cup of tea. The 1000 faces thing also really drives me crazy, and my memory isn't so strong.<br /><br />Or maybe I have developed some sort of new-found magnetic repulsion to things "Iranian"...why should I love Iran (most Iranians do, excessively) so much when there are 100s of other interesting countries and cultures with interesting things to offer? I just happened to have parents from there. It's something similar to a mother for bragging about her kids, when there are millions of other babies and kids out there with great traits, who have accomplished even bigger things...hmm. Plus it's just embarrassing when your mom brags about you.<br /><br />Yes, I had mostly good things to say about Iran, and those were all true. There were plenty of not so rosy things as well, but that's everywhere. All in all, I guess it could also be called a very normal experience...quite often I was just doing what you could call 'hanging out'.<br /><br />As I was preparing to leave, I thought about when I was first arriving. And, like many of my memories from how I used to be a few months ago, I thought how naive I was, and how much more of a practical perspective I have now--though hardly complete. I remembered that I thought it was a new chapter in my life...and if that was the case, now the chapter would be coming to an end. But my newly rooted and more mature self didn't see it that way any longer. It felt more like one long chapter, or maybe a volume with lots of little topical chapters inside. Maybe it was a chapter then, but not now.<br /><br />Arriving in London -leaving Tehran was much less dramatic than first arriving- we immediately headed for Amsterdam to visit some friends. (Btw I just love that suggestive "OOOOH" response whenever you tell someone you are going to Amsterdam) But really, I love Amsterdam. Maybe it had something to do with the strong contrast, coming from Tehran and all it's social complexities...<br /><br />As our ferry approached land, the port in Holland looked just like a Lego land, with neat little colored boxes and trucks, tidy square shaped machinery with techno gadgets to sweep them to and fro, windmills, giant pipes towers, and and a neat little road for just about everything.<br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">First Views of Holland:<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4esLqt1I/AAAAAAAAB4s/DXL92XHhci4/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209530600123971410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4esLqt1I/AAAAAAAAB4s/DXL92XHhci4/s400/Netherlands+2008+002.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv5Pl2kHiI/AAAAAAAAB5M/oj5VzWZbjWs/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209531440238435874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv5Pl2kHiI/AAAAAAAAB5M/oj5VzWZbjWs/s400/Netherlands+2008+013.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4fTpVmMI/AAAAAAAAB40/ZmbX9OFwOwI/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209530610717399234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4fTpVmMI/AAAAAAAAB40/ZmbX9OFwOwI/s400/Netherlands+2008+017.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4fxABZII/AAAAAAAAB48/DCsUHEK5fCc/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+021.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209530618597172354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv4fxABZII/AAAAAAAAB48/DCsUHEK5fCc/s400/Netherlands+2008+021.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJHuSUvRI/AAAAAAAAB6E/UlzhPmkOovE/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+022.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209548897249443090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJHuSUvRI/AAAAAAAAB6E/UlzhPmkOovE/s400/Netherlands+2008+022.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://www.panoramio.com/photo/271078"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Legoland!</span></span></a><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SExtSldQIUI/AAAAAAAAB7U/7a0k7IcTIjY/s1600-h/271078.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209659035020697922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SExtSldQIUI/AAAAAAAAB7U/7a0k7IcTIjY/s400/271078.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SExsRBagKpI/AAAAAAAAB7M/hdLfB7GtKOI/s1600-h/legoland.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209657908653992594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SExsRBagKpI/AAAAAAAAB7M/hdLfB7GtKOI/s400/legoland.jpg" border="0" /></a>One of the best parts of our stay, aside from all the tasty beer (and drinking it in public!), was probably the The Hague Jazz Festival. Not only was the music excellent and diverse, it was also the most 'civilized' festival I'd ever witnessed. This 'jazz crowd', we discovered, is definitely of our style: Old, mellow, coool, eats bagels, drinks Lavazza coffee, those cheesy-used to be-cool but now just lazy and normal but still likes to have fun and get-down every once in a while kinda crowd - congregated in a 'dirty'-but-controlled environment. Every few meters was a stand selling goodies, refreshments (not just overpriced bad beer), snacks, and other fun consumer stuff.<br /><br />Waiting in one line, the old jazzy geezers, holding their fiery bladders to see some eclectic world music, actually got in an argument. It was quickly doused with some beer and take it easy snaps, when a 60 year old woman with a giant blond bouffant bun turned to us and said not to miss the after party at the so-and-so hotel - she went last year and was woken up in the morning passed out on the couch, she then smoothly proceeded to have breakfast at the hotel. We didn't make it that night...maybe I'll have my second wind by the time I'm 60.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD3OyCScI/AAAAAAAAB5k/1EHWpEZPA_U/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209543116356471234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD3OyCScI/AAAAAAAAB5k/1EHWpEZPA_U/s400/Netherlands+2008+020.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Sean Kuti and the Egypt 80 at The Hague Jazz Festival</span></span><br /><br /></div>Also excellent was the little Balkan-Diaspora reunion we joined at a sweet new restaurant in Utrecht (a sweet little bicycle controlled town near Amsterdam) called Noa...which started with a pork feast dolled, and ended up with the owner of the place playing a bunch of balkan-nostalgie on the turn-tables and breaking glasses in his own place, girls (and boys) dancing on tables littered with rakia (a domestic brandy), and male machismo tearing out of it's thin skin of european-culture.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJ2sQFMtI/AAAAAAAAB6s/a0ZmofoOIdE/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+031.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209549704157016786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJ2sQFMtI/AAAAAAAAB6s/a0ZmofoOIdE/s400/Netherlands+2008+031.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwK3NAR9RI/AAAAAAAAB68/nxBsoA8Nqq0/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+064.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209550812460741906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwK3NAR9RI/AAAAAAAAB68/nxBsoA8Nqq0/s400/Netherlands+2008+064.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Serbs Gone Wild</span></span><br /></div><br />Finally, we experienced the famous Dutch spa (although we went on the women's only day) - similar to any spa experience, except add a bunch of lovely naked old dutch women tanning their red leathery skins on the roof - smoking ciggies, knitting, gossiping, while sipping on a cold beer - this is the life.<br /><br />The greatest thing about The Netherlands is, of course, the bicycles. As a bicyclist you have nothing to worry about--everything is perfectly set up for you, you just ride. And girls ride around on bikes in skirts and red heels. By contrast, in Tehran there are about 10 bicyclists (I know a couple of them personally) in total, and they all deserve a war medal.<br /><br />There are plenty of other quirky things to love about the city also...for example fact that everyone has this slight grin of content smeared across their faces all the time, people hanging out or even living on boats, supping in front of canals, the whole Lego look. Although the architecture is fantastic, the fashion isn't always the greatest, which I find charming.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEvu3HvoI/AAAAAAAAB50/vL7Zli5OSbk/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+026.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209544087040409218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEvu3HvoI/AAAAAAAAB50/vL7Zli5OSbk/s400/Netherlands+2008+026.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Boat Crossing (Slobs is excited)!<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEv4kYnaI/AAAAAAAAB58/nfHyTSbHMYQ/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209544089646177698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEv4kYnaI/AAAAAAAAB58/nfHyTSbHMYQ/s400/Netherlands+2008+028.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Fashion?<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJ1_Xf7WI/AAAAAAAAB6k/uFFqDQWMhEA/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+050.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209549692108533090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJ1_Xf7WI/AAAAAAAAB6k/uFFqDQWMhEA/s400/Netherlands+2008+050.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Children of the Corn supping on the canal</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJIsWqkwI/AAAAAAAAB6c/j6sQiqB_WDk/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+080.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209548913910649602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJIsWqkwI/AAAAAAAAB6c/j6sQiqB_WDk/s400/Netherlands+2008+080.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">"Venice of the North"</span></span><br /><br /></div>To sum up Amsterdam -and my Netherlands experience in general- it's like a village where the world comes to you -a third the size of London with the same number of living nationalities- a real 'global village.' Like having the world in your pocket!<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD2fcQVqI/AAAAAAAAB5U/MzWZXQW1Gvs/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209543103648650914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD2fcQVqI/AAAAAAAAB5U/MzWZXQW1Gvs/s400/Netherlands+2008+004.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italicfont-size:85%;" >Tropical (Anthropological) Museum<br /><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJIM1F7TI/AAAAAAAAB6M/dQ89wDQJRKg/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+041.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209548905448336690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwJIM1F7TI/AAAAAAAAB6M/dQ89wDQJRKg/s400/Netherlands+2008+041.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Royal Health Foam</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD24l-WwI/AAAAAAAAB5c/iGhaIHO-Hz8/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+027.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209543110400301826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwD24l-WwI/AAAAAAAAB5c/iGhaIHO-Hz8/s400/Netherlands+2008+027.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Anne Frank</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEvXlBNOI/AAAAAAAAB5s/kUEJNzK07Sg/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+081.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209544080790467810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEwEvXlBNOI/AAAAAAAAB5s/kUEJNzK07Sg/s400/Netherlands+2008+081.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuschinski"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Theater Tuschinski </span></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">built in 1921</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv5OzunnTI/AAAAAAAAB5E/fQlHCK_ADoY/s1600-h/Netherlands+2008+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209531426783337778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SEv5OzunnTI/AAAAAAAAB5E/fQlHCK_ADoY/s400/Netherlands+2008+009.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=1488720529695906663&postID=1918285696845483964"></a> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Neenee on the ferry</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-58332977975804543042008-05-23T02:00:00.000-07:002008-05-30T16:21:22.389-07:00Big Brother in Shiraz<div><br /><div><div><div><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKMPcZCBoI/AAAAAAAAB3Q/qthEPyQD2tM/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+113.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div><div><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLQ8ZCBlI/AAAAAAAAB24/pBy0IVy4VpI/s1600-h/shiraz+%2837%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202373642771629650" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLQ8ZCBlI/AAAAAAAAB24/pBy0IVy4VpI/s400/shiraz+%2837%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span>“Khoda Marg Beheshoon Bedan!” (May God kill them.)<br /><br />I was surprised, as the worst curse my friend's granny uses would be “Saar-e Omar” -- which means "Omar’s Head" (disputed Sunni Imam). After some more chatting, she said it again....and again a few minutes later.<br /><br />The young man she was speaking to, who helps her with all kinds of house maintenance, also has a full time job with the municipality of Shiraz. That day he worked his usual shift from 5am until dark, but without the allotted 2 hour break, and no lunch was provided.<br /><br />They were preparing the city for the arrival of “Rahbar”—the Supreme Leader, who was visiting Fars province for a week. The city had to be sparkling, and free from rubbish, all dolled-up with massive posters and banners of the leader sweeping across every street view. Every few meters a giant poster billowed. At one intersection we counted 10 within eyesight. Each poster was of a different pose and mood, sometimes with a smile, or sometimes with a serious but compassionate gaze into the distance. It must have been quite a photo shoot. It was also interesting to notice the difference between the current leader’s wide grin beside the more austere, stoic look on Ayatollah Khomeini’s face in some of the posters. I guess nobody likes a moody leader anymore.<div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJmsZCBfI/AAAAAAAAB2I/mrpjBlhRsHc/s1600-h/shiraz+%2814%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202371817410528754" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJmsZCBfI/AAAAAAAAB2I/mrpjBlhRsHc/s400/shiraz+%2814%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Half of the streets in the city were closed off. All the buses leading to the Hafez stadium, where the leader was giving his first day’s speech, were free. Men, women and children chaotically jammed into the buses. The footage we watched on television was bewildering. Thousands of supporters swarmed like ants around the leader’s bus as it approached the stadium, crying out and banging on the window behind which his black-turbaned head timidly nestled, as he waved his hand slowly and smiled. He looked so tiny and vulnerable next to the maddened masses. His smile seemed to hide a hidden terror, which we were not sure of. We wondered if he would ever make a trip like this again, so loudly heralded in advance.<span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKN4MZCBuI/AAAAAAAAB4A/9P-yurBieT0/s1600-h/shiraz+%2812%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202376516104750818" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKN4MZCBuI/AAAAAAAAB4A/9P-yurBieT0/s400/shiraz+%2812%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />It was announced that a free kabab lunch was to be served in Jahan Park for those who visited from outside the city. (noted that in Serbia it was quite similar, but with free ‘cevapis’—a pork and lamb kebab.)<span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKjMZCBjI/AAAAAAAAB2o/DzFE09KOqU4/s1600-h/shiraz+%2834%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202372856792614450" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKjMZCBjI/AAAAAAAAB2o/DzFE09KOqU4/s400/shiraz+%2834%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">free kabab everyone!!</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /></span></span></span>Near our place, a microcosm of the big event was taking place. An ice cream truck giving away free ice cream was attacked by hordes of greedy consumers. Every once in a while the ice cream man threw out an entire box of treats, and the crowd would literally tear it to pieces, like lions fighting over a leg of meat. I thought surely some of the people were poor and hungry, but as far as I could tell, that didn’t seem to be the case. Several giggling teenage boys hoarded bundles of 10 or more melting ice cream packs in their hands, definitely not able to eat them all, or even get home in time before they melted.<span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJMcZCBdI/AAAAAAAAB14/gERDN7-Jj5o/s1600-h/shiraz+%286%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202371366438962642" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJMcZCBdI/AAAAAAAAB14/gERDN7-Jj5o/s400/shiraz+%286%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJmcZCBeI/AAAAAAAAB2A/6GQURfUHxiM/s1600-h/shiraz+%287%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202371813115561442" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKJmcZCBeI/AAAAAAAAB2A/6GQURfUHxiM/s400/shiraz+%287%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKFPsZCBZI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/N3p6Xe3SLJk/s1600-h/shiraz+%288%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202367024227026322" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKFPsZCBZI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/N3p6Xe3SLJk/s400/shiraz+%288%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></span></span></div>The talk of the week was about how much money had been spent for this occasion, with unofficial accounts reporting around $1 million. By the end of my stay, that amount had risen to $4 million, each person who retold the news adding a token million or 2. Whatever amount it was, it was definitely a lot.<br /><br />One taxi driver contemplated, "If only someone would come burn these posters in the night. But that doesn't happen anymore. No one is into revolutionary stuff anymore. Back then, it would happen..."<br /><br />Passenger added, "Yes, now everyone is just glued to their mobiles! No one cares, everyone is selfish and into material things..."<br /><br />and etc.<br /><br />Another time, one woman prayed: “Khodah koneh baroon nayyad. Bad migan az ghadam-e Rahbar bood!” (God, don’t let it rain. Or else the people will say, it’s thanks to the Leader's coming!). A similar situation was brought up, when the Shah visited a town in 1978, a few days after he left there was a big earthquake, and everyone blamed it on him. Plenty of superstitious beliefs like these persist.<br /><br />Other strange belief systems and practices persist among the more educated classes as well. For example, often my family would pose questions to me, but directed to the person sitting next to me, usually my grandmother, as if I were a child, or not there.<br /><br />They don't believe that I can cook, and hover behind me any time I attemp something in the kitchen. When I do something contrary to their system (kitchen-epistemology), they ask: "Does it really taste good that way?" Yes, I say, it's okay. "But does your husband like it?" they say (which is the real question). I'm also convinced sometimes they still don't believe I am married, or they quickly forget, even though they met my husband, and he even sang them a song in Persian...<br /><br />Another strange phenomenon, young girls become “aunties” pretty quickly, commenting earnestly on who got fat or skinny and why, or who’s recently gotten plastic surgery. One of my cousins says she wears an item of clothing only once, unless of course the crowd is different.<br /><div><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKIFsZCBcI/AAAAAAAAB1w/RTmTj3mvUwM/s1600-h/shiraz+%283%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202370150963217858" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKIFsZCBcI/AAAAAAAAB1w/RTmTj3mvUwM/s400/shiraz+%283%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />...to name a few.<br /><br />But overall, the Shirazis seem like a very happy bunch, always partying and fooling around. In the spring and summer, they spend most of time in ‘baghs’ -orchards- around the city. Temperatures are much cooler and shadier, and families sit around eating, drinking, cracking nuts and seeds, playing, singing and dancing from noon until midnight. Most parties or dinners take place in a bagh at this time of year.<span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKNi8ZCBsI/AAAAAAAAB3w/QxO18IRGMRE/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+113.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202376151032530626" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKNi8ZCBsI/AAAAAAAAB3w/QxO18IRGMRE/s400/shiraz-yazd+113.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKNjMZCBtI/AAAAAAAAB34/Ebdxy9v1g2E/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+112.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202376155327497938" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKNjMZCBtI/AAAAAAAAB34/Ebdxy9v1g2E/s400/shiraz-yazd+112.jpg" border="0" /></a>Latest news, however, is that Arabs from the Gulf (Arabian or Persian?!?) are quickly buying up land in Shiraz. The weather here in the summer is far cooler than in the Gulf, especially in the baghs. Several massive hotels are also being built in Shiraz, being labelled by some "the next Dubai."<span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKQ8ZCBhI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/4uHa24yzV4c/s1600-h/shiraz+%2823%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202372543260001810" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKQ8ZCBhI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/4uHa24yzV4c/s400/shiraz+%2823%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLxcZCBnI/AAAAAAAAB3I/Si-318JUKmA/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+110.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202374201117378162" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLxcZCBnI/AAAAAAAAB3I/Si-318JUKmA/s400/shiraz-yazd+110.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLxMZCBmI/AAAAAAAAB3A/en4t6h1qCXk/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+108.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202374196822410850" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKLxMZCBmI/AAAAAAAAB3A/en4t6h1qCXk/s400/shiraz-yazd+108.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The melodious accent, along with other characteristics, could compare to a southern American twang, with a famous "oo" added to the end of everything. Just for fun, some things a Shirazi might say (this may only be interesting for the Iranian readers):<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div><br />Oo shab to baghoo khayli khosh gozasht. (We had fun that night in the orchard!)<br /><br />Che’qha’ zesht shodan! (He's got so ugly!)<br /><br />Az yakhchaloo yey ab mivey begir. (Get some juice from that there fridge.)<br /><br />Ee gowlha che qashang-an (These flowers are so purty)<br /><br />Ye-ha! (similar to Yee-haw)<br /><br />Bakesh nist. Tarifi-am nadaran. (It ain't nothin special)<br /><br />Migam Ha…. (I'm tellin ya...)<br /><br />Haa. (yep)<br /><br />Bah bah (mmm mmm)<br /><br />Oh’ Oh’ Oh’! (Oh Gawd!)<br /><br />Ay Val. (You go boy/girl!)<br /><br />E’qad dawq bood emrooz. E’qad dawq bood. (It sure was hot today...soooo hot)<br /><br />Ee re? Ya oo re? (This'on? Or that one?)<br /><br />Yey javoonak ma-re rensand. Khoda obr beysh-oon bede. (A youngin' brought us home, God bless him.)<br /><br />Chizi an-chenani nist. (It was nothin real special)<br /><br />Tokhmak bokhorim. (lets eat some seeds)<br /><br />Kakoo (bro)<br /><br />Finally, the typical intro to a phonecall in Shiraz:<br />Allo? Salam. Hal-e Sar Kar? Chetowwri? Khoobi? Bacheha Khooban?.....<br /><br />And in Tehran, for comparison:<br />Allo? Salam. Khoobi? Mokhlesim. Nokaretam. Ghorboon-et......<br /><div><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKQ8ZCBgI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/VaPaQQ1Jd_U/s1600-h/shiraz+%2815%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202372543260001794" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKQ8ZCBgI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/VaPaQQ1Jd_U/s400/shiraz+%2815%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKjMZCBiI/AAAAAAAAB2g/4SvHrbybxLU/s1600-h/shiraz+%2831%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202372856792614434" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKKjMZCBiI/AAAAAAAAB2g/4SvHrbybxLU/s400/shiraz+%2831%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKGBMZCBaI/AAAAAAAAB1g/jzMsMJ__JGs/s1600-h/shiraz+%2811%29.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202367874630550946" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SDKGBMZCBaI/AAAAAAAAB1g/jzMsMJ__JGs/s400/shiraz+%2811%29.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-23177621611631111652008-05-12T23:24:00.000-07:002008-05-14T14:46:12.512-07:00Holy Cola<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCqgWcZCBUI/AAAAAAAAB0w/G7gHGNPAk2E/s1600-h/zamzam+cola.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCqgWcZCBUI/AAAAAAAAB0w/G7gHGNPAk2E/s400/zamzam+cola.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200145027191407938" border="0" /></a><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://zamzamgroup.com/">Zam Zam</a> Cola, named after the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zamzam_Well">holy-water well</a> in Mecca, is the original anti-Western pro-Muslim cola. It was created in 1954 in Iran, initially a branch of Pepsi Cola. After the 1979 revolution, Zam Zam terminated its contract with Pepsi and was taken over by the '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonyad">Foundation of Dispossessed</a>' (one of the powerful religious foundations ('bonyad') created by Ayatollah Khomeini--the second biggest corporation in Iran after the National Iranian Oil Company).<br /><br />Today the soft drink is very successful not only in Iran but across the wider Muslim world--especially Saudi Arabia, who boycotted Coca Cola in 2002 and unofficially named Zam Zam the "Hajj drink". It is exported to parts of Asia, Africa, Europe (interestingly, Denmark was the first European country to sell Zam Zam) and North America. The Zam Zam group also includes <a href="http://www.behnoushiran.com/">Iran Behnoush</a> which specializes in the non-alcoholic 'Islamic beer', Delster.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq2oMZCBWI/AAAAAAAAB1A/4wXLMpTzLKo/s1600-h/zemzem.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq2oMZCBWI/AAAAAAAAB1A/4wXLMpTzLKo/s400/zemzem.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200169521389897058" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq2A8ZCBVI/AAAAAAAAB04/73qJKVZxM2Y/s1600-h/world+zamzam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq2A8ZCBVI/AAAAAAAAB04/73qJKVZxM2Y/s400/world+zamzam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200168847080031570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Zam Zam boasts its International Market, "Serving 26 Countries Around the World"</span></span><br /></div><br />Meanwhile big European brands also scope out the Islamic market, with Heineken, Bavaria and Tuborg producing their own versions of non-alcoholic beer for Muslims who like to enjoy the bitter beer taste with their burger or pizza (Reminds me of vegetarians who like to eat 'fake meat'), although I hear that it is really impossible for beer to be 100% non-alcoholic.<br /><br />Although Zam Zam, Coca Cola and Pepsi (Coke and Pepsi, who maintain a huge chunk of the market in Iran, dodge sanctions via Irish subsidiaries) are the most popular soft drinks in Iran, the majority of people still order cola -'noo-shabeh'- by three names: "Meshki, Sefid, or Narenji" --Black, White or Orange.<br /><br />Struggling to keep up with the demand from the Muslim world (and others who like to boycott American products), Zam Zam's success inspired similar brands, such as Mecca Cola, Qibla Cola, and Parsi Cola.<br /><br />The most famous of these is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mecca_Cola">Mecca Cola</a>, launched in France during Ramadan in 2002. Back in <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/article1172816.ece">2002</a> Mecca Cola, pledging 10% of profits towards a Palestinian cause, promised to "answer the needs of world citizens by contributing to the fight against American imperialism and the fascism of the Zionist entity." They also promised "to come up with a snappier slogan."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCqgWMZCBTI/AAAAAAAAB0o/r5iJ17P-f60/s1600-h/MeccaColaLogo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCqgWMZCBTI/AAAAAAAAB0o/r5iJ17P-f60/s400/MeccaColaLogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200145022896440626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Mecca Cola Slogan: "Don't drink stupid. Drink Committed"<br />(but it looks just like CocaCola?)</span></span><br /></div><br />During the Israeli attack on Lebanon in <a href="https://www.just-drinks.com/article.aspx?id=87173">2006</a>, Iran's state television ran an advertising campaign denouncing Coca-Cola and Pepsi, among other big companies, as "Zionist," and claiming for example that Pepsi actually stands for 'Pay Each Penny to Save Israel.<span id="lblArticleBodyText">"<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCrFAMZCBYI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Tcebij0HbI0/s1600-h/anticoke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCrFAMZCBYI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Tcebij0HbI0/s400/anticoke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200185326869546370" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Anti-Islam <a href="http://www.wikiislam.com/wiki/Conspiracy_Theories">Conspiracy</a> about Coca Cola</span></span><br /><br /></div>Out of all the imitations I have tried however, Zam Zam has proven to be the best tasting, and its wide popularity perhaps reflects this. There is one thing it just can't seem to get right: the logo backwards reads "Pi Pi" (a detail Iranian kids love to make fun of) !!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq26sZCBXI/AAAAAAAAB1I/GoU5LcXPUW4/s1600-h/zamzam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCq26sZCBXI/AAAAAAAAB1I/GoU5LcXPUW4/s400/zamzam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200169839217476978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Can't beat the real thingUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-75717784903377587832008-05-10T06:19:00.000-07:002008-05-12T01:03:59.227-07:00The Bride of the Desert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWzp_b5YdI/AAAAAAAAByI/LcWT_JtBW-8/s1600-h/Yazd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWzp_b5YdI/AAAAAAAAByI/LcWT_JtBW-8/s400/Yazd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198758878853554642" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="">Surrounded by the Dasht-e Kavir and Dasht-e Lut deserts, and wild "black mountains" the ancient city of Yazd, which developed according to this unique and difficult setting, became known as "the bride of the desert."</span> <st1:city><st1:place>Yazd</st1:place></st1:city> is also famous for some of the best preserved ancient Iranian architecture, peaceful desert charm, silk weaving, and cotton candy (PASHMAK).<p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWpavb5YOI/AAAAAAAABwQ/3DnhsjkTruQ/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWpavb5YOI/AAAAAAAABwQ/3DnhsjkTruQ/s400/shiraz-yazd+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198747621744271586" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Chakhmagh Palace</span></span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgxsZCBNI/AAAAAAAABz4/DRW6ZBZ7_jI/s1600-h/Tekiyeh_amir_chaghmagh_yazd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgxsZCBNI/AAAAAAAABz4/DRW6ZBZ7_jI/s400/Tekiyeh_amir_chaghmagh_yazd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199089964180178130" border="0" /></a><br />Yazd has the biggest population of Zoroastrians, dating back to the Sassanid era but increasing after the Arab-Islamic conquest, when many Zoroastrians fled here. Some of the famous Zoroastrian sites include (among many others) a fire temple which houses an 'eternal flame' since 1474 (the flame was transfered here from another site where it burned since 1174), as well as this eerie and unusual graveyard, know as '<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Towers_of_Silence">Towers of Silence</a>' or 'Dakhmeh-ye Zartoshtian'.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWohvb5YNI/AAAAAAAABwI/S1Iel2QTIa4/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWohvb5YNI/AAAAAAAABwI/S1Iel2QTIa4/s400/shiraz-yazd+008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198746642491728082" border="0" /></a></p>They consist of a pair of stone towers resting on two hills, side by side, just outside the city. According to tradition, corpses were places inside a tower exposed to the elements, but not touching the ground, as the earth is considered sacred. The bodies would eventually get eaten by vultures, while a priest would sit along to see which eye was poked out first, for various symbolic reasons. The practice was officially banned by the 1960s, and today Zoroastrians bury their dead in concrete blocks, so the corpse still does not mingle with the earth.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWvyfb5YWI/AAAAAAAABxQ/SkAZLJxJDBM/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWvyfb5YWI/AAAAAAAABxQ/SkAZLJxJDBM/s400/shiraz-yazd+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198754626835931490" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWpavb5YPI/AAAAAAAABwY/BBYpCmoQ12Y/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWpavb5YPI/AAAAAAAABwY/BBYpCmoQ12Y/s400/shiraz-yazd+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198747621744271602" border="0" /></a><br />The main fascination of Yazd is the traditional Persian architecture, especially the '<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wind_catcher">bad-gir</a>' or wind-catcher, and '<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qanat">qanat</a>', the ancient water and irrigation system. The bad-gir is a tower structure, designed to naturally ventilate buildings; Qanats are precisely engineered water wells dating back centuries. The two technologies combined to create a practical cooling system, which by 400BC was mastered with the storage of ice in the middle of the desert, in what was called '<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yakhchal">yakhchal</a>'--or ice pit. Today the name 'yakhchal' is still used for modern refrigerators.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Bad-Gir/Wind-Catcher at Bagh-e Dolat Abad</span></span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWvyvb5YXI/AAAAAAAABxY/jonrHAroZBM/s1600-h/yazd+%2813%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWvyvb5YXI/AAAAAAAABxY/jonrHAroZBM/s400/yazd+%2813%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198754631130898802" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Ancient refrigerators<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCba6cZCBII/AAAAAAAABzQ/6ae3cbz8Jxg/s1600-h/AbAnbarNain2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCba6cZCBII/AAAAAAAABzQ/6ae3cbz8Jxg/s400/AbAnbarNain2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199083517434266754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Two girls and a Bad-Gir</span></span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWqcvb5YQI/AAAAAAAABwg/IymWgtDJn30/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+020.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWqcvb5YQI/AAAAAAAABwg/IymWgtDJn30/s400/shiraz-yazd+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198748755615637762" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbhssZCBPI/AAAAAAAAB0I/KpxUHgAOlgA/s1600-h/2girls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbhssZCBPI/AAAAAAAAB0I/KpxUHgAOlgA/s400/2girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199090977792460018" border="0" /></a></p>Deep inside the ancient houses, down a couple flights of stairs, we discovered a most pleasant room with a surprisingly cool temperature, far away from the dry nauseating heat outside. It was the 'yakhchal' room, chilled with the old school air-conditioning system, where food and water was stored, but also where people gathered for an afternoon nap, or just some relaxation and escape from the mid-day heat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCba6sZCBJI/AAAAAAAABzY/ECKAOSZ55mA/s1600-h/770px-Wind-Tower-and-Qanat-Cooling-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCba6sZCBJI/AAAAAAAABzY/ECKAOSZ55mA/s400/770px-Wind-Tower-and-Qanat-Cooling-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199083521729234066" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The roofs of old houses and bazaars are round, like in Kashan, and the explanation I found most convincing was that the the dome shape is never completely engulfed by the sun, thus maximizing the amount shade.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbf4MZCBKI/AAAAAAAABzg/HUdpxG_DIGE/s1600-h/dome+roofs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbf4MZCBKI/AAAAAAAABzg/HUdpxG_DIGE/s400/dome+roofs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199088976337700002" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The 'kucheh' or ancient alley, was also designed to protect the urban area from dust and heat from the surrounding desert, creating pleasant shady spaces to wander about.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgQMZCBLI/AAAAAAAABzo/2KE9cP69p2w/s1600-h/kucheh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgQMZCBLI/AAAAAAAABzo/2KE9cP69p2w/s400/kucheh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199089388654560434" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Although the city is small, we got lost quite a bit.<span style=""> </span>Every time we asked for directions, which was often, they would respond in sing-song accent, nodding their head to some obscure direction:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Go that way.<span style=""> </span>There is a 3-way intersection.<span style=""> </span>But don’t take it!<span style=""> </span>Keep on going, you will see a light........Don't take the 3-way. And don't get lost now!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Again and again, the mysterious ‘3-way’ appeared in their answer, wherever we happened to be, and we were supposed to ignore it completely.<span style=""> </span>Act as if it isn’t there, they would argue.<span style=""> </span>I dreamed that the town was synchronized to the 3-way intersection musical.<span style=""> </span>The 10<sup>th</sup> time we heard this response I had to hold my breath not to laugh.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWzp_b5YcI/AAAAAAAAByA/IjO4iMgMSrs/s1600-h/yazd+%282%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWzp_b5YcI/AAAAAAAAByA/IjO4iMgMSrs/s400/yazd+%282%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198758878853554626" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWyu_b5YaI/AAAAAAAABxw/eEhNN3AUr9c/s1600-h/yazd+%2811%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWyu_b5YaI/AAAAAAAABxw/eEhNN3AUr9c/s400/yazd+%2811%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198757865241272738" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately we missed out on shopping at '<a href="http://www.hajkhalifehalirahbar.com/">Haj Khalifeh</a>', the famous confectionery shop, a major institution since 1916. It was closed on the day we departed, Friday, but we did get a look when we first arrived. Inside it looks more like an office than a sweets shop. There are no display cases, and customers judge the sweets by placing toothpicks inside the product, with a rating system of 1, 2 or 3 toothpicks for the best stuff.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Haj Khalifeh:<br /><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCb24MZCBRI/AAAAAAAAB0Y/celWg7bWEOo/s1600-h/haj+khalifeh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCb24MZCBRI/AAAAAAAAB0Y/celWg7bWEOo/s400/haj+khalifeh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199114265105138962" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCX3r_b5YkI/AAAAAAAABzA/Jx20LhbjVHo/s1600-h/Hajkhalifehrahbar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCX3r_b5YkI/AAAAAAAABzA/Jx20LhbjVHo/s400/Hajkhalifehrahbar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198833680003981890" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Outside the Bagh-e Dolat-Abad --"No Residence Allowed"<br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWw9vb5YYI/AAAAAAAABxg/8B3r_DYyhYk/s1600-h/yazd+%2815%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWw9vb5YYI/AAAAAAAABxg/8B3r_DYyhYk/s400/yazd+%2815%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198755919621087618" border="0" /></a></p>This friendly old man sits at the top of a water well inside the mosque. Before allowing you to enter the narrow steps leading to an anti-climactic well, he sticks his hand out and rubs his fingers together, signaling a mandatory tip.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWw9_b5YZI/AAAAAAAABxo/0kwk5TI8alM/s1600-h/yazd+%289%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWw9_b5YZI/AAAAAAAABxo/0kwk5TI8alM/s400/yazd+%289%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198755923916054930" border="0" /></a></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbrxcZCBQI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/rzu_Zy8ccYc/s1600-h/well.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbrxcZCBQI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/rzu_Zy8ccYc/s400/well.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199102054513116418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Women praying at quiet friday mosque in nearby Ardakan (ex-President Khatami's village)</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWqcvb5YRI/AAAAAAAABwo/kEW0WqqjLGc/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+027.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWqcvb5YRI/AAAAAAAABwo/kEW0WqqjLGc/s400/shiraz-yazd+027.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198748755615637778" border="0" /></a><br />An hour outside Yazd, into the desert, is a holy Zoroastrian site called 'Chak Chak' - or Drip Drip. The legend goes that Sassanian Princess Nikbanu fled the Arab invasion in AD 637 to this spot, and in the midst of drought and desert, threw her staff at the cliff and it started dripping, hence the name, "chak...chak". A tree grew in that very spot, into what is today a giant, lush green blob jutting out of the steep, dry wall. It is quite an impressive work of nature, and every summer thousands come to pay their superstitious duties.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWupPb5YVI/AAAAAAAABxI/ZdEIEpHT5sg/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+056.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWupPb5YVI/AAAAAAAABxI/ZdEIEpHT5sg/s400/shiraz-yazd+056.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198753368410513746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The famous Chak Chak tree 'Pir-e Sabz' --or Old Green, outside the temple<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW1IPb5YfI/AAAAAAAAByY/a0YvRgwHaxQ/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW1IPb5YfI/AAAAAAAAByY/a0YvRgwHaxQ/s400/shiraz-yazd+050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198760498056225266" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Picnicking outside the temple, in the shade of Pir-e Sabz</span></span><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWtLPb5YTI/AAAAAAAABw4/Y_pX9wmqOow/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+045.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWtLPb5YTI/AAAAAAAABw4/Y_pX9wmqOow/s400/shiraz-yazd+045.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198751753502810418" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWuo_b5YUI/AAAAAAAABxA/Aydkdki7FfE/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+048.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWuo_b5YUI/AAAAAAAABxA/Aydkdki7FfE/s400/shiraz-yazd+048.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198753364115546434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Inside Chak Chak's temple, the famous drip,<br />caught inside a blue bucket and enveloped with incense</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWtLPb5YSI/AAAAAAAABww/VEKiMYXZguI/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+039.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWtLPb5YSI/AAAAAAAABww/VEKiMYXZguI/s400/shiraz-yazd+039.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198751753502810402" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">view from ChakChak</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW4RPb5YgI/AAAAAAAAByg/gY9E_AKhsHs/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+054.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW4RPb5YgI/AAAAAAAAByg/gY9E_AKhsHs/s400/shiraz-yazd+054.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198763951209931266" border="0" /></a><br />On the way back from Chak Chak, we stopped at this deserted village, which now seems to serve solely as an Islamic truck-stop.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgxsZCBMI/AAAAAAAABzw/PcJ8ZpE4P_Y/s1600-h/truck-stop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbgxsZCBMI/AAAAAAAABzw/PcJ8ZpE4P_Y/s400/truck-stop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199089964180178114" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW4Rfb5YiI/AAAAAAAAByw/28TkLOn8zYE/s1600-h/shiraz-yazd+058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCW4Rfb5YiI/AAAAAAAAByw/28TkLOn8zYE/s400/shiraz-yazd+058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198763955504898594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />"Private Bathroom" at the village petrol station (the only functioning site)<br />There was nothing special inside, same old disgusting bathroom<br /><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbhssZCBOI/AAAAAAAAB0A/u_tPhDNSQCY/s1600-h/private+bathroom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCbhssZCBOI/AAAAAAAAB0A/u_tPhDNSQCY/s400/private+bathroom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199090977792460002" border="0" /></a><br />At the bus station, on my way to Shiraz, the most eligible meal available was the “Sandevich-e Macaroni” – Spaghetti Sandwich. It was actually quite tasty!<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWyvPb5YbI/AAAAAAAABx4/qnBC8xdjPaw/s1600-h/yazd+%2823%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SCWyvPb5YbI/AAAAAAAABx4/qnBC8xdjPaw/s400/yazd+%2823%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198757869536240050" border="0" /></a></p><br /><br />In general the Yazdis seemed a bit slow (but extremely friendly), although it’s probably because of the heat.<span style=""> </span>Shirazis on the other hand have no excuse :)<br />To be continued…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-10412091767568628702008-04-18T13:19:00.000-07:002008-04-18T13:42:47.023-07:00Allo Landan?<div style="text-align: center;">Guessing Game<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAkGQHgIQgI/AAAAAAAABvg/UXWGK_BUqRg/s1600-h/public+telephone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAkGQHgIQgI/AAAAAAAABvg/UXWGK_BUqRg/s400/public+telephone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190686919482688002" border="0" /></a>I spotted this walking down the street today...Can anyone guess what it is?<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-62693237073417008622008-04-14T05:06:00.000-07:002008-04-14T13:48:22.000-07:00Almost DemocraticA runoff for parliamentary elections in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> will happen in a couple weeks, on April 25<sup>th</sup>. About a month ago, right smack before Nowruz began, was the first round.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b><st1:date month="3" day="14" year="2008"><b style="">March 14<sup>th</sup> 2008</b></st1:date><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t claim to be an expert by any means on Iran’s politics and political figures, but I am interested, and try to follow and gain as much understanding as I can—which remains of course quite limited, considering how complicated and twisted it all is.<span style=""> </span>But I still decided to vote, for a couple of reasons I suppose.<span style=""> </span>One is because I just wanted to see how it was all organized, purely self-interest.<span style=""> </span>Another reason, was a quasi-belief that I should vote, albeit for a lesser of two bads.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>While waiting for my ballot, a Reuters man with a big white microphone wanted to interview me.<span style=""> </span>Even though I spoke in English, I must admit my interview was horribly embarrassing. <span style=""> </span>I really had no idea about the candidates, or even why exactly I was voting—especially to the capacity of explaining it succinctly to a microphone and bright lights.<span style=""> </span>(Where are my lines!?)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANPL3gIQMI/AAAAAAAABs4/t4D8gRK2HaI/s1600-h/reuters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANPL3gIQMI/AAAAAAAABs4/t4D8gRK2HaI/s400/reuters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189078260956807362" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Why are you voting?<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, it’s my first time to vote in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> and I was interested to see how the whole process goes. I know it’s not much of a choice.<span style=""> </span>But well, I decided to come anyway and make a choice.” (does that make sense!?)<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p></o:p>Why have you chosen the candidates you are voting for?<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Um, I am voting for the reformist list.<span style=""> </span>It’s sort of complicated to explain why I am voting for the specific candidates I have chosen.” (There is a list!<span style=""> </span>I have no idea! Does anyone here??) Um…I am voting for those candidates I feel might have a better economic policy and development plan for the city.<span style=""> </span>I am voting for the candidate I believe could solve the traffic problem.” (?!)<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Man, I hope no one ever sees that footage. </o:p>Actually I did know one candidate for whom I voted, the only one I didn’t steal from the list handed to me by a reformist party activist.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRcHgIQSI/AAAAAAAABto/XtTURw8Csqg/s1600-h/List+of+candidates+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRcHgIQSI/AAAAAAAABto/XtTURw8Csqg/s400/List+of+candidates+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189080739152937250" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">List of all the Candidates at Polling Station</span></span></o:p></p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZngIQWI/AAAAAAAABuI/-HJbkqgomr4/s1600-h/Voting+procedure+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZngIQWI/AAAAAAAABuI/-HJbkqgomr4/s400/Voting+procedure+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189081795714892130" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Voting</span></span></o:p></p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city><st1:place>Out of a total of 290 seats in 11 electoral units, Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> has 30 seats, thus each voter in <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> could choose up to 30 candidates. Therefore, campaigning in <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> mainly consisted of each party or coalition creating a list of 30 candidates whom they support, and that you should go out and vote for.<span style=""> </span>The mainstream political spectrum could be generally divided as follows:<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">R<span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">e</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">f</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">o</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">r</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">m</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">i</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">s</span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">t</span>------------------------------------------------------------------------Conservative<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -0.5in;">5------------------------4------------------------3------------------------2------------------------1</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -0.5in;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><b>United Principlist Front</b> (M Ahmadinejad) – 'Principlist' refers to principles of the 1979 revolution, which this group is devoted to. This was the strongest ticket on the elections, as it enjoyed the support of big business, military and segments of the religious elite. Its policies are based around the dominant issue of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s international politics – the further development of nuclear facilities.</li></ol><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw-3gIQbI/AAAAAAAABuw/_VnW5xj57i8/s1600-h/Coalition.jpg"><br /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="2" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><b>United Principlists Coalition</b> (Ali Larijani) – As the name illustrates, this list also emphasizes its devotion to the principles of the 1979 revolution.<span style=""> </span>What makes them different, are the methods and policies they support, which would indeed fight a similar cause as the United Priciplist Front. This list is headed by the so-called 'Pragmatist' current among <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s political elite, and some of the representatives include ex-chief negotiator with IAEA Ali Larijani, mayor of Tehran Mohammad Baqer Qalibaf and ex-chief of Revolutionary Guards and current Secretary of Expediency Council Mohsen Rezai. The pragmatist label appoints to the group's acknowledgement of the fact that world politics are dominated by Western powers, and their willingness to fight for the freedom to develop nuclear energy by negotiating with the West. They reject aggressive rhetoric, qualifying it as dangerous and counterproductive. Larijani's decision to run his campaign from <st1:city><st1:place>Qom</st1:place></st1:city>, the religious center of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>, appoints to another important fact about the elections – this list appears to have support from the highest religious scholars who have been dissatisfied with some of the present tactics. It is also important to say that Tehran's list of candidates for this party shares 9 candidates with Ahmadinejad's list. This means that 9 people appear on both lists. </li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="3" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><b>The Party of Moderation and Development </b>(Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani) – This party did not actually take part in the elections, as it pulled out completely the night before nominations were due, predicting that most of its candidates would be screened out by the Guardian Council. The decision perhaps had more to do with Rafsanjani's political calculations, in which he cannot afford to appear as a loser one more time. Rafsanjani, the president of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> 1989-1997, is by far the most complex political figure in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>; he is the head of the Council of Experts, a body that elects and reviews the Supreme Leader, yet he is associated with the reformists as well. He perceives himself as the only one who stands between the conservatives and reformists, friends with many key players on both sides, and supporting each of the sides on different occasions. Some Iranians feel that his lack of support for Khatami's government allowed the previously unknown Ahmadinejad to rise up as a frontrunner and win the elections in 2005. For these elections, although he stopped his own candidates from running, he announced his endorsement for several candidates mainly from Karrubi's list, but also from Larijani's and Khatami's lists.</li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="4" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><b>Trust of the Nation</b> (Mahdi Karrubi) – This list represents one of the two main reformist streams. The two lists share some candidates as well, and are not bitterly opposed to each other. However, Karrubi's list is knows as 'pragmatic reformists', the more moderate comparing to Khatami's list. Unfortunately, most of the candidates from both reformist groups were screened out by the Guardian Council, to the extent that they did not have a mathematical chance of gaining a majority in parliament. (Karrubi, speaker of the parliament from 2000-2004 and 1989-1992, came third in the 2005 presidential elections. Although in a reformist bloc, he is known to be very close to the Supreme Leader) </li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="5" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><b>Association of Combatant Clerics</b> (Mohammad Khatami) – The list appears to be at the far left end of the spectrum, as there are no political organizations, apart from some student groups, that are more agile in fighting for human rights, civil society freedom and similar social issues. The candidates of this list were mostly screened out of the competition, which means that the party did not have any chance of achieving positive results. Due to the fact that most candidates were forced out of the game, the party had to make a selection among the remaining independent candidates and create some sort of list.<span style=""> </span>This list however did not strike voters as particularly prominent, at least in <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>. Therefore, many reformist voters decided not to vote altogether as opposed to voting for candidates they knew nothing about, or who were not prominent enough to make any real progress.</li></ol><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw-3gIQbI/AAAAAAAABuw/_VnW5xj57i8/s1600-h/Coalition.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw-3gIQbI/AAAAAAAABuw/_VnW5xj57i8/s400/Coalition.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189185789758030258" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANPL3gIQNI/AAAAAAAABtA/OwtV5LIBQOI/s1600-h/dog+candidate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANPL3gIQNI/AAAAAAAABtA/OwtV5LIBQOI/s400/dog+candidate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189078260956807378" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size:85%;">List of 30 for the United Principlists Front<br />Note the surprise cameo apperance<br />(--it's actually a sticker advertisment for veterinarian nearby)</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">1 Week Earlier<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Campaigning was officially allowed one week before Election Day.<span style=""> </span>Campaigning in <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> mostly involved the dissemination of individual leaflets and hanging party banners; TV and radio ads were banned.<span style=""> </span>An individual was not allowed to have a banner or poster, only a party could, so people would usually paste up a bunch of small leaflets into the size of a poster.<span style=""><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQhngIQPI/AAAAAAAABtQ/yV7xF07sJME/s1600-h/Poster+made+of+leaflets+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQhngIQPI/AAAAAAAABtQ/yV7xF07sJME/s400/Poster+made+of+leaflets+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189079734130589938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">...leaflets...</span></span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANTN3gIQYI/AAAAAAAABuY/y-Sj-moDSi4/s1600-h/Leaflet+in+a+phone+booth+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANTN3gIQYI/AAAAAAAABuY/y-Sj-moDSi4/s400/Leaflet+in+a+phone+booth+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189082693363057026" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRcHgIQTI/AAAAAAAABtw/x6gsTI5BmsU/s1600-h/Official+GOTV+banner+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRcHgIQTI/AAAAAAAABtw/x6gsTI5BmsU/s400/Official+GOTV+banner+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189080739152937266" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Official GOTV "get out the vote" campaiging</span></span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Often the ‘campaign material’ consisted of thousands of little leaflets strewn around the sidewalks, seeping into the gutters and water canals. <span style=""> </span>Several times I spotted some seemingly disaffected youth ‘passing out’ leaflets, they were actually just throwing them in the air behind their heads, laughing and chatting—perhaps they were paid some measly fee to pass out flyers (those flyers happened to be from the President’s list) which they didn’t really seem to care about.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMm3gIQJI/AAAAAAAABsg/KLtQBYXP-Jg/s1600-h/trash.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMm3gIQJI/AAAAAAAABsg/KLtQBYXP-Jg/s400/trash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189075426278391954" border="0" /></a> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMnHgIQKI/AAAAAAAABso/MOYSNDy6n9s/s1600-h/trash+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMnHgIQKI/AAAAAAAABso/MOYSNDy6n9s/s400/trash+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189075430573359266" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As campaign week progressed, so did the critical urgency of shopping for the upcoming Nowruz holiday.<span style=""> </span>It was truly madness, comparable to Christmas in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region> or <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Among a list of other things to buy for the holidays, on Nowruz day you are supposed to wear a new set of clothes.<span style=""> </span>Here, crazed shoppers searched for shoes out of the trunk of a car near Tajrish Market.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOE23gIQaI/AAAAAAAABuo/mNhpa_th-3E/s1600-h/DSC05490.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOE23gIQaI/AAAAAAAABuo/mNhpa_th-3E/s400/DSC05490.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189137273807454626" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOE23gIQZI/AAAAAAAABug/HnRtdf5pa4Y/s1600-h/shoes%21.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOE23gIQZI/AAAAAAAABug/HnRtdf5pa4Y/s400/shoes%21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189137273807454610" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">SHOES!</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Strolling around the city during campaign week, aside from shops and markets, we actually passed several campaign headquarters and found it funny to walk in and check things out.<span style=""> </span>Often the volunteers and activists didn’t really seem to have a plan, or at least not a good one.<span style=""> </span>When I asked one guy (from the ultra-conservative party I found out later) why I should vote for his candidate he replied:<span style=""> </span>“You can vote for whoever you want!” and continued to offer us tea and a place to sit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I kept stressing the fact that I was new here, my first time voting, and that I would like to know more about the candidates, since I really had no idea about any of them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">One independent candidate whose headquarters we happened upon (the one I personally voted for outside the list system) was quite refreshing compared to the others who droned along with obscure and impersonal leaflets.<span style=""> </span>He sat with us and served us tea, like all the others, but he really understood all my questions and answered them pretty well.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>He wanted to run on the reformist list, but there was no room and they offered to put him on their 2<sup>nd</sup> list, which he refused, deciding to run independently instead.<span style=""> </span>He was an ex-manager of a big Iranian bank and, coming from an economic experience, he accordingly had an economic perspective and was using this in his campaign strategy.<span style=""> </span>He and his team were focusing on the banking and economic community as their voter target group, and kept their communications within a sort of loose network.<span style=""> </span>Instead of throwing out leaflets to anyone and everyone, they had a more personalized plan on whom to approach, how, and through different avenues, for example sending faxes to all the banks in <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>, advertising in economic journals, and etc.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In <st1:city><st1:place>Qom</st1:place></st1:city>, Larijani’s campaign also seemed to have a decent strategy, with a focus on his position and experience in International politics, and his diplomatic nature.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_HgIQeI/AAAAAAAABvI/auCdU-srOMU/s1600-h/Larijani.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_HgIQeI/AAAAAAAABvI/auCdU-srOMU/s400/Larijani.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189185794052997602" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Larijani</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Slobodan would often ask the question, he was just constantly itching to ask (his “ribs were itching” as they say here), “What would you do about the traffic problem?<span style=""> </span>Terafik Terafik!”<span style=""> </span>One guy replied: “Public transportation must be strengthened, especially the Metro.<span style=""> </span>It’s the only way.”<span style=""> </span>Agreed!<span style=""> </span>But how!? When!??</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If traffic is gone, however, so will one of the most frequently used excuses (I’m sure this can be statistically proven) in this city for why one is late somewhere, or didn’t show up altogether--which happens all the time.<span style=""> </span>Those days, leading up to the New Year, the traffic was especially horrendous.<span style=""> </span>Preoccupied with their shopping lists and with bargaining, no one seemed to be paying much attention to the campaigns, except for a couple bored old men who would collect all the leaflets and study them with patience, and of course us ‘tourists’ who found them all fascinating.<span style=""> </span>Most of the leaflets actually looked more like CVs, exalting the personal qualities of each candidate: their academic title (“Doctor” was very common) and record, where they went to school, where they have worked, who they know, esteemed supporters, etc.<span style=""> </span>There was rarely any mention of specific policies or strategies, but only general statements and individual attributes.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes there would be a little nationalistic poem at the top of the flyer and a little photo of the candidate waving the Iranian flag in a bad suit.<span style=""> </span>Interestingly however, there was rarely much to do with Islam, at least around north and central <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>Our favorite slogan was as follows:<span style=""> </span>“There must be rain for the rainbow to appear.”<span style=""> </span>(Interpret as you please)</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw-3gIQcI/AAAAAAAABu4/Y5q6NNoQRkQ/s1600-h/handsome+mullah.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw-3gIQcI/AAAAAAAABu4/Y5q6NNoQRkQ/s400/handsome+mullah.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189185789758030274" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rainbow Man</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_HgIQdI/AAAAAAAABvA/UnsAS7_xxGQ/s1600-h/independent.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_HgIQdI/AAAAAAAABvA/UnsAS7_xxGQ/s400/independent.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189185794052997586" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Some Handsome Independent</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_XgIQfI/AAAAAAAABvQ/WMf35d-_x6I/s1600-h/Social+services.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SAOw_XgIQfI/AAAAAAAABvQ/WMf35d-_x6I/s400/Social+services.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189185798347964914" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Campaign Leaflet Envisioning Social Service</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRb3gIQRI/AAAAAAAABtg/vj7HiMGWlpA/s1600-h/Candidate%27s+HQ+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANRb3gIQRI/AAAAAAAABtg/vj7HiMGWlpA/s400/Candidate%27s+HQ+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189080734857969938" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Campaign Headquarters of Armenian Candidate</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></o:p></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></o:p></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQhXgIQOI/AAAAAAAABtI/4w7hFLIfdT4/s1600-h/Khatami%27s+campaigners+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQhXgIQOI/AAAAAAAABtI/4w7hFLIfdT4/s400/Khatami%27s+campaigners+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189079729835622626" border="0" /></a></p> <div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> Last minute campaigners for Khatami's so called reformist list<br /><br /><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">My Campaign<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>If I had one.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQh3gIQQI/AAAAAAAABtY/Yh0J4m6MxWY/s1600-h/my+campaign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANQh3gIQQI/AAAAAAAABtY/Yh0J4m6MxWY/s400/my+campaign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189079738425557250" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Elections<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>These elections were the first ones in which the votes were counted by computers. (Another new rule for these elections was the new minimum voting age, up 18 from the previous minimum age of 15.)<span style=""> </span>The ballot itself looked like a math test, the voter would darken boxes depicting a number in front of candidates’ names, and thus the ballot could be read by a computer. Since there was no way to put all the 1000+ candidates on the ballot, each candidate was allocated a unique code consisting of a series of numbers and letters, which you would fill in on the ballot. It was quite complicated (even for me the math genius ;) and took me about 20 minutes to fill in my 30 names.<span style=""> </span>I messed up a couple times which was quite frustrating as I was working with a pen, and my legs kept going numb as there was no comfortable place where I could fill in my ballot.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMnHgIQLI/AAAAAAAABsw/BqtINcZKb9w/s1600-h/messup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANMnHgIQLI/AAAAAAAABsw/BqtINcZKb9w/s400/messup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189075430573359282" border="0" /></a> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZngIQVI/AAAAAAAABuA/ziCGKL8HC9I/s1600-h/where+to+vote.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZngIQVI/AAAAAAAABuA/ziCGKL8HC9I/s400/where+to+vote.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189081795714892114" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZXgIQUI/AAAAAAAABt4/poH92zYydEo/s1600-h/the+ballot+%28Medium%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANSZXgIQUI/AAAAAAAABt4/poH92zYydEo/s400/the+ballot+%28Medium%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189081791419924802" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />The polls should have been closed at <st1:time hour="18" minute="0">6pm</st1:time> that evening, but they stayed open until about <st1:time hour="23" minute="0">11pm</st1:time>. The official explanation was that they wanted to accommodate “long lines of voters waiting to cast their ballots.” In reality there didn’t seem to be many long lines of voters, although they did keep the polls open later, probably in order to get higher turnout figures.<span style=""> </span>The place I voted is famous for being one of the most popular places to vote, but I went through the line to receive my ballot and process my Identification in about 5 minutes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The turnout, declared as a major victory, was said to be about 52% nationwide while only 30% in Tehran, although these percentages vary from source to source, and I’ve recently heard as low as 18% for Tehran. I could very generally divide the voters as such:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Who didn’t vote?<span style=""> </span></b><br />1. those who are apathetic, or don’t really have time and patience for politics<br />2. those who think none of the candidates are noteworthy, thanks to the vetting process<br />3. those who are boycotting – in a sense punishing reformists for their past mistakes<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></p> <b style=""></b><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who did vote?</span><br />1. those who believe in the system<br />2. those who believe the system can and should reform from within<br />3. those who still believe in choosing the lesser of 2 bads<o:p></o:p><br /><br />Of course these may overlap, and I suppose I might fall somewhere between number 2 and 3 for those who voted (but mainly, I admit, I voted out of pure curiosity). <p class="MsoNormal">The results showed what was predicted:<span style=""> </span>Conservatives won more than 70% of seats, Conservative seats are split almost evenly between the two lists, Reformists won about 15% of seats.<span style=""> </span>There will be run-off elections for about 10% of the seats, as the election law requires candidates to win the votes of at least 25% of voters.<span style=""> </span><st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>, the stronghold of Reformists, elected 19 Conservatives, with the remaining 11 seats to be determined in run-off elections. This was likely due to the passive boycott of many reformist voters, although the Reformist coalitions did ask for a recount claiming there were irregularities in counting.<span style=""> </span>I believe the Ministry has agreed to recount a selected number of random ballot boxes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The results basically proved the 'Screening Process' to be highly effective, as it not only mathematically prevented Reformists from winning the elections, but also likely diminished the turnout of reformist-minded voters. Although initial news about the disqualification of so many candidates stirred up public opinion, it failed to cause any kind of stronger pressure on the establishment. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another important result is the split between the 'Pragmatists' and “Fundamentalists' among conservatives (Although it is hard to make exact calculations as many elected MPs are yet to confirm their allegiance. Many MPs were endorsed by both sides, and many are yet to be recruited among the independent members of parliament). It seems that the battle for the position of the Speaker of the Parliament, between Mr. Larijani himself and the current Speaker of the Parliament Mr. Gholam Ali Haddad from the Fundamentalist coalition, will determine who has dominance over the Parliament.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">The results might also show that not many Iranians are happy with Ahmadinejad's rule. Even if his coalition proves to be winning more votes than Mr. Larijani's, his power rests on a small majority, and thanks only to great measures to immobilize the opposition. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Many people say that the two conservative coalitions are not any different in terms of the ultimate goals they want to achieve. <span style=""> </span>The difference lies only in regards to the strategies they support--one being more pragmatic the other reactionary or what has been labeled ‘firebrand’ politics.<span style=""> </span>Strategies, however, are a very important part of politics and government (a similar example might be Democrats and Republicans in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>, in terms of foreign policy).<span style=""> </span>If Pragmatists succeed in winning power, we might witness a different rhetoric coming out of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>. This would coincide with wishes of many Iranians who are increasingly worried about <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s alienation from mainstream world politics.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The most important domestic battle will certainly be the 2009 presidential elections.<span style=""> </span>Many believe that Ahmadinejad will have a very tough opponent in the current <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> mayor, Mohammad Baqer Qalibaf, an important leader of the Pragmatist Conservative bloc. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">These parliamentary elections were, perhaps, just a warm up for the main battle. They do show however that there is no single dominant political force in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> and that the Iranian political scene is far from being monolith, as sometimes presented in Western media, even if the reformist parties have significantly weakened. The political arena, although heavily limited by an absence of freedom of media, arbitrary decisions of the government and the general lack of transparency, is still an active space for political battles. Many believe that the democratic tradition in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> is very strong, however limited at the moment.<span style=""> </span>I’m not sure to what extent I believe this, but there are definitely many signs of it, as well as many examples in the country’s history.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANTN3gIQXI/AAAAAAAABuQ/B3C5bgKDszs/s1600-h/voted.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/SANTN3gIQXI/AAAAAAAABuQ/B3C5bgKDszs/s400/voted.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189082693363057010" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">How democratic?</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">As for the rest, I guess we will have to wait and see...</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-33931821629364995152008-04-02T07:14:00.000-07:002008-04-03T05:57:52.201-07:00Nowruz NappingIran's four seasons are each clearly defined. On the morning of Nowruz - the Iranian New Year -20th of March, it felt like Spring literally happened overnight. All the buds on trees and bushes were green, ready to explode; a green fuzz sneaked slowly over the dried up grass; pink, yellow and purple flowers started making appearance. Neighborhood cats bulged with pouches of babies ready to pop out any minute. The Nowruz holiday lasts 2 weeks, and during these weeks the season developed into full bloom right before our eyes. It's probably one of the best Spring transformations I've seen. In Bosnia, I found out that they use the Persian word for spring, 'Bahar', as word for this very early spring sighting...those tiny green buds squeezing out after months of deep cold sleeping. And it's getting greener and greener each day.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PrswNOx-I/AAAAAAAABrI/nUkPVX2YS3c/s1600-h/valiasr+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PrswNOx-I/AAAAAAAABrI/nUkPVX2YS3c/s320/valiasr+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184746750120740834" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PsYQNOx_I/AAAAAAAABrQ/B1mFUNVoXuo/s1600-h/valiasr+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 189px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PsYQNOx_I/AAAAAAAABrQ/B1mFUNVoXuo/s320/valiasr+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184747497445050354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br />ValiAsr is Green</span><br /></div><br />Leading up the the New Year, shopping was a mad craze of bargaining and fighting, streets were extra crowed, with traffic at a near catastrophic peak (The amount of nationalistic Iran email I receive also reached its yearly peak. And BTW, the 'frozen cherry tree' is not in Iran, but South Africa). From Nowruz day, however, Tehran became a ghost town. People either stayed at home with family, and most left the city for the holidays. Some go to visit their families in towns and villages around Iran. Many of them go to Esfehan and Shiraz, where I happened to be headed a couple days later, along with my Mister (that's what people call him here).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TGYwNOyEI/AAAAAAAABr4/Sk_zadaJ4Vg/s1600-h/sleeping+fish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TGYwNOyEI/AAAAAAAABr4/Sk_zadaJ4Vg/s400/sleeping+fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184987199569840194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sleeping (dead) Fishes on the Nowruz Altar (Haft-Sin) at Park Mellat</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TF1ANOyDI/AAAAAAAABrw/g0F8CmlLFLE/s1600-h/slobs+moto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TF1ANOyDI/AAAAAAAABrw/g0F8CmlLFLE/s400/slobs+moto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184986585389516850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Agha Azad"</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> at Esfehan's Friday Mosque</span></span><br /><br /></div>Millions of Iranian tourists pour into Esfehan and Shiraz, two of the country's gem cities, every year for Nowruz. The hotels get full, and thousands of people especially those from the poorer villages camp around the city. Esfehan was well-organized, and campers were designated to certain spots in the suburbs, so not to disturb the beauty of the city. In Shiraz however, it was what we call "khar to khar"("donkey to donkey"), or complete chaos. Campers were hitched everywhere: along highways, in the center squares, street roundabouts, and basically any square meter of space was fair game. And everywhere, everyone picnics. The best picnic spots were probably the ones along the Zayendehrud river in Esfehan, a picturesque river with breathtaking historical bridges.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PsvANOyAI/AAAAAAAABrY/evDr24td-DE/s1600-h/river.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PsvANOyAI/AAAAAAAABrY/evDr24td-DE/s400/river.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184747888287074306" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TH9gNOyFI/AAAAAAAABsA/50uXTz6LOzo/s1600-h/zrud.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TH9gNOyFI/AAAAAAAABsA/50uXTz6LOzo/s400/zrud.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184988930441660498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zayenderud River - "33 Bridge"</span></span><br /></div><br />In one of many unforgettable encounters, after dodging the morality police who scopes the town for bad hejab (famous in more conservative Esfehan), we joined an Esfehani family along a quiet bubbling section of the river one evening. They offered us the most delicious homemade Saffron-Honey wine, which was tasted along with sweets made of honey and sesame. Then we sat back to a feast, with music and singing. (Often in Iran, you will be sitting with some people or even just walking by some place, and someone will just start singing a song or reciting a poem which everyone knows by heart, if you're lucky they will also play an instrument such as the Setar or Daf which happens to be on hand-- it happens all the time!)<br /><br />Esfehan is one of the amazing cities I've visited (though my Shirazi family may not be happy about this), and I can't possibily begin to describe it here. I can just say that there is this fantastic vibe in the air, which I felt both times I was here. It is laid-back, like a breath of fresh air, but very organized and clean with wide sidewalks shaded by rows of trees, tranquil Persian fountains, and full of magnificent world wonders. They call it "Esfehan Nesf-e Jahan" (Esfehan Half the World) for good reason. Walking through the easy streets we felt like we just had an uplifting spa treatment, especially coming from the chaos of Tehran. Perhaps some time I'll work up the courage to dedicate a full post to this magical city...But I would like to thank our lovely host, dear grandmother of a friend, who constantly doted on us, especially on Mister Azad (this is Slobodan's name in Iran for those hard of pronunciation--meaning the same thing in both Serbian and Persian: 'free'), cooked us food and made us laugh. She would ask me repeatedly: "Is Agha Azad ok? Isn't he bored? Poor thing can't understand us! What does Agha Azad want? Isn't he hungry?" And when Agha Azad danced Iranian style for the whole family one evening, they were shocked and thrilled, as he carried on dancing all night at times performing a one man show--showcasing his infamous 'snake' moves. "Irani hastam!" he would say with a cheesy grin.<br /><br />After 3 days in Esfehan we went to Shiraz for some family fun. Night after night they spend together until the wee hours of the night during the entire 2 weeks - a phenomena laid-back (also known as lazy) Shirazis are famous for especially during the holidays. Sometimes we only started eating dinner at midnight, this of course preceded by loads of nuts, fruit and various snackies and followed by tea, sweets, poetry and singing.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Shiraz was really too crowded to enjoy, especially given that the best thing about the city are not its sights but its poetic traditions, peaceful gardens and laid-back character, which were just destroyed by the chaotic crowds. One highlight however, was when my old grumpy uncle played backgammon with Mister Azad, and kept trying to cheat.<br /><br />Back in Tehran, yesterday was "Sizdah Be Dar" (or "13th day, Outdoors!"), the last day of the 2 week Nowruz stretch. It truly felt like the first day of Spring here in Tehran. Traditionally on this day everyone goes outdoors for picnics and frolicking in parks with family and friends, good luck against the bad omen of the number '13'. Park Mellat, like all green areas of the city, near my house was teeming with picnickers, rollerbladers, people playing badminton, volleyball and football. Boys' shiny new spiky hairdos reached into the sky, and girls puffed out their bangs under shiny hejabs. Jubilant people licked on "meter" tall ice creams swirling high above cheap dainty cones. Inside the park, crowds swayed and clapped along to a live music performance blasting on a typically loud, bad sound system.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PuBANOyBI/AAAAAAAABrg/-mCSX6BxMfs/s1600-h/park+mellat+camp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_PuBANOyBI/AAAAAAAABrg/-mCSX6BxMfs/s400/park+mellat+camp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184749297036347410" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TJwQNOyGI/AAAAAAAABsI/1Ub8-vlqlIk/s1600-h/badminton.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TJwQNOyGI/AAAAAAAABsI/1Ub8-vlqlIk/s400/badminton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184990901831649378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TKnwNOyHI/AAAAAAAABsQ/HvuutiFPh0A/s1600-h/campsite.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TKnwNOyHI/AAAAAAAABsQ/HvuutiFPh0A/s400/campsite.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184991855314389106" border="0" /></a><br />Wheat sprouts ('Sabzeh' - grown for the Nowruz altar, and set free into a body of water on this last day) littered the water canals and clogged up the waterways along with the trash. Street workers merely swept the trash downstream, only for it to inevitably get stuck somewhere causing a flood into Vali Asr. Some of the 'Sabzeh' were thrown into the streams still inside their heavy ceramic pots or dishes, sinking to the ground, and we even spotted a few thrown to the canal in a plastic sac! (Plastic, seen as a symbol of modernity, is very interesting here...I'm still trying to figure it out)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TEpQNOyCI/AAAAAAAABro/2dlmaj_f4IU/s1600-h/sabzeh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TEpQNOyCI/AAAAAAAABro/2dlmaj_f4IU/s400/sabzeh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184985284014426146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Sabzeh" in Purgatory</span></span><br /></div><br />Just as things were first coming into bloom, approaching the time of year Iran is most famous for, I had a thought. After that blistering winter, when Spring was miraculously reborn, I realized that homeless people must be the most happy for the arrival of this wonderful season. Because there is nothing like sleeping outside. And along with the frolicking, eating and lovemaking...there is of course the infamous spring napping...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_E0awNOx8I/AAAAAAAABq4/YEcyTfKfljA/s1600-h/shiraz+campsite.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_E0awNOx8I/AAAAAAAABq4/YEcyTfKfljA/s400/shiraz+campsite.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183982280301791170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"No Reading Please, Only Napping"</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_EyNwNOx6I/AAAAAAAABqo/9CpIkRAriag/s1600-h/spring+nap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_EyNwNOx6I/AAAAAAAABqo/9CpIkRAriag/s400/spring+nap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183979857940236194" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">...Esfehan Post-lunch Naps</span></span>...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_EyOANOx7I/AAAAAAAABqw/XdtFQuEL3AM/s1600-h/spring+nap+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_EyOANOx7I/AAAAAAAABqw/XdtFQuEL3AM/s400/spring+nap+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183979862235203506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TN6gNOyII/AAAAAAAABsY/p8mYCAjOpQ4/s1600-h/shiraz+shop+nap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_TN6gNOyII/AAAAAAAABsY/p8mYCAjOpQ4/s400/shiraz+shop+nap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184995475971819650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shiraz Shop-owner Napping</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D1XwNOx3I/AAAAAAAABqQ/6FtO3nDYKjc/s1600-h/esfehan+picnic+nap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D1XwNOx3I/AAAAAAAABqQ/6FtO3nDYKjc/s400/esfehan+picnic+nap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183912959529633650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Post-Kabob Pass-Out<br />(I'm sure most Iranians are familiar with this concept)</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D0HgNOx1I/AAAAAAAABqA/xYQIcA-f7Uo/s1600-h/esfehan+bazaar+nap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D0HgNOx1I/AAAAAAAABqA/xYQIcA-f7Uo/s400/esfehan+bazaar+nap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183911580845131602" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Midday Napping in Esfehan's Bazaar</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doesn't he look comfortable?</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D0IANOx2I/AAAAAAAABqI/zETBy8Ir-gQ/s1600-h/esfehan+bazaar+nap+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D0IANOx2I/AAAAAAAABqI/zETBy8Ir-gQ/s400/esfehan+bazaar+nap+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183911589435066210" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_DzNgNOx0I/AAAAAAAABp4/h3Y1Lwco-1Q/s1600-h/barbershop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_DzNgNOx0I/AAAAAAAABp4/h3Y1Lwco-1Q/s400/barbershop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183910584412718914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Barber Shop Window Napping</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_DyiQNOxzI/AAAAAAAABpw/-byU5s2_Lqk/s1600-h/bachus+asleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_DyiQNOxzI/AAAAAAAABpw/-byU5s2_Lqk/s400/bachus+asleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183909841383376690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bacchus, Sound Asleep (rarrrr!)</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">PS<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I know I haven't been around the last weeks, so please forgive me for not making calls or writing. You can say I was taking a long Spring nap. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sal-e No Mobarak</span> to all my friends and family. We were always thinking of you...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D1YANOx4I/AAAAAAAABqY/SD7C0gitJ3g/s1600-h/esfehan+zayenderud.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R_D1YANOx4I/AAAAAAAABqY/SD7C0gitJ3g/s400/esfehan+zayenderud.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183912963824600962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:180%;">Happy Spring Everyone</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-21997369795469163412008-03-04T11:57:00.000-08:002008-03-06T15:03:46.191-08:00Mind the Censors Please :X<p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BE5ReXP4I/AAAAAAAABlg/J5BJk19KOUA/s1600-h/16.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BE5ReXP4I/AAAAAAAABlg/J5BJk19KOUA/s400/16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174711722582687618" border="0" /></a></p><br />About a month ago, I bought some cornflakes from my corner store.<span style=""> </span>I noticed they were really yummy, full of dried berries inside.<span style=""> </span>I was quite happy with my purchase and placed it on top of my refrigerator to admire.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>What I didn’t notice however, until a friend pointed it out, was that my Kellog’s cereal box had a giant sticker on it, covering up a bikini clad woman with a figure dressed in jeans.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BT2xeXQII/AAAAAAAABnc/uy-5WDT3Prw/s1600-h/Tehran+Feb+08+026.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BT2xeXQII/AAAAAAAABnc/uy-5WDT3Prw/s400/Tehran+Feb+08+026.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174728172307431554" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">original:</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BvkxeXQSI/AAAAAAAABos/xtK1p598ZtI/s1600-h/250px-SpecialKBox.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BvkxeXQSI/AAAAAAAABos/xtK1p598ZtI/s320/250px-SpecialKBox.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174758649395364130" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Inside the copy of an Economist I bought at a <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> bookshop (for $4.50, not bad) a glossy red sticker blocked out the photo of a woman breast feeding. <span style=""> </span>On a couple other pages you could find squiggly markings crossing out parts of pictures. Most foreign magazines I have found include genres of Home, Living, Food, Gardening, etc.<span style=""> </span>When I saw an actual “Elle” magazine for sale in a shop window, I jumped, only to realize it was “Elle: Home and Garden.”<span style=""><br /></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">I found this good collection of some examples of this kind of magazine censorship:<br /><a href="http://jturn.qem.se/2006/more-pictures-of-iranian-censorship/">(http://jturn.qem.se/2006/more-pictures-of-iranian-censorship/)</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R82tKxeXP0I/AAAAAAAABlA/cpWf2L5mtDY/s1600-h/6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R82tKxeXP0I/AAAAAAAABlA/cpWf2L5mtDY/s400/6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173981947509555010" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BE5ReXP3I/AAAAAAAABlY/QmbghazW8Wo/s1600-h/15.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BE5ReXP3I/AAAAAAAABlY/QmbghazW8Wo/s400/15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174711722582687602" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BE5ReXP4I/AAAAAAAABlg/J5BJk19KOUA/s1600-h/16.jpg"><br /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R82tLheXP2I/AAAAAAAABlQ/bbB7Si-j7ug/s1600-h/14.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R82tLheXP2I/AAAAAAAABlQ/bbB7Si-j7ug/s400/14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173981960394456930" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFlxeXP5I/AAAAAAAABlo/-lhVAu4BkAY/s1600-h/19.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFlxeXP5I/AAAAAAAABlo/-lhVAu4BkAY/s400/19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174712487086866322" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">The few fashion magazines available are thoroughly inked through--shoulders, cleavage and knees seem to be considered the most sensitive zones.<span style=""> </span>It reminds me of when I used to doodle in mags as a young teenager (a lot of things here somehow remind me of my teenage years, for example going to “illegal” parties).<span style=""> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgBeXP9I/AAAAAAAABmI/o_VmUaPOrLU/s1600-h/27.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgBeXP9I/AAAAAAAABmI/o_VmUaPOrLU/s400/27.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174713487814246354" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmBeXP6I/AAAAAAAABlw/hyfRbWp6EPk/s1600-h/23.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmBeXP6I/AAAAAAAABlw/hyfRbWp6EPk/s400/23.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174712491381833634" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgReXP-I/AAAAAAAABmQ/3Yda7uD2CsI/s1600-h/32.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgReXP-I/AAAAAAAABmQ/3Yda7uD2CsI/s400/32.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174713492109213666" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmheXP8I/AAAAAAAABmA/No6pt2Hu_80/s1600-h/26.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmheXP8I/AAAAAAAABmA/No6pt2Hu_80/s400/26.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174712499971768258" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmBeXP7I/AAAAAAAABl4/nmeQBX63cws/s1600-h/24.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BFmBeXP7I/AAAAAAAABl4/nmeQBX63cws/s400/24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174712491381833650" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"> This sign in front of the massage chair store has been censored, the knee proved too provocative:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BU_xeXQJI/AAAAAAAABnk/3N7tlJA7e28/s1600-h/Kavir,+Tehran+Feb+08+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BU_xeXQJI/AAAAAAAABnk/3N7tlJA7e28/s400/Kavir,+Tehran+Feb+08+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174729426437882002" border="0" /></a> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In clothing store windows, mannequins are strangely disfigured.<span style=""> </span>The tops of heads are cut off and arms are often missing in effort to make the thing look less human as possible.<span style=""> </span>Breasts are hacked off.<span style=""> </span>Then, sometimes you can find one with a bandage on its little plastic nose, in imitation of the upper-class person who might be wearing such an attractive outfit, one who can afford a nose job.<span style=""> </span>The poor mannequins really go through a lot.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BwVheXQTI/AAAAAAAABo0/XeATuZ5n3pw/s1600-h/mannequin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BwVheXQTI/AAAAAAAABo0/XeATuZ5n3pw/s320/mannequin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174759486913986866" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BdFxeXQQI/AAAAAAAABoc/gJU1WvlCauU/s1600-h/DSC04466.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BdFxeXQQI/AAAAAAAABoc/gJU1WvlCauU/s320/DSC04466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174738325610119426" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BcrBeXQPI/AAAAAAAABoU/xf5y6cTZOaQ/s1600-h/DSC04469.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BcrBeXQPI/AAAAAAAABoU/xf5y6cTZOaQ/s320/DSC04469.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174737866048618738" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">For films, the censorship methods are much more advanced and nuanced. Thus, a variety of foreign films, especially from <st1:city><st1:place>Hollywood</st1:place></st1:city>, are officially available, censored and dubbed in Persian.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes you can’t even tell when a scene has been cut, or that they have painted the arms and legs of a sexy screen siren, such as Angelina Jolie, to make her more conservatively dressed--something you might not be able to tell unless viewed side by side.<span style=""> </span>A 10 minute scene can take up to 3 days to work in editing, slowly molding it to fit the Islamic consumer’s taste and acceptance.<span style=""> </span>Often the entire story must be changed, for example in <i style="">Intolerable Cruelty</i>, the wife could not be shown having an illicit affair with a strange man, so it was told that she was in the room with her brother.</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /></p><span style="text-decoration: underline; font-weight: bold;"></span> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Original Movie Poster:</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJEReXQBI/AAAAAAAABmo/33g7nxFhnu0/s1600-h/MrMrsSmithmovie+poster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJEReXQBI/AAAAAAAABmo/33g7nxFhnu0/s400/MrMrsSmithmovie+poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174716309607759890" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Iranian Version:<br />"Agha va Khanum Esmeeth" :)<br /></span><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BH4xeXQAI/AAAAAAAABmg/9vqjwkDUcOY/s1600-h/nina2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BH4xeXQAI/AAAAAAAABmg/9vqjwkDUcOY/s400/nina2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174715012527636482" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Some stills from censored version</span><br />Very often they cut out entire scenes, but in several they tediously paint on<br />this black t-shirt for the entire scene:<br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BWzxeXQKI/AAAAAAAABns/-UF6nkW9xgU/s1600-h/PDVD_015.BMP"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BWzxeXQKI/AAAAAAAABns/-UF6nkW9xgU/s400/PDVD_015.BMP" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174731419302707362" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Zoomed in to hide the legs</span><span style="font-size:85%;">:</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BS1BeXQHI/AAAAAAAABnU/Wf0l_QyLT7I/s1600-h/mrandmrssmithpic2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 196px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BS1BeXQHI/AAAAAAAABnU/Wf0l_QyLT7I/s400/mrandmrssmithpic2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174727042731032690" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BPexeXQGI/AAAAAAAABnM/AyZ5WIe-tDw/s1600-h/PDVD_025.BMP"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 212px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BPexeXQGI/AAAAAAAABnM/AyZ5WIe-tDw/s400/PDVD_025.BMP" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174723361944060002" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Painted Knees:</span><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BZyxeXQNI/AAAAAAAABoE/HLfZjWQiaNQ/s1600-h/PDVD_012.BMP.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BZyxeXQNI/AAAAAAAABoE/HLfZjWQiaNQ/s400/PDVD_012.BMP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174734700657721554" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BZSBeXQMI/AAAAAAAABn8/UCe_rNvZcj4/s1600-h/PDVD_021.BMP"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BZSBeXQMI/AAAAAAAABn8/UCe_rNvZcj4/s400/PDVD_021.BMP" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174734138017005762" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Black T-shirt again</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In the unofficial world (which is a big one here), they say you can find everything.<span style=""> </span>For example, the film <st1:city><st1:place><i style="">Persepolis</i></st1:place></st1:city>, based on the comic memoirs by Marjane Satrapi--the film is vehemently banned here for its so called negative portrayal of a sensitive and controversial period in the history of the Islamic Republic.<span style=""> </span>It’s perhaps not as easy to find as others, given the higher risk if one gets caught with it.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">From www.aref-adib.com:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BlNxeXQRI/AAAAAAAABok/4uQ_4D7aVs0/s1600-h/persepolislookalikes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BlNxeXQRI/AAAAAAAABok/4uQ_4D7aVs0/s320/persepolislookalikes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174747259142095122" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another film proving controversial these days is the new film by Dariush Mehrjui—<i style="">Ali Santuri</i>, a pop-film about a Santur player who gets addicted to heroin.<span style=""> </span>The film was allowed to be made, but once completed its release was banned, also quite sternly.<span style=""> </span>The general message of the film seems to be that the society, its tough conditions (and perhaps the government) is at fault for Santuri’s addiction. Mr. Santuri the druggie is the hero, whose rich father saves him at the end by checking him in to a fancy hospital.<span style=""> </span>People either hate it (to the point of theoretically spitting on it), or really like it and think it’s a very important film...It’s caused quite a stir that’s for sure.<span style=""> </span>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgxeXP_I/AAAAAAAABmY/mg4SHkDRsas/s1600-h/santori.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BGgxeXP_I/AAAAAAAABmY/mg4SHkDRsas/s400/santori.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174713500699148274" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In a taxi cab, two passengers were chatting about it.<span style=""> </span>The cabbie, cigarette dangling from his mouth, broke into the conversation with a very serious air:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Do you know what the problem was with that film?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The girl in the front seat was quiet.<span style=""> </span>I could see her lips in the car’s side mirror, they were painted pink and pointed at the top.<span style=""> </span>He asked again with a look of disbelief...</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So you don’t have any answers, huh?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She shrugged, thinking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>With continued thoughtfulness he replied to himself, “The problem with that film is Golshifteh (the name of the actress).”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Slightly relieved she said, “Oh you mean she wasn’t suitable for the role?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>He went on, energized, “Mahnaz (another actress) was made for that role, that was her role! Golshifteh’s body type, her size, age, character, just didn’t fit that role…like in that scene when…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJ6ReXQDI/AAAAAAAABm4/PTxwSTXeRAg/s1600-h/golshifteh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 270px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJ6ReXQDI/AAAAAAAABm4/PTxwSTXeRAg/s400/golshifteh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174717237320695858" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJRxeXQCI/AAAAAAAABmw/so1STB15ghc/s1600-h/220px-Mahnaz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 272px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BJRxeXQCI/AAAAAAAABmw/so1STB15ghc/s400/220px-Mahnaz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174716541535993890" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Golshifteh v. Mahnaz</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The girl lowered her face, and I met her eyes in the mirror.<span style=""> </span>She wiped her lips together trying hard not to break into laughter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I hear many people speaking about it on the streets, they seem to like it.<span style=""> </span>My question is, does banning it make it even more popular?<span style=""> </span>The director has actually set up an account, asking for people’s donations if they buy it on the black market.<span style=""> </span>He has collected 11,000,000 tomans so far ($11,000), in the matter of weeks.<span style=""> </span>Interestingly, Mehrjui has been known to steal stories and music for his films, possible in a country with no copyright, where everything is found on the black market (the cruel society he made his film in).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Even the flashy advertisement at the beginning of an Iranian DVD, telling you not to copy this film for commercial purposes, is stolen. The name of the main Iranian distributor is 'Century 21 Visual Media Co', mysteriously similar to '20th Century Fox'.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Iranian Art-house films have been hailed by International film communities for the way they curb the censors so poetically and melancholic, making them stylish and exotic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I'd imagine the worst to get caught with would be porn, which is also available in the black markets. Although I heard a story about a guy who got away with it:<span style=""> </span>When caught with many Gigabytes of the stuff, his excuse was that better he get it out of his system at home in private, rather than in the streets, with a real woman. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>As for music, some foreign stuff, mostly classical or instrumental, gets through the Ministry of Culture’s examination process.<span style=""> </span>They do sell the Buddha Bar compilations, as well as David Gilmore, Black Sabbath, Metallica and Alice Cooper officially.<span style=""> </span>Underground Iranian bands play a variety of genres from dark metal to vulgar hip hop or political jazz fusions.<span style=""> </span>Solo women singers cannot record albums, and are only allowed to sing to an all woman audience.<span style=""> </span>Although one woman has recorded her album inside the Italian Embassy:<span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a href="http://www.wnyc.org/shows/soundcheck/episodes/2008/01/30">(http://www.wnyc.org/shows/soundcheck/episodes/2008/01/30)</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Unfortunately Celine Dion is also very popular, unofficially that is, probably thanks to the immense popularity of <i style="">Titanic</i>. And a great place to hear other popular music (official and unofficial) is, of course, the infamous taxi cab, where they often like to blast it at max volume.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>You could say alcohol consumption is censored.<span style=""> </span>That is, it is technically illegal (except for Christians and Jews), though many normal households carry it in some form.<span style=""> </span>For others there are plenty of non-alcoholic beers and look-alike 'bars' which serve them.<span style=""> </span>For the real stuff, the pharmacy is the nearest equivalent of a liquor store<st1:country-region><st1:place></st1:place></st1:country-region>, and with it come the experts on which types of pure alcohol are best—the main criteria being taste, smell and headache.<span style=""> </span>Otherwise, Aragh Sagi (‘dog’s liquor’), Armenian homemade raisin vodka, is the most popular, and one can find a wide assortment of other hard beverages. All sorts of alcohol paraphernalia are also openly available in shops and bazaars: shot glasses, whiskey and wine glasses, wine carafes, bottle openers...<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Women’s heads are censored.<span style=""> </span>They also tried to censor their backsides, but it’s just proven to be impossible.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The internet is censored in various fashions.<span style=""> </span>Firstly, It is very difficult to get high-speed internet, even though there are giant billboards advertising it all over the city.<span style=""> </span>And even if you get it (most neighborhoods only offer DSL to businesses) it’s still not that fast-- max 256K DSL.<span style=""> </span>Dial-up creates major limits, especially as more and more sites are becoming multi-media oriented, with photos, graphic, music, or video clips.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Various websites are blocked, for example sites like Facebook, MySpace, Flickr and Youtube, likely due to their networking capabilities.<span style=""> </span>Foreign media is mostly available, while those written in Persian are considered more of a threat, for example BBC Persian or Rooz Online and various Iranian bloggers’ sites.<span style=""> </span>Also various Iranian Society and Culture sites such as “The Iranian” are blocked.<span style=""> </span>Various naughty words found in Google searches also block you reaching a page.<span style=""> </span>People find ways around it however, with a filter remover program, although they make the connection even slower.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Babelfish, the translation site is also blocked, for some reason, I can't figure out why?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BbUReXQOI/AAAAAAAABoM/xboqSkBMOJA/s1600-h/iraninternet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BbUReXQOI/AAAAAAAABoM/xboqSkBMOJA/s400/iraninternet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174736375694967010" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Internet cafes, or 'Coffee Nets', are another option for high-speed internet, although I don’t know many people who use them, and haven’t seen too many around town.<span style=""> </span>You hear about them getting shut-down often, for various technicality excuses.<span style=""> </span>Students probably get decent, though limited, access in their Universities.<span style=""> </span>It seems a best option is to use your internet at work, which is what many people I know do. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>As often reported in western media, various newspapers and journals with liberal/reformist opinions get shutdown.<span style=""> </span>Some of them go online.<span style=""> </span>There are still a few remaining that intellectuals trust to some extent.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>In <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>’s <st1:place><st1:placename>Contemporary</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Art Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>, an impressive collection of modern art is hidden in storage ( http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/oct/29/artnews.iran).<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BXwBeXQLI/AAAAAAAABn0/3os2oD8u3M0/s1600-h/Tehran_Museum_of_Contemporary_Art.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R9BXwBeXQLI/AAAAAAAABn0/3os2oD8u3M0/s400/Tehran_Museum_of_Contemporary_Art.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174732454389825714" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Bookshops + Café combos are seen as danger zones, recently a popular one downtown was closed. I was lucky enough to visit it right when I arrived.<span style=""> </span>Several books were not allowed reprint this year, including translations of best selling <i style="">Da Vinci Code</i> (for upsetting Christian clerics) and <i style="">The Girl with a Pearl Earring</i>, along with several Iranian books.<span style=""> </span><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2006/nov/17/books.iran">http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2006/nov/17/books.iran</a> Authors as well as musicians are turning to the internet more and more to get their work published.</p><p class="MsoNormal">There is a Wikipedia entry called “Censorship in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran.</st1:place></st1:country-region>”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Even the mountains and blue sky surrounding <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city> are sometimes censored, by clouds of dust.<span style=""> </span>The dust comes from the happy farting of millions of cars, but also perhaps from 30 years of bulldozed buildings and demolished memories.<span style=""> </span>Neverending nostalgia-dust.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The interesting thing, I find, is that a lot of the censorship here is not really hidden, whether it’s on movies, the internet, or women.<span style=""> </span>It’s just there, an institution normalized in the everyday of society, a marker’s scribble in a glossy magazine, a big sticker, a camera zoom hiding some cleavage, or a mannequin with holes for breasts.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In some sense, you could say that the negotiations and associations with censorship in Iran are sexy, leaving the mark of a mysterious hole to fill with imaginations. What is outlawed becomes so much more desirable. In another sense, it feels like a strange incurable sickness.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It also says, look we can have both:<span style=""> </span>the shiny objects of desire from the modern world and the Islamic principles of our world, however twisted it all may turn out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-39730945373830255342008-02-27T13:05:00.002-08:002008-02-27T13:28:14.507-08:00Pomegranate Soup<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ash-e Anar ("pomegranate soup")</span><br />I made this soup a couple times recently, and both times was a huge success. It's a special, fancy soup perfect for cold evening’s meal. And especially if you want to impress somebody at the end of this winter...<span style=""> </span>The preparation can be rather time consuming, so give your self a few hours.<span style=""> </span>Or, to save time you can use dried herbs and bigger meatballs.<br /><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Ingredients:</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Herbs (stems clipped, and finely chopped) 500 grams: </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="">à</span></span>Parsley, Cilantro/Coriander, Mint, Green Onion tips</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">2-3 tablespoons Basmati Rice</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">4-5 tablespoons Split Peas</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">2 cups Pomegranate Paste (find at Iranian or Arab grocery store) </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">4-5 large yellow onions</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">250 grams ground beef or lamb</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Cooking Oil</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">2 tablespoons dried mint</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Sea Salt & Black Pepper</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thinly slice 4 onions and fry in a little bit of oil in a large soup pot.<span style=""> </span>Fry until thoroughly golden.<span style=""> </span>Add 4-5 cups of water and split peas.<span style=""> </span>Add salt and pepper.<span style=""> </span>Cook on medium heat for 15 minutes and then add the rice.<span style=""> </span>Cook for another 20 minutes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile you better have started rolling-up meatballs and chopping the herbs: </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mix 1 large grated onion into the ground meat along with salt and pepper for taste.<span style=""> </span>Roll into tiny meatballs, no bigger than a couple centimeters in diameter.<span style=""> </span>Here the hard work pays off, because, unlike other parts of life, in this case smaller means better.<span style=""> </span>The small meatballs somehow contribute to a more delicate, royal look and taste to this soup.<span style=""> </span>(You could also replace the meat with chicken, or more beans if you are vegetarian)</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XSA7ijTZI/AAAAAAAABj8/ihP_u8Dr5o8/s1600-h/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XSA7ijTZI/AAAAAAAABj8/ihP_u8Dr5o8/s400/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171770660529327506" border="0" /></a> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">real size</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Same hard work pays off with fresh herbs.<span style=""> </span>Lose all the stems and chop them finely.<span style=""> </span>It can be fun and relaxing.<span style=""> </span>Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit near a window.<span style=""> </span>But try to be organized:<span style=""> </span>Chop them all up separately and put on a plate for use later.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XS7rijTaI/AAAAAAAABkE/hRYm9h9Tdds/s1600-h/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XS7rijTaI/AAAAAAAABkE/hRYm9h9Tdds/s400/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171771669846642082" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XTXbijTbI/AAAAAAAABkM/Rna_7a-GC-g/s1600-h/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XTXbijTbI/AAAAAAAABkM/Rna_7a-GC-g/s400/Back+to+London+Feb+2008+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171772146588011954" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">meatballs herbs and wine = magic</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Once the rice and split peas have been cooking for 20-30 minute, drop in the meatballs.<span style=""> </span>Add more water if necessary.<span style=""> </span>After another 15-20 minutes add the herbs, put the heat on low and simmer.<span style=""> </span>The soup can stay simmering for up to an hour, but that’s not necessary.<span style=""> </span>The longer it cooks, the elements merge and the soup becomes creamy.<span style=""> </span>Add the pomegranate paste towards the end of cooking.<span style=""> </span>Blend it in well.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">See if it needs more salt, pepper, or you can add a little stock for added flavor.<span style=""> </span>If you like it more sour, you can also add some lemon juice at the end.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the side, heat up some oil, then take it off the heat and lightly fry dried mint in the oil.<span style=""> </span>(This ensures that you don’t burn it.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before serving, drizzle the fried mint over the soup.<span style=""> </span>For a more dramatic effect, you can drop a few fresh pomegranate seeds on each soup serving. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Don’t forget to give your guests a spoon.<span style=""> </span>Then sit back and watch, as everyone twitches around in orgiastic frenzy.<span style=""> </span>Or as they say here “kaf mikonan” (“they will foam”) !</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XSArijTYI/AAAAAAAABj0/jIyHCgWg6W0/s1600-h/320px-Asheanar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8XSArijTYI/AAAAAAAABj0/jIyHCgWg6W0/s400/320px-Asheanar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171770656234360194" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I know they've used big meatballs here, but i promise the smaller ones are better ;)</span></span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-24139826797487542952008-02-24T06:25:00.000-08:002008-02-24T13:21:23.099-08:00One Night in the DesertThere are two types of desert in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>:<span style=""> </span>Sahra is a desert that has some life in it.<span style=""> </span>Kavir is the desert that looks like a sea, where life is very scarce.<span style=""> </span>There are two massive 'kavir' located in central <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Dasht-e Kavir and Dasht-e Lut. <span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>About 5 hours drive southeast of <st1:city><st1:place>Tehran</st1:place></st1:city>, begins the Dasht-e Kavir, a.k.a. Kavir-e Namak (The Great Salt Desert)--800 km long and 320 km wide, the size of Serbia.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We had the good fortune to travel with a desert expert, and tour leader, Hamid, whom you can now find out about in the latest Iran Lonely Planet.<span style=""> </span>You can see in the soft weathered skin on his face, his brisk tranquil walk and rugged hands, that Hamid is very close to nature.<span style=""> </span>He has a thousand captivating stories from his travels, and he smiles almost all the time.<span style=""> </span>In one of those stories he and two others run across the dangerous Kavir-e Lut, with temperatures up to 55 Celsius (after 3 months training, it takes them 80 hours to run across), setting a world record.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the road down towards Kashan, we pulled into the famous road stop, a few kilometers before the holy hubbub of <st1:city><st1:place>Qom</st1:place></st1:city>: The ‘Aftab-Mahtab’ restaurants, part of a mega-complex of restaurants and shops, a place for pilgrims to stop on their way to <st1:city><st1:place>Qom</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GFrrijTMI/AAAAAAAABiQ/BERgXbaijkU/s1600-h/mahtab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GFrrijTMI/AAAAAAAABiQ/BERgXbaijkU/s400/mahtab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170560832666553538" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">The sign looks like a cheap model of a 1950s <st1:city><st1:place>Los Angeles</st1:place></st1:city> diner sign.<span style=""> </span>And as you approach you realize there’s a lot more LA fever adorning the place.<span style=""> </span>Automated doors, air conditioners and bizarre shops flaunt American style and consumer charm.<span style=""> </span>It becomes clear here, that <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> are actually closer than you might think.<span style=""> </span>(My friend swears that they are just like estranged lovers who constantly bicker about each other, in an obsessed form of lovesickness.)<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>In the back corner a <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city> aspirant café blasting Celine Dion serves milky cappuccinos.<span style=""> </span>Next to our table is a dreadfully kitsch statue of the head of a horse, and on the wall customers have written ‘I Love You’ in all their various languages—I even found “Volim Te”<span style=""> </span>:) Nearby you can take a 10 minute chair massage for 2 dollars, after coating your insides with greasy, ‘yami’ (yummy) chicken, Iranian style pizza, hotdog or hamburger in Mahtab (Moon) restaurant/food court.<span style=""> </span>Sit down meals are also available in Aftab (Sun) restaurant, and upstairs is a traditional tea house, with curious shops and stands in-between.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Loading back into the green minibus, we made way for the next stop, <st1:place><st1:placename>Sialk</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Hill-</st1:placetype></st1:place> the ruins of an Elamite ziggurat from 7000 years ago located in the outskirts of Kashan.<span style=""> </span>It is claimed to be the world’s oldest ziggurat, which is a temple in the shape of a terraced pyramid.<span style=""> </span>All that’s left of the ancient civilization of Sialk however is a big hill (most of its best kept treasures can be found in Louvre), surrounded by small farms.<span style=""> </span>We said hello, and goodbye.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GHXrijTQI/AAAAAAAABiw/lkJfXwmAvJY/s1600-h/salam+be+tapeh+sialk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GHXrijTQI/AAAAAAAABiw/lkJfXwmAvJY/s400/salam+be+tapeh+sialk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170562688092425474" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>From Kashan we entered the western edge of the Dasht-e Kavir, called<st1:place><st1:placetype></st1:placetype> <st1:placename>Maranjab</st1:placename></st1:place>, through what used be a segment of the famous <st1:place>Silk Road</st1:place>, and advanced further and further away from any signs of civilization.<span style=""> </span>One last sign was an old caravanserai, a hotel for the caravans of the <st1:place>Silk Road</st1:place>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDyLijTHI/AAAAAAAABho/9XIwlAc6kVE/s1600-h/carvansara1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDyLijTHI/AAAAAAAABho/9XIwlAc6kVE/s400/carvansara1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170558745312447602" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDx7ijTGI/AAAAAAAABhg/FkBZjLKzW7g/s1600-h/carvansara.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDx7ijTGI/AAAAAAAABhg/FkBZjLKzW7g/s400/carvansara.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170558741017480290" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">About an hour’s drive into the desert, we nestled our camp between the Darya-e Namak (<st1:place><st1:placename>Salt</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Sea</st1:placetype></st1:place>) and some fantastic sand dunes.<span style=""> </span>In the heart of the desert is the ‘Rig-e Jenn’, a rarely explored area where the sole inhabitants are ‘Jenn’ or spirits.<span style=""> </span>In the silence the only sounds are their voices in the wind.<span style=""> </span>On Google Earth, Rig-e Jenn shows up as a dark spot.<span style=""> </span>The sand dunes we made a temporary home of however are known as a ‘fake’ Rig-e Jenn, where only fake sprits dwell.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GJfrijTUI/AAAAAAAABjQ/ibWPA0Gz218/s1600-h/runaway.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GJfrijTUI/AAAAAAAABjQ/ibWPA0Gz218/s400/runaway.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170565024554634562" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GE-LijTLI/AAAAAAAABiI/ocQRRhGfmyE/s1600-h/kavir2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GE-LijTLI/AAAAAAAABiI/ocQRRhGfmyE/s400/kavir2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170560050982505650" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GEW7ijTII/AAAAAAAABhw/xD4ysShejK0/s1600-h/dunes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GEW7ijTII/AAAAAAAABhw/xD4ysShejK0/s400/dunes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170559376672640130" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GGnLijTOI/AAAAAAAABig/sRhOrBjbErk/s1600-h/rolling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GGnLijTOI/AAAAAAAABig/sRhOrBjbErk/s400/rolling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170561854868770018" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">After a barefooted walk and some rolls in the early, dusk-coated dunes, we settled down by the fire.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The full moon was huge, and as it shrunk, climbing further into the sky, cast a lonely luminous glow on the desert around us.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s around this time the Jenn start waking up.<span style=""> </span>The night chill (reaching -12 C) was unbearable, toe and nose-biting cold, and I didn’t rest until the morning sun toasted my tent.<span style=""> </span>A leisurely breakfast under the passionate sunlight however, and we soon forgot the icy nightmare.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Later, we walked across a part of the great Salt Sea, from our edge to the foot hills of one of its “islands” –hills which actually only look like they are floating.<span style=""> </span>Millions of years ago, the north of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region> was actually beneath the sea, and this is one of the remaining indications of that age-old existence.<span style=""> </span>It was a beautiful and monumental feeling to walk across the bottom of a primeval sea, and to see history in stains on the land.<span style=""> </span>The salt engraves a sheet of infinite crystalline patterns in geometrical shapes.<span style=""> </span>Each step into it crunches and sparkles—some places more muddy, and others solid.<span style=""> </span>Beneath the salt mud lies a thick layer of rock salt (I wonder how thick).</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GHX7ijTRI/AAAAAAAABi4/kwVUqz0fF34/s1600-h/saltsea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GHX7ijTRI/AAAAAAAABi4/kwVUqz0fF34/s400/saltsea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170562692387392786" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The landscape there is so completely stark and vast, and empty, that your imagination fills it with inhabitations and dreams.<span style=""> </span>At the same time it is peaceful, surrounded by nothing, and nothing, as far as your eye can see.<span style=""> </span>And everything you do see, you question its true form.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GIs7ijTTI/AAAAAAAABjI/NmUUNad7Jww/s1600-h/saltsea2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GIs7ijTTI/AAAAAAAABjI/NmUUNad7Jww/s400/saltsea2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170564152676273458" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GIsrijTSI/AAAAAAAABjA/CTmte6ZVHho/s1600-h/saltsea1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GIsrijTSI/AAAAAAAABjA/CTmte6ZVHho/s400/saltsea1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170564148381306146" border="0" /></a><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I looked up I thought I even saw salt in the sky.<span style=""> </span>Every half hour or so, we would come across some sign of someone or something who passed by sometime, like a forgotten memory:<span style=""> </span>a crystallized grasshopper, a metal can pillaged by salt, a smiling crusty footprint, a bright red ladybug, a lizard.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GEXLijTJI/AAAAAAAABh4/072WhapW6GA/s1600-h/footprints+in+sea+of+salt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GEXLijTJI/AAAAAAAABh4/072WhapW6GA/s400/footprints+in+sea+of+salt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170559380967607442" border="0" /></a><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After about an hour and half walking, we reached the foot of those hills, and there someone had conveniently set up a toilet.<span style=""> </span>It was perhaps the best toilet I ever used in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and the clean, tender breeze in the air made my task so much more pleasurable.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GCwrijTEI/AAAAAAAABhQ/2DJUXgQULJ0/s1600-h/best+toilet+in+iran.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GCwrijTEI/AAAAAAAABhQ/2DJUXgQULJ0/s400/best+toilet+in+iran.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170557620031016002" border="0" /></a><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Those guys are obsessed with jeeps<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GE9rijTKI/AAAAAAAABiA/FTQfYbueaSI/s1600-h/jeep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GE9rijTKI/AAAAAAAABiA/FTQfYbueaSI/s400/jeep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170560042392571042" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Back at the settlement, thirsty and hungry, we were greeted with various culinary delights in action.<span style=""> </span>Our tour leader had prepared a mean ‘Ab Gusht’ stew which was brewing on a fire.<span style=""> </span>Meanwhile some locals from the nearby town, who traipsed in on a big jeep and motorbike, had brought some ‘Halim’ (a wheat stew), and were preparing a specialist ‘Kabab Koobideh’ (ground-meat kabob) with marinated camel meat.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDA7ijTFI/AAAAAAAABhY/Gi7RuYN0c_c/s1600-h/camel+kabab+koobideh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GDA7ijTFI/AAAAAAAABhY/Gi7RuYN0c_c/s400/camel+kabab+koobideh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170557899203890258" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"> <span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Among other things, I learned that a live male camel cost $1,500, while the female (not sure why!?) costs $1000. And, if you kill a man, in Islamic law, the blood money you must pay his family is about $40,000, or one theoretical camel, while a woman’s murder would cost you $20,000 or half a camel.<span style=""> </span>You could also say 2 women for one camel, it sounds better. <span style=""> </span>I thought what an excellent cooking show this would be, true masters at work in the rawness of nature, with loads of fun trivia tidbits.<span style=""> </span>We feasted like desert kings and queens, and it was all incredibly delicious.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GKD7ijTVI/AAAAAAAABjY/josDVKPTAR4/s1600-h/twins.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GKD7ijTVI/AAAAAAAABjY/josDVKPTAR4/s400/twins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170565647324892498" border="0" /></a><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way back we stopped again at Mahtab Restaurant, and took turns trying out the massage chairs.<span style=""> </span>It was a comedic site, as our dusty bodies were rubbed and prodded by strange Kenny G. playing alien chairs.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My massage finished before the others and, in a brief moment alone, the young woman who worked there spoke to me with a strange gleam in her eyes:<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Did you also go to the desert?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You were both men and women?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Um yes”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“How many men and how many women? Was it half and half?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Um, well, no.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know, there were 3 of us women”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“How is it like traveling with men?<span style=""> </span>Is it interesting?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, hmm. I don’t know.<span style=""> </span>It’s interesting, but not for that reason...”<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was caught off guard, and really didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t get her out of my head for a while.<span style=""> </span>We were quickly cut off.<span style=""> </span>She seemed innocent, and I think she was just asking out of real curiosity.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Although the Mahtab-Aftab complex is famous for its bathrooms--they have some of the only public western toilets in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>, which are considered sort of un-Islamic-- I was quite disappointed by them.<span style=""> </span>Women in hunched up chadors, squeezing their noses and flapping about, pushed their way in front of me.<span style=""> </span>The western toilets (farangi) were either closed or someone was living inside them.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The journey backwards was long dark and lonely, but filled with a satisfied air.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>They say once you go to kavir, you keep going.<span style=""> </span>I think it’s true.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GFr7ijTNI/AAAAAAAABiY/O-zKHtTr3hE/s1600-h/namaki.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R8GFr7ijTNI/AAAAAAAABiY/O-zKHtTr3hE/s400/namaki.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170560836961520850" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">click below for more photos:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/Desert"><img src="http://lh5.google.com/ninja268/R8AQurijSeE/AAAAAAAABgA/X_wKhfmzjUQ/s160-c/Desert.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/Desert" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Desert</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1488720529695906663.post-67512801052312598902008-02-15T05:38:00.000-08:002008-02-16T13:13:16.763-08:00Funny ValentineDuring my return to Tehran something I noticed, that I forgot to mention before: Several people seemed drunk not only entering Tehran but also leaving. And when it comes to airport activities, such as waiting in line or loading baggage through security for example, all male chivalry is flushed down the toilet.<br /><br />Speaking of toilet-flushing and male chivalry...<br /><br />1. I have to get used to NOT flushing toilet paper, once again (thanks to Tehran's shady to non-existent plumbing system. It's great for saving trees though.)<br /><br />And 2. I got back to Tehran just in time for <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valentine%27s_Day">Valentine's Day</a>! The romantic holiday named after 2 Christian Martyrs called Valentine. What's this got to do with Iran you might ask?<br /><br />Downtown, on the famous Karim Khan Street all the card and gift shops were transformed into flashy red showcases, displaying all sorts of over-sized plush Valentine goodies: Boxes and Bears, and other strange pudgy creatures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W6xbijSTI/AAAAAAAABVU/boJ27C9-7x4/s1600-h/little+squishy+things.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W6xbijSTI/AAAAAAAABVU/boJ27C9-7x4/s400/little+squishy+things.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167241505846544690" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W8GLijSWI/AAAAAAAABVs/aOFC0yHDYJM/s1600-h/red+animal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W8GLijSWI/AAAAAAAABVs/aOFC0yHDYJM/s400/red+animal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167242961840458082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I wonder what the 'X' means? A punching bag?</span></span><br /><br /></div>In the same area, Coffee Shops were overflowing with couples, many of them wearing red. Traffic was even worse than the usual Thursday night.<br /><br />Feeling a bit of post-Ashura blues?...Valentine's is here! And with Nowruz just around the corner, it's a jam packed season.<br /><br />Valentine's Day has been gaining popularity in Iran over the past years, although there have been attempts to ban it or curb its popularity, especially by giving the shops selling Valentine's products a hard time. One government official even suggested keeping the tradition but switching the day to the birthday of Fatima (I think it was her?). This didn't happen, and even this year the stores were bustling with squishy red hearts, chocolates and kissing bears.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W6IrijSSI/AAAAAAAABVM/6GYhWcyp5ao/s1600-h/kissing+bears.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W6IrijSSI/AAAAAAAABVM/6GYhWcyp5ao/s400/kissing+bears.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167240805766875426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Proof that Iranians love to love.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W8lLijSXI/AAAAAAAABV0/60ByS3YnbOg/s1600-h/saucy+gifts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W8lLijSXI/AAAAAAAABV0/60ByS3YnbOg/s400/saucy+gifts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167243494416402802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Yes, they really love to love.</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7XG1LijSbI/AAAAAAAABWQ/WumkLKfiDKE/s1600-h/femore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7XG1LijSbI/AAAAAAAABWQ/WumkLKfiDKE/s400/femore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167254764410587570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/1949068.stm">And they are even safe about it (click here)</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span></div>That poster is actually hanging, for all to see, outside a pharmacy near my house. When I passed by it, I literally froze...and had to backtrack. In Persian it says something like: "<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.uaemall.com/moreInfo.asp?Code=45375">Femore gel</a>, for the woman's sexual inability." Perhaps this is proof that North Tehran is looking more and more like California.<br /><br />It may be about love, but Valentine's Day is also about buying. The shops were packed, and for the first time I saw Iranians queuing up. Outside a store, as most of them are too tiny for these kinds of crowds. The message I picked up seemed to be, bigger is better. Not only the stuffed animals, but also cards, boxes, bags stuffed with confetti and shiny tissue were size extra large. Alas...consumerism wins the battle on this day (and most days), in all it's curious ways.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W91LijSZI/AAAAAAAABWE/OgYzIYj7tVA/s1600-h/streetseller.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W91LijSZI/AAAAAAAABWE/OgYzIYj7tVA/s400/streetseller.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167244868805937554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Competitive street peddler: Would you like a tooth or a donkey on the moon</span></span>?<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7dMebijScI/AAAAAAAABW0/UG13b9TDyVE/s1600-h/mahdi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7dMebijScI/AAAAAAAABW0/UG13b9TDyVE/s400/mahdi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167683183103396290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /></span></span></div>For more on V Day, check out this documentary a friend of mine made a couple years ago: <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.pbs.org/frontlineworld/blog/2006/02/valentines_day_2.html">"Valentine's Day in Iran"</a><br /><br />In the evening the Brazilian Embassy hosted local band <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://127band.com/">127</a> for a rare, and cozy, live concert. The band unofficially released their new album: Khal Punk. The word "Khal" comes from "Khaltoo" which is a genre of very old Iranian pop music.<br /><br />All in all it was a beautiful first V day in Tehran. Sorry this post is pretty crappy...hope you enjoy the photos at least :)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W7MbijSUI/AAAAAAAABVc/1FF84GK51tA/s1600-h/neenee%27s+valentine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_dOgQaxU4JOQ/R7W7MbijSUI/AAAAAAAABVc/1FF84GK51tA/s400/neenee%27s+valentine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167241969703012674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Love, Neenee</span></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br />See more photos from the day here:<br /><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/ValentineSDayInTehran"><img src="http://lh4.google.com/ninja268/R7WOWLijRqE/AAAAAAAABUk/542ImPlmGdI/s160-c/ValentineSDayInTehran.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/ninja268/ValentineSDayInTehran" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Valentine'<wbr>s Day in Tehran</a></td></tr></tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2