Peace Corps Writers Blog

Free and Fair Elections?

According to a recent article in the Washington Post, “Iran's hard-liners head into Friday's [March 14, 2008] parliamentary elections burdened by the unpopularity of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad because of an ailing economy. But they have a safety net: Rival reformists are crippled after the clerical leadership threw out their best candidates.”
  Reading that article on line brought to mind an incident that took place while I was living in Rasht, the provincial capital of Gilan, during the 1960s. We, too, had parliamentary elections. Only, in one of the outlying villages, the wrong candidate won the election.
What to do?
Easy, said the people in charge. We'll void those ballots and bring in other people who live outside the district. So they hired a bus, brought in some peasants and showed them how to cast a ballot. They might even have had to register the newcomers on the spot before any balloting could take place.
They counted the new ballots. The right candidates were declared winners. And all was right with the world.
Perhaps the U.S. National Democratic Party can follow this model for the Florida and Michigan "redo" rimaries. Why not just transport a couple busloads of people to the polling places?

 

A New Moon Brings New Hope

A New Moon Brings New   Hope

                                                                                                    Jennifer B-C Seaver (Iran 1966-68)

While Jews celebrate the New Year, Ramadan, or Ramazzan, as it is known in Iran, begin tonight when religious leaders observe the new moon. For the next lunar month, Muslims around the world will observe the holy month of mourning, one of their five pillars of faith.

This morning I watched The Today Show’s Matt Lauer reporting live from Tehran, the capital of Iran, in instant communication with his colleagues back in the United States. Once more I dreamed of a time when I'll be able to show my husband the country I once called my adopted home.

Five years ago, I was part of a group of RPCVs who traveled there under the auspices of the Carter Center’s Friendship Force International. During our ten-day excursion, we spoke to many people, reunited with a few old friends and formed friendships with strangers. We saw that two thirds of the population is under the age of thirty and therefore never knew the Peace Corps presence throughout their country. Nevertheless, like Matt Lauer, we ran into many who were curious about us and anxious to talk to us.

I am saddened that as long as there is continued animosity between our two governments and no diplomatic relations, travel between Iran and the USA remains difficult.

Four decades ago, when I taught English, I usually wore conservative clothing by American standards although I never wore a chador. I complained in 2002 about having to wear a headscarf and manteau (overcoat) in the oppressive heat of late summer. I wish the conservative government currently in power had not reverted recently to a strict observance of a dress and morality code. At that time, we had hope that under the former leader, Iran was beginning to open up to the west.

But I still see some signs of encouragement. Boys and girls are being educated. In fact, more women than men enroll in higher education. Unlike Saudi Arabia, Iranian women drive, vote, hold public office, and work outside the home. Soon, I hope, we can join together in a common call for peace and freedom in the near future.

Now Ruz Celebrations

Now Ruz Celebrations

I want to take this opportunity to wish one and all a joyous and prosperous New Year on March 20-21, 2007 because Iranians are a very special part of my global family.

One of my happiest memories of Iran is the Now Ruz celebration, a thirteen-day period of renewal and joy that begins on the first day of spring. This holiday is observed throughout many parts of central Asia as well as in Iran because it is not exclusive to any particular religious group.  Unlike Muslim holidays, which follow the lunar calendar and thus sometimes observances shift their times and dates each year, Now Ruz is always observed on the first day of spring. It's time to put on new clothes and gather together for parties and picnics. Schools, government offices, and most businesses close for the two-week period.

I was a teacher of English to high school and adult students in Iran during the 1960s.  An Iranian engineer, married to an American woman and living in Rasht, invited me to join him and his extended family to travel to the southern city of Shiraz for my first Now Ruz holiday. We attended a family reunion at a picnic in his father’s orchard outside the city. But first, we had to ford a shallow river. Family, friends, and servants transported beautiful carpets, a large samovar, and many containers of food – enough to serve a gathering of two dozen people! from their homes to the countryside for the occasion.

I celebrated my second Now Ruz with my own parents, who had timed their around-the-world trip to spend some time with me during the school holiday. I met them in Tehran and took them back to my home in Rasht. Then, a few days later, we boarded another bus going north to Ardabil so they could visit this ancient capital of Persia.

Traditional says that King Jamshid established Now Ruz as the first day of the Persian month of Farvadin during the Sassanian era (226 – 652 AD). But the Haft Seen custom is at least 2,000 years old. Some scholars date its origins in the Zoroastrian religion; others think its beginnings go back to Babylonian agrarian celebrations.

Until most Persians converted to Islam sharab – wine was originally part of celebration. Today, mirrors, boiled eggs (celebrating rebirth), sweets, candles, a goldfish swimming in a bowl and the Qur’an usually adorn the holiday table. Observant male heads of household recite religious verses as they welcome the spring equinox. Sometimes children also jump across a bonfire as they recall the Zoroastrian tradition of the Sacred Fire. The centerpiece of the holiday table, however, is the seven ‘s’es. (1) Sekeh – a gold or shiny coin represents prosperity. (2) Samanu – a sweet wheat pudding shows the sweetness of life. (3) Sabzi – green vegetables of herbs (sprouted a few days ago in a bowl) symbolize fertility. (4) Sonbon, a hyacinth flower, signifies new life. The next three items are typical foods: (5) Seer – garlic – a major ingredient in Persian cooking; (6) Senjed - a small native dried fruit; and (7) Serkeh – vinegar to ward off bitterness. Sib – apples – or sumagh – sumac – a common seasoning for cheloh kebab can also be displayed if the other items of food are not readily available.

As you sit down to a springtime picnic, may good health, prosperity, and joyful family reunions be yours! As we are all "Irish" when we celebrate St. Patrick's Day on March 17th, we can also all be "Iranians" and celebrate Now Ruz this year.

My Iranian Samovar

One of my prize souvenirs from my two years in Iran as an English teacher during the 1960s is the brass samovar I found in a local bazaar. Like the beautiful carpet that adorns my study, samovars come in many shapes and sizes. Samovars may be pot-bellied like mine, or straight-sided, brass or nickel-plated, decorative antiques, or functional contemporary models. Samovars and their ever-present pots of tea are a major presence in Iranian daily life.

This is the time of year when Iranians celebrate the ancient festival of Now Ruz, a Zoroastrian tradition. Now Ruz marks the beginning of spring and the start of the Persian calendar. Families gather for picnics and family reunions throughout the country. I was privileged to attend a Now Ruz picnic as the guest of an Iranian agricultural engineer from Shiraz, his American wife, their two children, and many members of his extended family. Early one morning, we hauled carpets, folding chairs, a brass samovar, huge caldrons of rice and chicken as well as other food (enough to serve twenty people) across a river. We sat in his father’s orchard and enjoyed the warm spring air.

Tea was also served throughout the day in the teachers’ lounge at my school. I regularly drank tea or a soft drink in the private office of the president of our local bank with whom I exchanged language lessons. Sometimes, the postmaster invited me to the back of the PTT (post office, telegram and telegraph) for a cup of tea after I picked up my mail.

Rug merchants also had samovars in every shop. At times, I felt every Iranian businessman or government officer believed that socializing and hospitality superceded the official transaction. I suppose I was a slow learner because I often felt frustrated when fardah ya pasfardah …Inshallah (tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, God willing) seemed to rule the day. But as time went by, I figured out that it was always going to take an hour to cash my stipend check at the bank. Clearly,  if the president were not available that morning, the tellers or clerks were already taking a tea break or chatting with other customers. And while breaks between class hours often stretched beyond the allotted five or ten minute period if one were engaged in a serious conversation with fellow teachers, I began to fit into a society that values communication. I also learned that any serious bartering about an important purchase doesn't take place until the two parties have first established a sense of mutual trust.

Contrast these memories with an incident that happened last fall. When our car’s engine blew out on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, it was clear we had to buy a replacement vehicle as soon as possible. My husband spent the better part of the next day checking out various makes and models on the Internet. Finally, he found one at a price we could afford. That evening, we drove a rental car over to the dealership. "We’d like to test drive that blue one,” we told the salesman. After a short test drive, we agreed on the purchase. Since it was a “website special,” the price was non-negotiable. When we followed him back inside the showroom, we noticed we were the only customers present that evening. We watched him complete the requisite paperwork. Only later did he seem interested in chatting with us. Actually, he mostly wanted to talk about himself. For the next two hours, we tried to figure out a way to end the one-sided conversation gracefully. We had already declined his offer of coffee because the hour was late and we were anxious to get home.

If the sales manager invests in a samovar, he might bring more customers into the showroom.

Jennifer B-C Seaver (RPCV Iran)

Ashura

Ashura – A Time of Expiation

Ashura is the tenth day of the Muslim month of Muharram. This year, the festival falls on February 9, 2006. Sunnis and Shi’ites alike observe this festival. Shi’ites honor it as the anniversary of the day in 680 C.E. when Caliph Yazid martyred Hussein, a grandson of Mohammad, and seventy-two of his kinsmen in the holy city of Karbala, Iraq, ending the struggle for succession to the Prophet.

While serving in Iran during the 1960s as a Peace Corps Volunteer, we were always cautious and respectful of the Muslim holy days. We were especially careful to remain inside our walled compound especially after dark during Muharram, and to avoid contact with the crowds of chanting men and boys that marched through the city on the festival of Ashura. Then, I returned to Iran in 2002, traveling with a group of RPCVs and their families. We visited the 14^th century C.E. Amir Chakhmaq Mosque in the ancient city of Yazd. The grandstand where the faithful reenact the martyrdom of the Hussein, the third Imam, annually is nearby. Standing there, I recalled the only time I had dared to open our gate ever so slightly in hopes of catching a brief glimpse of the men and boys who passed through our alley carrying their flaming torches and striking their backs with switches to the beat of drums.

Sunni Muslims, however, observe this day as the time when Nuh (Noah) left the Ark and Allah led Musa (Moses) and his people out of Egypt. After Mohammad migrated from Mecca, he found a community of Jews living in Medina. The Jews were fasting in remembrance of God’s deliverance of them from the Egyptians.

The people said, "O Messenger of Allah, it is a day that the Jews and Christians honor. The Prophet said, "When the following year comes, Allah willing, we shall fast on the ninth day." Sadly, he died the next year.

Today, there are demonstrations against the west (and between Sunnis and Shi’ites) around the world. Perhaps instead of flagellation over the battle that broke much of the Muslim world apart, the festival of Ashura can once represent a time of forgiveness to the sons and daughters of Abraham. Then Jewish, Christian, and Muslim brothers and sisters can begin to work together again to build a peaceful world.

Jennifer B-C Seaver

(RPCV Iran)

Keep Cool

During the two years that I served in Iran as an English teacher in the 1960s, travel was strenuous, most routes, unpaved, and communications, almost impossible. People often showed up – or didn’t, even when they had written ahead to say they were coming. So, in September 1966, when Tom Dawson and David Osterberg failed to arrive in Rasht, Gilan, as planned, I was not particularly concerned. Tom had written that they planned to spend a night in Ardabil, then catch another bus down the scenic Astara road, which drops thousands of feet to the shores of the Caspian Sea and, if all went well, they’d arrive in Rasht by nightfall. The next day, we'd go on to our workshop in Isfahan.

I had traveled that road earlier in the summer and knew firsthand about the barbed-wire fences and sentry towers along the steppes of Russia. However, in the fishing village of Astara, where the two men had to change buses, only the shallow Aral River defines the border between Iran and the USSR.

When David finally reached Isfahan, he was shaken up and under strict orders not to reveal Tom’s whereabouts. As we learned later, Russian soldiers had apprehended his friend outside Astara en route to Rasht. After Tom was arrested, Russian authorities transported him to Baku, (in what was then Russian Azarbaijan) and held him for three weeks. Although the government imposed a news blackout in Iran, this Cold War incident made front-page news in the New York Times.

After three long weeks, the American Ambassador in Moscow successfully negotiated Tom’s release. My friend walked freely across the border, only to learn that the Iranian government had declared him persona non grata. For more information about this frightening episode, please visit the March 2004 issue of the online magazine, peacecorpsonline.org and do a search for Tom Dawson.

Needless to say, when I found myself lost in the mountains of Wyoming last summer, I credited my safe return to Peace Corps training where we had been taught to keep cool in unpredictable circumstances.

Three years ago, I journeyed back to Iran with a group of fellow RPCVs. On this trip, we rode in comfortable air-conditioned buses on smooth highways and our tour guide used his cell phone to confirm hotel reservations. But just like the earlier days when I was still fumbling in Farsi, communications sometimes were lacking. One night, for example, a member of our group got locked out of her hotel room (part of a suite.) Although she had a key to the inner door, she couldn’t get past the outer door. She asked me to call down to the front desk for her. I did so in sorely lacking Farsi. The man replied in English: "I will … the bell man and he will … the door for you." Happily, someone came upstairs a few minutes later to let her into her room.

I had been thinking about Iran when my husband and I started out at the Christina Lake trailhead in the Wind Rivers mountain range of Wyoming last summer. We are experienced hikers and Paul was carrying a topographical map as well as a trail description. As usual, I had my compass. We ate an early lunch at the wilderness boundary where 2 trails lead up the mountain – one to Christina Lake and the other to Silas Lake. So far, so good. I stopped at Upper Silas Lake to rest while he climbed further into the canyon. It was about 1:30 p.m. and he promised to be back by 4 since it was only a few miles more up to the end of the trail.

Sometime after 4 p.m., I decided to start down. I’d already done a couple of puzzles, eaten my apple, and changed to a more comfortable spot in plain sight. I’d also gazed at the blue sky, identified the trees around me, listened to birdcalls, and watched a rushing stream below my outcropping. I finally wrote him a note, which I left in the middle of the trail pinned down by rocks so anyone could find it.

On the way down, I met a backpacker who reported, "Paul says he’ll meet you at the car." That was reassuring because it meant he was ahead of me. But twice I got off the main trail. I had to cross a roaring stream on some precarious logs. A swift jog back up the steep grade took most of my drinking water. Then I made yet another wrong turn. Now I had only ¼ of a liter left for the long hike out. However, I saw a lake ahead. Was this Christina Lake? If so, I’d get my bearings. In spite of traveling its full length, I found no trail that headed up to the point where we had eaten lunch. Once again, I’d have to retrace my steps back up the mountain. When I finally caught sight of the sign at the wilderness boundary, I wanted to hug it!

Then I saw the double-blazed blue trail and the red cross-country ski symbols we had followed earlier in the day. Once again, as the two trails diverged. I chose the blue trail. That led me to a large marshy meadow. This was not the right route! I finally reached a campground where a young girl sat at a picnic table. "Is there a driver around who can take me back to the trailhead?" I asked her. By now, my husband was waiting for me just as I had once awaited Tom Dawson and David Osterberg in Rasht, Iran.

Two fellow hikers were there as well. One had already searched the campground; the other was ready to hike up to a high point to use his cell phone and call for help if the need arose.Like Peace Corps volunteers, hikers are always ready to help.

Some day I hope to go back to Iran. But this time, my husband will be at my side.

Jennifer B-C Seaver (RPCV Iran 1966-68)

Khanum Amrika

I may never learn the proper way to haggle although our Iranian housekeeper, Savina, tried her best to explain to me the cardinal rule of bargaining: one must buy daily necessities locally whenever possible. Although Rasht had a few modern stores in the 1960s and a few merchants actually did post sticker labels, these places were much too expensive and therefore to be avoided unless it was impossible to find the desired item anywhere else. (This, of course, never happened to people who were born and raised in the community.) However, whenever I felt too tired or was in too much of a hurry, I often resorted to one of the high-priced places. I tried to hide my mistakes from Savina because she usually scolded me about my extravagant habits. "But Khanum, too many costly indulgences can wreck havoc with your budget," she groaned as she looked over the stickers pasted on the canned goods I brought into the house. "Khanum Nancy was able to carry many wonderful souvenirs of Gilan back to America because she quickly learned from me how to barter like a native." I nodded my head and promised to do better the next time.

She insisted another key to success in bargaining was to make all the rounds and survey all possibilities before one tried to consummate any deals, no matter how small or insignificant the purchase was. A dozen eggs could vary in price by as much as five tomans from one stall to another. "Khanum, don’t be in such a rush. Remember to check out everything before buying ANYTHING!" she insisted whenever we shopped together. I tried to steer clear of anyone trying to overcharge me simply because I was a foreigner. She constantly reminded me that shopkeepers charged clever natives like her only the ‘low’ price because they knew how to bargain properly. Finally, she decided that the so-called ‘medium' price’ was probably the best I could do on my own. But that was a bit better than the ‘high’ price merchants liked to charge tourists.

"Well," I countered, "it’s certainly a bargain if you are used to thinking in American terms."

"But as long as you pay top price, you’ll never have any money," she said, scowling at me. "Because I care about you, I’m going to teach you how to find the very best quality merchandise for the very best possible price a foreigner can expect."

"Okay," I said. "I’ll try it your way."

***

On my first visit to the Friday Bazaar in Isfahan, I looked forward to finding a few souvenirs. Just as shops were reopening after the midday break, I left the sunlit Grand Maidan and walked down a long, dark bazaar passageway into the antique section. I had already been forewarned to be on the lookout for fakes. Bazaars around the world are not above trying to pass off an item recently fashioned at the rear of the shop as the genuine article.

I saw some nice wooden items mixed in with a variety of bolts of faded fabrics in one shop. Then I caught a glimpse of a wooden rectangular box, about three inches wide, six inches long, and four inches deep, its cover painted with a simple pastoral scene in raw tones of orange, green, blue and brown. The crudely painted figures suggested it was the genuine thing. I picked it up for a closer look then quickly set it back down. Never show interest in anything you find appealing. I turned away, feigning a mild interest in a few other items. The shopkeeper smiled benignly at me. He was clearly prepared to engage me in battle. Try to match facial expressions. Look bored. No need to hurry. Take as much time as he does. I addressed him in Farsi as I pointed casually at a particularly ugly round box on another table. "How much for one of these?"

"Khanum, a very special price. A mere forty tomans," the grizzled merchant said. This price seemed comparable to similar boxes sold in Rasht.

"Too much by far!" In typical Iranian fashion, I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and moved away. But my eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the painted pencil box and I was compelled to pick it up again. Three female figures graced its wooden cover, two picking fruit, the other who wore an orange gown handed a piece of fruit to the handsome master who lounged idly beneath a tree. "How much for this one?" I muttered, kicking myself for expressing interest in any of his wares.

"For you, Khanum, always a special price. A mere forty tomans for a genuine antique pen box." His opening price was at least 100 per cent more than the box was worth so he clearly considered me a foreigner or at the very least, a tourist. On the other hand, we were using Farsi rather than broken English.

I countered by throwing my head back again. "Too much! Ten tomans, Agha – not a rial more."

"Too little by far, Khanum," he shot right back. "You know that I cannot possibly let you have this box for such a ridiculous price. Thirty-five tomans. Final price for this. I offer you a real bargain because this box was meant for you." He showed it off proudly. "Behold the fine workmanship; see for yourself, Khanum. Here, take it, please."

I quickly dropped my hands to my sides. "No thank you." Again, I clicked my tongue to show disdain. Better to be thought a rude Rashti than just another dumb foreign tourist who happened to stumble into his shop. "Naheer, merci."

As I left the store, he called out, "But such a fine box at such an excellent price, Khanum. You won’t be sorry." Apparently my bargaining skills didn’t impress him as much as I had thought. "Let us come to an agreement, Khanum. Would you care for some tea? Perhaps you will find something more interesting than this miserable item."

Was I that gullible? On the other hand, I was rather thirsty. I didn’t see any other customers around so I slowly ambled back into his shop and followed him to the rear. "Thank you for the offer of tea, Agha."

He plumped up two fat pillows and invited me to make myself comfortable. "May I offer you some sweets?" I nodded ever so slightly, remembering my manners. A young boy appeared bearing a tray with glasses of tea and a plate filled with hard candy. "No, thank you. I’ll just have tea." As I sipped the hot beverage, another boy offered me a dish of pistachios. Have to be careful about taking food from strangers, I heard Savina’s voice saying. This far away from other tourists, there’s no telling what can happen. Don’t forget, there’s nothing to prevent an old man from abducting a fair young maiden and carrying her off to his secret harem, hidden somewhere in the darkest quarter of this ancient city, If you're not careful, he'll take his pleasure with you.

For a while, we smiled benignly at each other and engaged in a bit of idle conversation. If I wanted to demonstrate my seriousness about bargaining, it was time to make another offer, about half again as much as the first. "Agha, I am prepared to offer you thirteen tomans. Even that is a lot more than this box is worth."

His smile broadened. "More tea?" This was my signal to shake my head politely. I stood up.

"Ah, I see you are not pleased.. Twenty-seven tomans. Final price - a beautiful woman like you deserves a small token of my appreciation."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Agha. Well, perhaps another time." When would I ever return to Isfahan?

"How much does the Khanum wish to offer? Twenty-five tomans?" He resumed the well-rehearsed patter. "You will not find anything comparable here in Isfahan." Now he was coming down in price faster than I had hoped.

I observed his gray whiskers and tiny tufts of hair in his ears. Perhaps he was already a grandfather many times over. Certainly his stoic demeanor suggested he was more interested in making a sale, than actually seducing a foreign woman. Nevertheless, since I had already started the bidding at two hundred percent, the ‘REALLY high price’ - the one reserved for silly foreigners, I knew it was time to walk away from the deal. I looked longingly at the box. Could I still hone in on the middle price? After examining the pen box for cracks, I snarled, "Fifteen tomans - my best and last offer for such an old piece." I knew only foreigners took a fancy to such items. Modern Iranian women like Savina much preferred to store their precious belongings in utilitarian boxes made of metal or plastic.

"Do you wish to allow me no profit? How can I feed my children on such a miserable amount of money?"

"Okay. Well, I guess you’ll find another customer in time. " The most important rule of bargaining sprang to mind. Quit now. And don’t turn back! Still, with an exchange rate at eight Iranian tomans to the dollar, the difference between our two prices was minimal. Nevertheless, my pride was now at stake. Somehow demonstrating my bartering skills had become more important than actually making a purchase.

Once back on the Grand Maidan, the brilliant desert sun blinded me as I started to cross the street. I heard a young male voice calling out, "Khanum, khanumeh Amrika!" I turned around but saw no one I knew. Just then a young boy rushed up beside me and thrust the wooden pen box into my hands. "Please, Khanum, you wish to buy this?"

"No, thank you." I shook my head. "Your master’s price is far too high."

"Khanumeh Amrika, he says I must give this box to you. He wants you to have it so badly."

"Okay. Fifteen tomans – that’s my final offer for such an old and useless box. Please inform your master that he needs to start selling boxes made of plastic or aluminum if he really wants to make a profit."

"But Khanumeh Amrika, he has reduced the price to only twenty tomans. Please look at it - a genuine antique, not a fixed-up modern box like those of his competitors. He knew you were a schoolteacher who needs a fine pen box for your classroom."

"Fifteen tomans. Not a rial more. That’s my final offer." I wore a plain blue cotton dress. My brown kerchief was still firmly on my head. Without makeup and being of average height and weight, I really didn’t stand out in the crowd. How had this youngster found me? We stared at each other for a long time.

"Okay. Fifteen tomans (two US dollars)," he said in a sad voice. "It’s yours, Khanum." Fifteen tomans – almost a third less than the original asking price and a little better than the middle price. Still, if I had held out for thirteen, Savina would be even more proud of me. On the other hand, this was going to be my last chance to take the box back to Rasht with me. "Okay. Fifteen tomans." I dug deep down into my purse and we exchanged money and box.

"Thank you, Khanumeh Amrika," he murmured, quietly slipping away into the crowd. I had found a perfect souvenir of my trip to Isfahan. If Savina asked me, as she surely would, "What on earth do you plan to do with this old thing?" I planned to hand her another really nice box – one made of sturdy plastic I had already picked out especially for her.

Jennifer B-C Seaver
(RPCV Iran 1966-68)