A Persian Girls Autobiography: three

In the past twenty two years, I had never thought  traveling back to Iran during the Islamic Republic Regime was possible. 

I always saw our departure from that country as an escape. We fled that country. We were refugees. To seek refuge is to seek protection from a place that was harming you, that was dangerous, therefore, for me it always seemed natural to not want to go back. It is the same regime that we had escaped from, so why would I go back now?

The funny thing or not about that is, I always thought I had one up on the government for being able to fool them in escaping from the country and not getting caught. 

After all, my mom did almost get us arrested during our departure from Iran at the airport. See, when we were leaving the country, the government wouldn't allow people to take any jewelry out of the country. Each person was allowed one piece of gold jewelry.Now, if you know Persians, you know that is not enough.

My mom had hundreds of pieces.

She sold almost all. 

She kept a few. 

To the airport, I wore a cross necklace and a gold flower ring, which I have to this day. They asked my mom to choose between the cross or the chain I was wearing. I could only have one or the other. My mom chose the cross. She had her wedding ring she took with her. My sister, I can not remember but assume it was a necklace. No rings.

When we left Iran, at the airport, they search you. The costumes area is gender divided. We were taken to a room that had dressing room stalls with white curtains. Maybe plastic curtains, although I can not remember. We were searched. Body searched. They checked the seams of our clothes, we took our shoes off and had to answer questions and were spoken to very bitterly. These women were mean. My sister and I were so scared of them. They just were so rude and scary. Anyhow- when we got to Greece, my mother let out a big sigh, and told my father, sister and I that she had sewn a thick chain in the seams of my pants. She had loved that chain and she really wanted to take it with her, and she figured my sister and I wouldn't be searched. Well...she was wrong and the whole time that we had been in the rooms being searched by these mad women, she had apparently been having her own silent panic attack.

That chain is mine today. I wear it with my favourite piece of pendant. I do not know if my mother made a silly mistake by doing that or not, but I know that the deeper meaning of it was that she refused to be controlled by that dictatorship regime. She refused to let go of the things she loved, because a society told her she had to. For that, I honor her and I wear the chain around my neck with positive memories of standing strong for what you want in life. I know it's just a chain, but I guess at times I see it as a symbol of strength.

I never thought that going back to that country under the same regime which created so much fear in me was possible. As I had previously thought that I had won one over the government, with recent June elections in Iran and the turmoil of its aftermath, I see that I had neglected myself of a country and culture I deeply loved. I was the one who had lost. How could I have not wanted to go back and see my childhood home?

It was never me who had decided to leave to begin with.

How is it that I had so easily accepted to let go of a life that was so precious and dear to me for eleven years?
How could I daydream all the time about how Iran was and never once gone back there?

I guess it's hard for some to understand the idea or feeling of being patriotic. I never understood that with Americans. I looked down on them if anything for I believed them to be arrogant to love a country or die for a country. And yet today, I know if I was in Iran, I would be out protesting and possibly jailed in the infamous Evin prison of Iran in ward 209 where they keep all their political prisoners. But it's not even about me being patriotic. I realized, as I have had so many epiphanies during these Iran protests- that I had created a mental pattern for myself that dreams are out of reach and maybe only a miracle can make dreams come true and only if you really deserve to be that special to have a miracle happen to you. God- I mean that's a heavy burden or a tall order. It's not true. Dreams are my favourite thoughts to busy myself with. I love them. I love dreaming.

I love dreaming about so many things.

It can be about a simple garden.

A walk in the street of Paris.

The feeling of flying a kite.

A kiss from a sexy man.

The feeling of loving someone or any of the hundreds of things that warm my heart.

The difference is now that I see I could have gone to Iran this whole time, that the roads were open to me, my mind shifts its thinking from a "can't" to a "why not". This shift is so big for me, because now I can say to myself why not go and be an artist? Why not set goals and dream big and go for it? Why not go after what I want? The people in Iran are fighting for what they want. Freedom. They are willing to give their life to be free. My heart aches every time I say that. But it's OK, because I know it is related to my own personal purpose. I know that if I feel so deeply towards these people in Iran, they are communicating with me through their struggle. They are struggling to liberate themselves from a society that has imprisoned them for thirty years.

I am struggling to free myself from my own jailed prison.

I have held my dreams in solitary confinement for years.

I have not allowed myself to pursuit my dreams.

I do not know why as I am trying to figure that out. I assume fear of failure. I assume fear of not being accepted. I assume fear of not being good enough. I assume my ego has taken over the better part of me.

Are these not the feelings I had as a child growing up in a split country that always seemed to have the invisible wall of separation between good or bad, worthy or not, deserving or not? In an insane way, this election has ruined me and liberated me. I barely remember what mattered to me before the protesters went out on June 13Th. I know that since then, everything in my life turned emotional. I learnt a revolutionary song that protesters were singing in Iran, (Yareh Dabestani..) so I can sing with them here. And as I sang, I sung from the bottom of my heart as if this one song can make all the differences and turn this shit regime over to true freedom seekers. I wore my green shirt and tied green cloth around my wrists as to publicly declare my support to my people there and draw attention to myself so I could start a dialogue with non-Iranians about what is happening in that country. I protested in the streets shouting anti Islamic Republic slogans just so someone could hear me for my people in Iran. I put my face out there and I spoke to news websites and allowed myself to be a public figure if it meant that one person could become aware of what was happening in Iran. My sister and I protested for 56 days straight from that June 13Th protest. We stood by the street and held signs. We did whatever we could to do our part in this struggle for freedom.

Then I realized that I need to start fighting for my own freedom too.

I need and want to learn to fight for my own dreams with the same dedication and compassion that I have been fighting for Iran. The people there are my inspiration. Their courage, persistence and fearlessness motivates me. It is teaching me bravery. I want to be brave for me and the world. I have big dreams and I want to reach them. I believe so wholeheartedly in a free, democratic Iran. I have no doubt whatsoever that it will happen. I am not sure when or how it will finally occur, but my faith in it is so strong that nothing can shake my belief.

Now, I am learning how to do that for me. I am ready to learn how to have unshakable faith in me. Trust me. Believe in me. I know I can do this. I do not know how it will happen. I know that I am taking small steps. It may even take a while. But, the thing that comforts me is that each step that I am taking, I take with hundred percent love. I take my steps knowing that I am building a trust system with myself. That is what's happening in Iran as well. With each protest that takes place in Iran, people believe more. People trust their movement more. People believe in the overthrow of an unhealthy system more. It is no coincidence that I have felt so emotional about Iran's recent turmoil, in some ways, it is mirroring my own inner turmoil that I was not even aware of. This journey for freedom is sad, torturous, creative, emotional and a relief. There will be rewards in both. Iran will be free and i will be free to dream and manifest my dreams. Many people have already died, but I know that they are alive in spirit and that they died free. I can do the same. I can pursuit my dreams so when one day when I do depart, I can leave this earth knowing that I sang the music in my heart.

A Persian Girls Autobiography: two

When my family and I first arrived in Athens, I was in a complete state of shock and melancholy for a few different reasons.

First, I had never been to a country that the women did not cover themselves up. I mean in Iran, the women had to wear pants, hejab (scarf covering hair), and a long coat to go in the water at the beach. And then here we were in Greece where the women were topless if they chose to be. I think Iran has changed its dress code policy for the beach since 1987. I believe they now have gender segregated beaches so it allows the women to wear bathing suits. Woo hoo!

Anyhow- I felt like I was in a bizzaro world. I was amazed at the freedom I witnessed there. It felt unreal and yet so natural to me.

Second, we arrived on a rainy day, pouring really. We had no place of our own and were going to stay at a relatives' house.

The weather was gloomy and sad,(of course so typical of any sad story) or it seemed like it to me for obvious reasons of being homesick. It felt as if the sky's tears matched my inner silent cry.

We arrived at my aunt and relatives' (and some other people that they had met in Greece) tiny little apartment. This place was more like a basement/apartment. The windows inside the house opened flush to the streets pavement. There was a small hallway that walked us through to the first room on the right. The floors were either dark wood or concrete or tile, white walls, and dark wood somewhere. This room was shared by three adults and it was probably around a 10' by 8'? I remember a table and some kind of a bed and chairs or benches. There was a common room or dining room with a table that held four people. A kitchen which I don't remember, a bathroom I can't recall and another small room that was occupied by a woman and her eight year old son.

We sat down at the kitchen table to eat a meal that our family had prepared for us that night. I had my first taste of Kalamato olives and fell in love instantly.

The sad part of our journey in Greece was truly bitter. 

I use to sit in our front porch/yard on our white metal bench and write these long letters to my friends in Iran who I had just left behind and cry profusely . I was so angry with my parents for taking us out of our home. 

I had just started sixth grade in Iran in a new school. 

I was excited about it. 

I was going to have new friends. 

At the new school, we had the coolest science lab. It was an old wooden structure that could very easily be passed as a French country site green house. 

It was beautiful. 

The lab was surrounded by so many trees. 

It had large windows everywhere so once inside, you felt like you were in a tree house. 

It felt so exciting being there. 

I felt like I was just starting to become me. 

I was starting to become aware of my existence. 

You know that feeling when you feel like you get to look inside yourself for the first time and see and hear who you are? That's what I was feeling. 

I can even remember the moment I felt it as I sat in that lab.

As a child growing up, I daydreamed all the time. I dreamt about the white truck I would drive someday. I would sit in the sun and remember thinking that i loved life because the sun felt so good on my skin. I remember thinking that I loved being a child and how fun it probably would be to be an adult and get to do all the things I dream of as a child.

When I was young, I either isolated from the crowd or was the center of attention. 

It was easy really. I grew up in a big family. 

A holiday gathering could easily consist of 50 people. So, to be a child and disappear into the yard, back room or a closet was very easy. 

I would spend hours sometimes playing in the dirt outside by the plants and trees and it was during these times that I remember feeling and thinking about the idea of the "self". Our world seemed so fascinating to me. 

It tripped me out that there were so many possibilities. 

I was so excited about that. 

Life felt alive to me. 

And of course as a child, you don't see obstacles because they  don't exist. We create them as adults. I now know that my only limitation to achieve my dreams is my mind set.

So, back to the lab and my original thought...

I had just started sixth grade and all these dreams that I had been having seemed within reach. The steps towards the dreams seemed within reach. It felt like I was growing up and life was showing me how to do things. The science lab was maybe just a symbolic gesture of chemical reactions making things happen. Therefore, our departure to Greece wasn't as joyous as one would think taking into consideration the circumstances of the Iran war  and the vast number of people that were trying to flee the country.

We left Iran two weeks into my sixth grade school year.

As I wrote my letters to my friends I knew I would probably never see them again.

I was so sad.

I was sad for so many reasons.

I was sad that I couldn't stop crying.

I was sad that I missed home so much.

I was sad that I had no control over my life.

I was sad that everything in our lives had turned upside down within a few weeks.

I was sad that I was sad.

When we decided to leave Iran, it happened so quickly. We had finally been able to obtain a visa for Greece. My dad had tried a few different countries and we were always denied. In the midst of a war, it was difficult to get out.

Suddenly, we had the winning ticket.

Although, at the time it didn't feel like that.

Currently, it does.

The only thing was that we had about a month to sell everything we had and move away from that country. It was strange. My dad was in Turkey trying to get a visa for my grandma, while my mom back at home had to sell all our belongings on her own. 

See, at the airport we had to pretend that we were going on a vacation to Greece. We had a three month visa for a purpose of visiting Greece on vacation. Therefore, we couldn't take things with us that implied a long stay. 

So, some of my favorite things didn't make it out of the country; like my cool car collection that was sold. To this day I think of my car collection and whenever I go thrift store shopping or to a flea market, I am in constant search of the cars I left behind knowing very well that I will never find them here. 

I know it's silly. 

I know it makes no sense logically, but our hearts live of their own accords. 

My mom had so many beautiful jewelry pieces that she had to sell at a very low price due to lack of time. So many antique dishes and things...She even left her wedding dress back home.

I don't even remember how we said goodbye to our house. A place I had known as home for 11 years. My sister and I don't remember the moment of departure. We don't remember maybe because it would have been too painful.

In contrast, my memory is so vivid at times. 

I can remember the details of our home.

We had a 3" paper scented blue fish that hung on a light fixture.

We had a burgundy wine carafe set with beautiful white intricate hand painted flowers on it. 

Our doors between the living room and bedrooms were antique stained wood with green, red and yellow glass cut outs.

I remember colors and textures, the scent of a room, the colors of a dish in a certain area, and yet...the departure from that home that I loved so much I cannot recall.

The recent events in Iran keep taking me back there. Keep making me think about my feelings towards Iran in general. It's not politically driven, but historically, culturally and emotionally.

I watch the Farsi posts on my Facebook and I watch the me who is Iranian-American have a challenging time read them. I don't know yet how that makes me feel. I watch the videos from Iran, and I feel like I could fit in there just perfectly. I hear people talking Farsi and all of a sudden I feel like my soul is naked and all could see my true colors. 

Farsi does that to me. 

It feels real. 

I'm not sure what to relate it to to better explain myself. When people speak Farsi, I feel like I am in the real world. Like all my cards are out on the table. No hiding, no strings as if I am free falling-No safety nets. That's how I imagine it would be like if and when I do go back to Iran. That...my soul would rip itself a new skin.

These events touched me so deep that I feel the oppression of that country deep within me. I allow myself to contemplate my own oppressed feelings.

I guess it's just the right time. I truly believe that the happenings in Iran are affecting the majority of Iranians around the globe in a broader spiritual sense. 

I believe that this Iran revolution (for a lack of a better word and a selfish hope) is not just breaking down the oppressive regime, but the mentality that the regime had created for all of us. 

It doesn't surprise me that we are going through some gender specific feelings and inadequacies. How can we not? We were born into inequality and we had inherited the gender biased social issues. The good thing is that we do not have to carry the burden once we become aware of it. We choose to dismantle the patriarchal mentality, the lifestyle that was once forced upon us.

Our awareness is breaking the chains of our own oppressed thinking. We don't need that heavy baggage. We change and we grow and we believe that we can break free. We can achieve complete freedom from the oppressor whether it's a country or our own self. 

So, yes, this Iran election catastrophe is no longer just about a country, but a communal conscious awareness. 

It's as if the accumulation of the past 30 years of this Islamic Republic Regime, has given us enough heartache and inequality. We have gained power, courage, belief and determination. We believe in us. The protesters in Iran believe in themselves. They believe they will gain their freedom back. The protesters are under rape and torture and the possibility of death and yet they stand tall and strong and face their oppressors.

I think to myself...if they believe under these atrocious circumstances, how can I not believe in myself to pursuit my dreams? to pursuit my goals?

I still think of my favorite spot in the back yard of our home in Iran; picking strawberries, cherries and apricots from our trees and bushes.

I hope to return to that country someday.

I hope the people in Iran get what they are fighting for.

I hope I get to see the fruition of their struggle soon.

A Persian Girls Autobiography: one

I was 11 years old when my family and I left Iran. It was during the Iran and Iraq war in 1987. My sister was eight years old.

We moved to Athens, Greece to seek refuge from America.

I loved it there in Athens. Although, that is not how it first started.

We lived about a five minute walk to the beach and utilized the seashore daily.

Since my sister and I did not speak Greek or English, we did not attend school for the period of one and a half year. That was the duration of our stay in Greece, our temporary home.

I have not experienced sixth or seventh grade at all. Because of this, for a long time, I felt like I constantly needed to catch up with the rest of the people my age. 

What a silly concept. 

I have since let go of needing to compare myself and measuring up to everyone. The same goes for my sister, as far as never attending two whole grades in her life, the part about letting go, I do not know nor do I know if she shared the same feelings of inadequacy as I did. Her issues were different.

The June 2009 political elections in Iran took me back to my time in Iran 22 years ago. 

Everything in my life turned upside down. 

As I watched images that streamed through the web, I cried and cried and went into a shock. I could not believe that a government could do this to its own people.

But then I remembered.

Of course they could. They had done that when I was there, why not now. The difference was that now due to technology, their corruption and brutal attacks were captured on tape.

The government in Iran always scared me. 

The pasdars (military soldiers) were always on the streets with their guns exposed. They would stop civilians for wearing red nail polish or not wearing their hejab (head covering) Islamic enough.

It took me a long time to realize that I no longer needed to blame people in my life in order to move forward and be my own person. The issues that I have faced in my life have been towards religion, culture, country and a society. My blames were not so much on why my parents did or did not do a certain thing, but more on why do I have to abide by the rules of Islam as a Catholic.

My parents are Kurdish Catholics. I grew up in a small town in Iran called Ghazvin. I was born in the capital, Tehran. My ancestry goes back to centuries ago to Babylon and the Assyrians. I am a Caldony. So, to grow up in a Muslim country, we were considered part of the minority, which did not bother me a bit, until I started elementary school. Some of my classmates would not share food with me, or come to my birthday parties because to them or more correctly, to their parents I was a dirty catholic.

As a grown woman now, I can simply discard a comment like that, but at the age of six I was deeply hurt and that scar stayed with me for a very long time. That was probably the first conscious memory I have of any judgment towards religion. Both others and mine.