Merry Noruz

It has been the new year in Iran for over a month, but I have been distracted and haven't posted for awhile. Here is my slighlty out of date story of my first proper Noruz (from start end) in Iran.

It is the new year. The past few weeks have involved a huge amount of preparations for this moment. It is now the 14th day, which means the13 days of national holiday are over. Today life resumes as normal. The Noruz break is one of those national holidays when you are never sure if things are open or not, if people are at work or not, like the 2 weeks of Christmas and New Year we have in England. Preparations for Noruz ususally take longer than the 13 days of holidays. In my household started in earnest 3 weeks ago. First, 2 days were spent doing khune tekooni, or spring cleaning. All the furniture was moved, all the walls were washed, everywhere was dusted and in the end the house sparkled. A few days later was the big samanu cooking event (see previous post) which meant we now had the first of our seveb things needed for the haft sin. My grandmother then spent two days ordering me to wash various china, move furniture around, and generally make the house ready for the fifty something family members who would drop in on us for eid didani (the first 13 days of the new year are spent visiting family and friends, starting with the oldest person first).

For Noruz a haft sin is made. Haft Sin means seven sin's (a letter from the alphabet) although more than seven objects (each with symbolic meaning) are put out on a table, and not all of them start with sin. Haft sin’s take on many shapes and sizes nowadays. Ours would be fairly simple, but there is a new art to haft sin making, and you can even go to classes to learn how to decorate the dishes or where to tie ribbons around your table. Over Noruz haft sin's are everywhere, not just in homes, but in offices, shops, schools....so I could compare the different styles at my chemist, cake shop etc. At a gallery in Tehran I saw a very arty haft sin, that meant you really had to search to see the seven sin's. We pushed a table intop the corner of the room, covered it with a table cloth, pulled a mirror of the wall and leant it on the corner of the table. I was then sent in search of candlesticks whil my grandmother pulled out seer (garlic), senjed, serke (vinegar) and sekkeh (coins). We added an apple and then she boiled eggs with red onions so that they became an off purple colour. My Ameh was making sabzeh (wheatgrass) for us and would bring it round just before the new year, so all that was left was the goldfish and sonbol (hyacinth). There is a risk they will both die, so I had been advised not to buy them until the last minute. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. My dad and I proudly spoke of the fact our goldfish has lasted 2 whole Noruz’s. Everyone had warned me that the shops get ridiculously busy over eid, and so I saw the popluar shopping street near our house was five deep in people traffic. For the new year you are supposed to wear new clothes, so an excuse to get a new outfit, plus with all the mehmouni’s (parties) to go to, most women head out to buy a new roosari or two. So the house was pretty much ready as was the haft sin, I would buy a goldfish and sonbol on new years eve.

Traditional Haft Sin



Arty Haft Sin



Salon Haft Sin (with ribbons)


Chemist Haft Sin

The last Wednesday before new years is chahar shanbe suri, which is usually spent at a big garden jumping through fires on the previous evening. I went to a friends garden with my Ameh and her family. There was indeed a fire, but a pretty small one and logs around for everyone to sit on. I was scared about jumping through fire, I’ve neved done it, although I understand why you don’t burn, but still, it seemed dangerous. First there was a round of firecracking throwing, the small kind that make a loud bang, a puff of light and a lot of smoke. Then it was time for sandwiches, then car stereos were turned up and it was time for dancing round the fire, and running and jumping through it. Everyone started jumping without warning. My cousin grabbed my and and we jumped, really not a big deal, actually quite invigorating and warming. Jumping through the fire is supposed to be a form of cleansing, getting rid of the bad things of the past year, and getting ready to the good things in the year ahead. Driving home that night there was the smell of smoke in the air, and remnants of fires all over the streets. Shops were open and people were busy buying last minute shireeni and goldfish. It did sort of have a new years eve feel, people seemed excited and there was a sense that people had had fun that evening, something that is some times hard to find here.

On new years eve I dutifully went out and chose a healthy looking goldfish and a full hyacinth. Different family members dropped nuts and shireeny over during the day. My grandmother spent a long time mixing all the nuts together and filling up the huge bowl that would dominate the mehmun khune (drawing room) for the next 2 weeks. In the evening six cousins, one aunty and her husband came over and together with my dad and grandmother, we ate the traditional mahi va sabzi polo (fish filled with herbs and nuts and rice with fresh herbs), drank vodka and danced around the living room.

It became the new year at 9:15am the following morning. We didn't count it down, and we weren't even in the same room together, instead all of us occupied with normal morning activities like breakfast and washing. We then put on our finest and... waited. During Noruz it is traditional to visit the oldest family member first, which meant today, new years day, would see the whole family drop in at some point or another. So we waited. At 11am my cousin came over with his wife and two children. The chai (tea) had been brewing for awhile and I immediately jumped to attention, as the only able bodied female in the house, pouring tea, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. After about 40 minutes they left, I cleaned up and then.. we waited. We had lunch, we waited some more, we had naps, we waited some more. Finally at 5pm the doorbell rang again and would continue to ring relentlessly throughout the evening. From that point on 30 or more family members poured in at different points throughout the night. After all the waiting I had forgot about prepartion, and ran around pouring more chai, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. I am not very experienced at Iranian style hosting, so I recruited young female cousins to carry round trays of chai, re-stock a depleting fruit bowl, and help me wash all the tea cups in time for the next thirsty guests. By the end of the night I was completely knackered, I hadn't really sat down, or actually spoken to most of the guests. But my grandmother had been telling all of my aunties how hard I had been working, what a lovely girl I was and so forth. It was as if I had passed some sort of initiation, I may still be a khareji (foreigner) but I can host and ta'arof as good as the locals!

Knotting the sabzeh

Over the next week the eid didani would start in earnest, each day spent at a different family member or friends house. I was escaping to Tehran which means I would miss most of it, although the day after new years we visited my oldest aunty for lunch and my oldest uncle for tea in the afternoon. I returned to Isfahan in time for Sizdah be dar (13th day out) which is traditionally spent outside in a park or private garden. Nearly every year the family pile over to my aunties house and garden outside of the city, and this year was no exception. The ususal eating and dancing enused, both inside and outside the house. By late afternoon, storm clouds were looming, so my cousin came round with the basket of sabzeh before it rained. Using only one hand each girl has to try to tie a knot in the stem of one of the buds. This will bring her good luck in the coming year, and of course, hopefully a husband too. I was allowed two go's and managed to do it the second time, but then protested I really didn't want a husband in the next year to which I got the response 'Ok, well if not this year, then next year'.

The Queen's English

My favourite students (Grandad in the middle with the hat)



Before coming to Iran I was adamant that I wouldn’t teach English. I didn’t want to spend my time doing a ‘boring’ job, or speaking English too often. Iran is not exactly inundated with TOEFL qualified students on their gap year, so being a native speaker meant I was hot property around town. Against all my better judgment, within a month I’d lined myself up three different jobs at three different language schools across town. The English language teaching community in Isfahan is fairly small, and I soon realized that various colleagues from various institutes all had some prior connection to each other. It also seemed that competition was rife, and I was soon tapped for information by my various bosses about the other institutes: what books to they teach from? How many students do they have? Do they do any special classes? I gave up all the information I had; they could fight it out between them.

The shaking minarets

At no point did I claim that I was real teacher, or an expert on grammar, and luckily my bosses listened to me, so I only taught free discussion/ conversation classes. Basically, I chose any topic I liked, allowed my students to do a little preparation for it, mainly by trawling the internet, and then (usually) a lively debate would ensue. It took my students a little while to get used to my accent, as they are all much more used to American ones (through films and TV shows, lots of people watch Dubai based TV channels available on satellite that broadcast un-dubbed American shows like Desperate Housewives and Friends), and it is indeed that accent of choice for anyone studying English at university. I also asked them to call me by my first name and not to stand up every time I entered the classroom, I wasn’t used to getting this much respect. Teaching all female classes was difficult as nearly all of them are always too shy to speak, except for one mouthy one who completely dominates the class and ends up interrupting when one of the other girls actually plucks up the courage to say anything. Classes of all boys are a lot more relaxed, but always go off topic as instead I am asked: Do you have a boyfriend? What is your favourite alcoholic drink? Do you get tired of wearing hijab? What do you do for fun in your country?

Pelicans and a white peacock at the bird sanctuary, Najnoon Park

My favourtie class was a group of very advanced, mixed gender and mixed generation students. One of them, known as granddad, always came to class armed with horoscopes or poems he’d found on the internet that he liked to quote when he felt the debate was getting too heated. Over the course of the past few months we’ve discussed racism and prejudices, compared educational and legal systems in England and Iran, talked about the environment and ecology, the positive and negative effects of tourism, our favourite books/ films/ music and the growing generation gap. In the lesson on crime and punishment I spent a long time explaining about date rape, which interested the younger students a lot but made the older ones look very uncomfortable. The unanimous response I had already expected was that date rape does not exist in Iran. (How can it? Dating/ unsanctioned relationships/ sex before marriage are all against the law, and as far as proving a husband has raped his wife, I might be wrong, but think you’d be laughed out of court).

Me as tour leader in a fetching body-warmer

As well as teaching I’ve also been leading bi-monthly tours, where we take the students to a restaurant, or a hotel or shopping and get them to do all the transactions in English. Most of them have never been abroad and as getting a visa is so hard, have no plans to. This is the only way they can use their English in a practical, real-life situation. I once had to lead them

around the Aremeian church, having learnt the history of the building half an hour before. I managed to bluff it pretty well and realized had it been a mosque I would have been harder, growing up in an Atheist household, in England and travelling around Western Europe meant my knowledge about churches and Christianity was far superior to my knowledge of Islam. For our last class my favourtie group arranged a day of touristy fun for me, visiting the shaking minarets, a bird sanctuary and a traditional restaurant. At our first stop, the minarets, there was a big group of Japanes tourists who seemed to take a particular shine to me, and lined up to have their picture with me. We all giggled quietly, none of us having the heart to tell them I wasn’t really a typical Iranian girl.

My new friend

The down side of being a native speaker in a language institute is the endless questions from students and teachers, and the dissapointed, almost disgusted looks I get when I don't know the answer. One teacher came to me with a list of postcodes asking me what citities they stood for, and then proceeded to ask about all the different methods of sendings letters and parcels in England. My British politeness failed me and I responded in sarcastic Farsi with ‘sorry I’m not a post man’. My students are all obssessed with learning idioms, so I’d come armed to classes with phrases such as ‘water of a duck’s back’ and ‘eye of the tiger’. They’d then want to know the root of the terms and I’d struggle; ‘Well, erm, separating the wheat from the chaff, well the wheat is the good part of the plant the famers would keep and, erm, the chaff is.. is .. the debris, yes, the debris that they would get rid of’. I’m also constanly asked advice on how they can improve, where again not being a teacher, I’m not really sure what to suggest. The biggest issue I see is the lack of exposure to natives, which means students are learning from teachers who speak with terrible accents. My advice; it is near impossible to sound like a native, but try at least to not sound like an Iranian : ‘Hhello, I am f-erom Ee-ran. I am leeving here e-six ye-ars. I go to e-school.’ (know it is familiar to some of you!)

Sa-ma-nu! Sa-ma-nu!

Every year my dad's cousin Nosrat cooks up a big pot of samanu and invites all the family over while she is cooking it. Samanu is a wheat pudding, made from wheat grain, water, hazelnuts and almonds (no added sugar). It is one of the things that are placed on the haft sin for Noruz, and so it is traditional that it is cooked around this time, just before the New Year. It is also believed to be a good omen. Samanu burns very easily, but takes a long time too cook, which means it has to be continually stirred until it is ready, usually taking at least 48 hours. This samanu party is the kind of traditional gathering that is hard to find nowadays, even in a city as traditional as Isfahan. So as friends of mine partied with ambassadors in Tehran, I was at a much more exclusive engagement.

Nosrat's house is the old fashioned kind, with a courtyard in the middle and rooms coming off opposite sides. For the samanu cooking the whole garden was covered with a huge chador (tent). We entered through the back garden, and straight into the heat emulating from the huge copper pot the samanu was cooking in, and the gas underneath it. The garden was full of about 30 women, and 5 men. Traditionally cooking samanu is something women do, probably because, well, cooking is something women do. It means that at a samanu party the ratio of women to men is always very unequal. Everyone had their roosari's on. Neither my cousin or I were sure why, but decided as the average age of the guests was 60, and the kind of ladies who don't take their roosari's off, the youngsters must have decided to keep them on in their company. So we did too. After a long round of hellos, with many comments directed at my Ameh "Is this your brother's daughter?", "The one with the foreign mother?","Mashallah!" (literally-May God preserve you, but an expression of praise) etc, a few gave me big smackers on my forehead, and then continued questioning my Aunt; "Does she speak Farsi?", "How long is she here for?", "Does she like Iran?'". Only one deemed to address me directly, but then commented to my Aunt and not me; "Oh her Farsi is good!". The huge wooden spoon was passed between us to stir the samanu and make a wish for the coming new year. There is also a special song/ prayer that is sung, but seemed no one could remember much of it. The joke is that girls wish for husbands, and are even teased for going to the samanu party for that reason. Clearly there is nothing else worth wishing for. Not to break tradition my Ameh took hold of the great spoon, rolled up her sleeves and as she turned the spoon announced how she was wishing for husbands for her daughters and me, to whom the older ladies responded with cries of Enshallah (god willing), and again a few big kisses were placed on my reddened forehead. It was one of those situations I often find myself in Iran, where everyone knows who I am and I don't have a clue who anyone else is. It's not just that they know who my dad is, they know me, they know I'm the younger daughter and they know my name. Luckily my Ameh was on hand to fill in the blanks about everyone as we plonked ourselves on a ledge next to the pot of bubbling samanu. The gossip was fairly usual; she can't have kids, she is trying to immigrate to America, her dad is a criminal. Tea, juice, ice cream and cakes were offered, until ghormeh sabzi was ready. We sat on the ledge eating, gossiping, listening, others inside the house, and others in another corner, everyone just spread lazily wherever there was room. Eventually we said a long round of goodbyes, and went home with full, warm bellies.

I wish I was a little bit taller

I wish I was a baller

I wish I had a rabbit in a hat

We were back the next evening, to an even fuller garden (at least 70) and accompanied by more of my aunties and cousins, although all the males in our family chose to stay away. We all carried buckets and pots to be filled with samanu and carted home the following morning. Overnight the colour of the samanu had deepened from a rich caramel colour to a dark chocolatey brown, with hazelnuts and almonds bobbing along the edge of the pot. The night unfolded much as the previous one had, with slight differences: we sat inside, we ate Ash-e Reshteh, we gossiped about different people. On leaving we were told to take a big handful of sweets and nuts. They're called moshkel goshaa (problen solving) sweets and nuts, while you suck on them your problems somehow melt away.

By the following morning the samanu was finally ready. We drove the 3 minutes to Nosrat's house, as we would be taking all the family's samanu home, and couldn't manage to carry it all. There were a few girls and Nosrat in the garden today, with rows and rows of pots filled with the chocolate coloured samanu arranged on the floor. The huge copper pot had been washed and discarded on its side, to be hidden in an attic until next year. No roosari's were worn today, revealing disheveled hair, and limbs heavy from a long night of stirring. A feeling of satisfaction hung in the air, a good deed done, hopefully proving auspicious for the year ahead.

On getting the samanu home I finally had a little taste. I'd tried it before, and wasn't keen, but that was the store bought variety… of course the fresh stuff is better right? Wrong, as suspected it was disgusting, the kind of thing you only eat once a year. Doesn't matter.. .....someone enjoyed it.

Mama Khanoum khayatee doost darad

My grandmother likes to sew

3 Months

I have been in Iran 3 months today. I feel it is timely to give myself a 3 month review, like a good boss should give you in a new job (no, I didn’t get one in my last job). Have I set out to do what I wanted? Have I learnt anything at all?

My Farsi is definitely improving. I can speak with a better accent and more fluency. I can use a few idioms here and there, and I can imitate an Isfahani accent (although have to try hard not to speak with one, I’m trying to learn proper Farsi, like the Tehranis speak, innit). My reading and writing is still slow, but it doesn’t make by brain ache like it used to. I can now say the following tongue-twisters:

Ghouri-ye gol ghermez (the teapot with the red flower on it)
Koshtam shepeshe shepesh koshe shesh pa ra ( I killed a louse that killed the six legged louse)

Ladies enjoying the view on Si-o Se Pol, Isfahan

I’ve learnt my way around my father’s city. I know where Jolfa ends and Sichan starts. I know the names of the bridges in town (Pol-e Felezi, Si-o-Se Pol, Pol-e Ferdowsi, Pol-e Khajoo). I am even beginning to fit Tehran together, a big puzzle with pieces from various visits through the years. It makes a lot more sense than it used to, as long as I know where Superstar Burger is I can find my way home.


I've had a few cooking lessons with some Aunties-Khoresht-e Bademjaan (lamb and aubergine stew), Khoresht-e Karafs (lamb and celery stew), Morgh-e Alooche (chicken with prunes) but so far not so much experimentation on my own. Living with and old lady means I am well looked after, as she is always thinking of my belly (I think she tells me to eat something on average about 7 times an hour, unless she is napping, but then it is likely to be the first thing she says when she wakes up), and all of her children are always thinking of hers, so food is either brought over most days, or a feast is cooked up while I am at work.

Ladies playing in the snow in Niavaran Park, Tehran

I’ve learnt what to do if stopped for un-Islamic behavior; ‘be cool man, be cool’. But, I can’t say I have adapted so much that I am sure I will be cool if I am stopped. That’s not true, I was stopped, but they spoke to the guy I was with who immediately said I was his wife when asked what our relationship was, and then they told him to tell me to pull my scarf forward, too much hair showing at the front. I stayed cool throughout, but apparently they were particularly polite. So will see how I react if there is a next time.

I can walk out into 6 lanes of oncoming traffic, erratic drivers behind most wheels, and can manage to get to the other side of the road without breaking a sweat.

I still find trips to the grocers, butchers, tailors, pizzeria, furniture shop, clothes shop, headscarf shop, coffee shop, sock shop, and anyone’s house exciting.

Cleaning up the snow in Tehran

I’ve grown much closer to my family. I can talk to them about things I never could before. I can understand the songs my grandmother sings to herself, and make my own ones up too. I don’t find questions about my parents divorce as frustrating as I used to, because I can explain myself better, and as the family know me better, they also understand my answer. I’ve realized during the short visits over the years I’ve understood people better than I thought, I remain close to the people I’ve always been close too, and there are still ones I don’t have so much to say to. I’ve listened to stories about my great-grandmother, a woman to be reckoned with, and looked at old photos over and over again. I think I have a better picture of how my family saw me and my sister all these years, we were the strangers, of course accepted with familial hospitality, but nonetheless we were gharib (distant). For us they are pretty much all the family we have ( 50 on this side, and only 2 on the other).

It only takes me two go’s to get my maghneh on for work in the morning, it used to take me 3 or more. My headscarf still falls off every 15 minutes or so, and I’m still not as stylish as most of the girls around me, even after my care package from London.

I’ve been reminded of how ethnocentric my view is. I can’t help but get irritated by the inherent lack of customer service in every transaction I make, or snigger at the disorganization at the beginning of the new term at work, or bristle when I am forced into a disorderly queue, and think ‘this isn’t how we do things where I come from’. These reactions aren’t exclusively reserved for life in Iran, it’s what happens when we travel, but maybe I feel more conscious of them when I am trying to embrace a culture as my own.

Cleaning up the snow in Isfahan

I’ve gotten used to being here without my sister, but still miss her immensely at times. There are moments I want to laugh/ scream/ cry and I know she would immediately understand the reasons why. Right now she is in a bikini on a Brazilian beach and I am in hijab on an Iranian street.

I still don’t think I could drive here, although I kind of want to try (blatantly a really, really bad idea and don’t know who would actually let me behind the wheel, I probably wouldn’t even be able to get out of my alley and on to a main road).

People have a magnificent way of asking a hundred personal questions but then not giving anything about themselves away. I’ve learnt how to politefully decline form answering.

I’ve been reminded again how lucky I am to have a British passport, that I can get on a plane as easily as getting on a bus. I don’t have to think twice about where I want to travel, just in case I am not allowed in. I am not prevented entry to countries because of the politics of my leader, which in no way represents me.

Fancy dessert in Boulevard restaurant, Tehran

I still haven’t decided when I should move to Tehran, if I even should, or if I should stay in Isfahan and come back for another extened stay in Tehran. It takes a while to get into a routine, to settle in, to make friends, which is what I am doing in Isfahan. Tehran doesn’t feel quite so far from home; it is big, bustling, dirty. It is more azaad (free). But did I come to Iran to be in the lap of its modernity? Isfahan is much more traditional, somehow more authentic. Then the Anthropologist in me is appalled that I even think this way; Tehran is still Iran, as authentic as anything I deem ‘preserved’ (don’t get me wrong Isfahan really isn’t so far behind Tehran). But then maybe I have a point; are the things I like about Tehran the things that make it like London? Fancy restaurants with menus only in English (clearly means it is very chic), shops with REAL clothes from Europe, REAL shampoo from Europe, REAL chocolate from Europe. Of course, I’ve mainly been exposed to life in North Tehran, sure this doesn’t all ring true in the rest of the city, I guess if I move there I will find out.

Not so fancy breakfast in the park in Isfahan

I still have a long way to go, not that I expect to arrive at a certain point. Sometimes it feels Iran is like an onion and I have to peel through all the crusty layers to get to the part you can use. Or maybe more like an artichoke, the leaves are still tasty (if a bit furry) but the heart is by far the best bit. Maybe this metaphor is completely pointless; onion, artichoke, either way I know Iran is not a banana, it doesn’t open up that easily.

Things I've seen and heard

Conversations I've had and places I've been to over the past few weeks

View of the Zaiandeh Rood (the river running through Isfahan)

In the bank (served by a young woman):

Ah yes, I remember you, you came with your mother to open your account? No, my dad.
So you've come from over there? Do you like Iran? Is it better than your country?
Well yes there are lots of good thing here and lots of bads things, same as in my country.
Ah, do you have a bank account over there?
Yes, but you get a lot more interest on bank accounts here.
Yes you do! 12 %! Ok, so you fathers names please? And how much are you depositing?
(Pause)
Are you married?
No, not yet.
Ah! Well hopefully you will find a good husband here!
Um, yeah, hopefully.

As a guest in an all male English class (ages range from 19-41):

How old are you?
26. Yes, I know what you are going to say, I look younger!
You look 14 years old!
What is your favourite colour?
Blue, Turquoise
Ah.
Ah What? What does it mean?
It means you are very honest.
Have you ever been to Madame Tussaud's?
No.
I think it is very expensive yes?
Yes it is. You know, when you live in a city you tend not to do the touristy things.
Oh yes you are right. Are you married?
No, and I don't want to be!
(Chuckles).
Why not?
Too young!
Can I have you email number?
Do you mean my email address?
He means your email address and your phone number!
No because if you call my house my grandmother with shout at you.
(Chuckles)
Have you ever seen any famous people?
Yes I've seen quite a few.
Like who?
Um, Justin Timberlake.
(Blank faces)
You know Britney Spears' ex- boyfriend. Who is Britney Spears?
Um, the girl who shaved her head? Um, ok Gwen Stefani?
(Blank faces)
Bjork?
(Blank faces)
Pamela Anderson?
(Blank faces)
A room full of boys and none of you have heard of Pamela Anderson?
(Chuckles and more blank faces)
Why do you like Iran, and you can't say because of your family?
Well, it is hard to explain, but when you have come somewhere many times you feel connected to it. Um, I like the food and the architecture. I like that everything is dusty, even though it gets all over your clothes. I hate the driving, but like that it is so busy. I guess I like that none of you have heard of any of the people I just mentioned, why should everywhere be the same? I like that people are so friendly, at least to me. I like that my Aunt goes to the butcher who is the son of the butcher my Granny used to go to, that the Doctor she went to when she was a girl still has an office in the same street and his son practices there too.
(Chuckles)

View from my office window (Maryam Church in Jolfa, Isfahan)

A male work colleague who rarely speaks to me:

So, How long are you planning on staying here?
Until about July.
Very good. Are you married?
No, Are you?
Yes I am, I got married very young, I have a 2 year old daughter. Want to see here picture?
Yes sure.... Ah she's adorable!
Want to come to here birthday party? Would be a pleasure to have you there.
Er, sure.
Are you looking for a husband?
No not really.
Good, make sure you don't marry an Iranian. Go back to your country and marry someone there.
Er, ok. Why?
They will just want to marry you to get out of here. They're no good.
Ok, thanks for the warning.
What is your religion?
Um , I am Muslim.
Well done! Do you where hijab over there?
Um, no.

A family friend (my age):

So do you want to get married?
Yes, I suppose so but not yet.
Do you want to marry an Iranian or a foreigner?
For me it is not that important, just as long as they are a good person.
I think Iranians are better.
Really, Why?
Well, they will really look after you.
How so?
Well, I think it is important to help my future wife around the house, in the kitchen etc. Like I help my mum.
Ah, so obviously looking after the house is her responsibility?
Well, if I am at work then yes.
But what if she works too?
Well then yes, I will help her.
Oh I see.

Si-o-Se Pol (Bridge of 33 Arches) on the Zaindeh Rood, Isfahan

Pedram, 22, a private student I am prepping for his IELTS exam as he is going to University in Birmingham in the autumn:

Seeing as I studied at University in England, shall I tell you what it is like?

Oh yes please do.

Well firstly, have you heard of Fresher's Week?

Sort of.

It is the week you register, get your library card and then there is a fair where all the different clubs have stalls and you can join up. Plus people go out a lot and get very drunk.
Oh, really? Will I have to?

No, only if you want to. But let me warn you, bars and clubs will be full of students drinking heavily. You will see people being sick on the streets, kissing, fighting.. all sorts.

Why doesn't the government do something about this?

Well, it is illegal to drink on the streets I guess.

Ok, what do you think the other students will be like?

It is hard to say, a big mix. You are studying engineering right? In my experience engineering courses always have a lot of foreign students.

Yes, there is a whole group of us going from Iran.

My advice is to make friends with people from other countries too. What is the point of going to another country if you are just going to hang out with people from your own country, right?

Oh yes, I want to make friends with other people. Plus it is the only way I can improve my English.

Good, good. And of course your classes will be mixed. Relationships between boys and girls are very different.

Yes, I know. Here our university classes are mixed, but the Professors do as much as they can to split us up. It is ridiculous. At university they make us all take a course about relationships between men and women, but then the course is single sex!

Kind of defeats the point doesn't it?

Exactly! But then to be honest I don't like talking to girls very much.

Really? Why?

Well I guess I am not that used to it. And a lot of them are very immature.

So would it be easier for you if I was a man?

Yes, I guess it would. But you are different because I can tell you don't think like the girls here.

All kinds of people think in all kinds of different ways. Not all the girls in England think how I do either.

I know. But, let me explain. I had a girlfriend for a couple of months, but the whole thing was just silly.

Why? What happened?

Well after a week she asked me when my family were going to call her family. I didn't know what she meant so I asked my mum. As soon as we started going out I told my whole family. That way if the police stop us and phone our parents, they will already know so we can say we are engaged, as otherwise we are breaking the law. Anyway, I asked my mum and she laughed and said she is asking when you are coming to ask for her hand in marriage. It had only been a week! So I broke up with her.

Fair enough.

Then we started talking again and she apologized and accepted it was maybe a bit soon, so we started going back out. But then any time I suggested going out she said no; we couldn't go to the park because her dad worked nearby, we couldn't go to the river because her uncle worked nearby, we couldn't go shopping because we might see her sister. So there was no point in even being boyfriend and girlfriend. Just to speak on the phone or send text messages. I couldn't be bothered.

I understand.

I mean if she had just told her family in the first place it would have been a lot easier. Instead once we were going out again, after another month she started mentioning engagement again.

If her family isn't as open as yours then I understand why she would be scared of bumping in to them. I agree it was a bit early to talk about marriage, but I've heard a lot of stories like this. From what I understand, you almost need to get engaged so that you can have a proper relationship and then see if you actually want to get married no?

Yeah, it is like that. It's ridiculous.

Ok, well I wouldn't worry to much. You probably won't have these kinds of problems if you get a girlfriend in England. But you never know, they might still want to marry you!

**Did you spot the question that often comes up?**

Ashura in the Snow

Last week was Moharram, the 10 days in which Shia's mourn the death of Imam Hossein, the ultimate day known as Ashura. During Moharamm I was warned that the Basiji stop more people, so I should make sure whatever I was wearing wasn't too tight, too short, too bright etc. As well as black and green flags and banners saying Ya Hossein hung up everywhere across town, a tent also appeard down the road. Lambs were tied to a lamp post outside, to be sacrificed later. The tent was divided with a big cloth down the middle, so men and women can sit separately and listen to the Mullah's nightly sermon and enjoy a cup of tea or some food on the house. Although the tent filled up every night, life still continued as normal outside of it, dressed up boys and girls going about their nightly routine of shopping, flirting and coffee drinking. On Tasoa, the night before Ashura, my cousin called and asked if I wanted to head out to see Dasteh, the mourners who walk the streets, in groups organized by their mosque, dressed in black and beat their chests with their hands or chains. I was eager, as I hadn't seen it since I was a kid, and was wondering what I would think now. Four of us piled into a friends car, all having put on our black Maghneh (as Moharamm is about mourning, we had to wear black if we wanted to get near the action), and went Dasteh chasing. We drove across town looking for the signs… an empty bus that would have brought the group from their homes, drums or a PA system on the side of the road, lights outside a mosque. Asking around it seemed things would kick off at 8pm. As well public mourning, companies, schools, families, whoever feels like it really, give Nazri- food or drink as charity during this period. My cousin gave a running commentary on the best place to get food, and the different things she had eaten each year. As we drove all we could find was free tea, not quite what we were in the mood for. At 8pm sharp groups of Dasteh appeared all over the place, we'd see one on one side of the street, then drive down in the other direction and get stuck in traffic slowed by another group. All in all we saw 8 different groups, although none as big as I had been promised, and all with lots of young boys, sweetly banging drums twice their size, or swinging their chains but missing their bodies. Using chains with blades on them is now illegal, so the overly evocative images the news always shows of blood soaked mourners just don't exist. In fact I didn't even see any crying, and some were chatting on their mobile phones, beating their chests with their free hand. We were so hungry we couldn't hold out until 10pm, when most places were giving Nazri, so ended in another particularly Iranian place, a fast food restaurant. Full of fashionably dressed young people, I was reminded once again, that while out on the streets it seems that Moharram has taken over the country, there are plenty of people not involved at all.

Dasteh coming down the mountain in Qamsar

The following morning I headed to a family friend's house in Kashan for the night. The 3 hour journey through the desert was incredible, the scenery is forboding but never before had I seen it like this. In some places one side of the landscape was covered in white snow, and the other red from desert sand.

Snow covered desert

We went via Natanz, famed for its pears, knowledgable population and atomic energy. Although no one had said they were hungry, the idea was that we would get food from somewhere giving Nazri. We drove around town for about an hour; either the food wasn't ready, or it had all finished, or you needed your own pot to take it away. I was reminded of a phrase I learnt a few years ago 'Isfahani goftes, bokher ke moftes' (the Isfahani said eat because it is free). Eventually we happened on the best of all, a newly built old people's home, that didn't require your own cutlery, and even had a room with a gas fire and sofreh (table cloth spread on the floor) for us to sit an eat. Happily we chowed down on khoresh gheimeh (lentil and lamb stew) and rice, salad, plus tea and dates for afters, and promised we'd be back the following day for lunch on our way home.

Ancient houses in Natanz

In Kashan I found something I had been hoping for since I arrived in Iran, a korsi (a low table over a heater and covered in blankets). Since I was little my dad had told me stories of winters spent under the korsi. All the family packed under, doing homework, eating dinner, any usual daily activities undertaken layeh korsi to keep warm. A recent flick through a family album I found a photo of my dad, all his brothers and sisters sitting under the corsi, school books and tea cups on top and smiles from ear to ear. As one who hates the cold, I always thought it sounded like heaven. Straight in from the snow my cousin and I headed under it. Careful not to put our feet on top of the electric heater and pulling the covers under our chins we let out deep, content sighs. I didn't move for the rest of the afternoon, and sat reading, playing cards, napping, eating fruit, drinking tea and gossiping while the combination of people around me shifted, everyone at some point settling onto the mattress and taking a turn under the warm blankets.

Layeh Korsi!

The family we stayed with are an important family in Kashan, from what I could gather not particularly religious, but fairly wealthy and because of this every year they give Nazri for the locals. In the alley at the side of the house a huge fire was lit, and an enormous black pot (I could fit in it) was pulled off a pick up truck by 5 men and a ladder. Phone calls were made to families across town, and steaming rice and more khoresh were dished out to everyone who came out in the freezing temperatures.

3 men and a ladder That is me inside the pot

The next morning we all went for a drive in the mountains of Qamsar, but our car got stuck in the ice. First 3 men warming themselves by a fire started directing us, then about 30 people piled out of the mosque we were in front of, then my aunty and uncle got out too. Everyone making different suggestions and gestures, my cousin driving managed to saty completely cool, while us in the back were in fits of giggles. Eventually making our excuses we started on our way back to Isfahan, not wanting to admit we had a lunch date in Natanz.

Eating Nazri on the sofreh

This weekend I think I really saw the '2 sides' to Iran that so much literature on the country always mentions. Religious and irreligious side by side; everyone happy to get Nazri, even if everyone wasn't quite mourning. The wealth of the family in Kashan, indulging in coffee and cake under the korsi, and the poverty of their neighbours up the mountain; warming themselves by a wood fire as they have no gas. Even the contrast of the sand and snow across the mountains.

Tis' the season to be jolly

The past few weeks have been full of festivities. It has been hard to find many signs of Christmas or New Year, but I've been participating in some Iranian ones.

First we celebrated Shab-e Yalda on the longest night of the year, December 21^st. It is an old Zoroastrian hoiliday and we are supposed to read the poetry of Hafez and eat 40 things… nuts, melon, fruit etc. I think we managed the eating, but there was no poetry. My threshold for Iranian poems is quite low, so not sure I really missed it, but I am working on it. Think sometimes the meaning is lost in translation, so perhaps as my Farsi improves my interest in poetry will also increase? The most wonderful thing happened on Shabe Yalda though.. it snowed .I'm often told how great the weather is in Iran- perfect 4 seasons (obviously incomparable with rainy and grey England), and I saw so with my own eyes. Ever since then the weather has been cold but bright, and from different spots around town you can see the snow on the mountains. The rest of the country has been experiencing the worst weather for 40 odd years, with Tehran coming to a standstill and people freezing to death. So far the proper snow hasn't hit Isfahan, but I am assured it is coming.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Since Shab-e Yalda it has been Eid something or other and then Eid Ghadir. I haven't done anything for these holidays except had a day off work, so keep them coming please. I don't really know what they were about either, and should probably find out, especially as I am in Iran as and Iranian and therefore a Muslim, so maybe I should try and learn a bit more about the religion? The problem is that as these holidays are essentially religious and absolutely no one around me is , it is hard to be informed.

It's felt very odd being in a country with no Christmas or New Year's celebrations what-so-ever. I have seen some Christmas trees in big hotels, and shops selling decorations around the Armenian area I live in, but not much else. It has made me a little homesick... if only I could walk into a shop playing a cheesy Christmas song by a rubbish band, or into a pretend Christmas market and sip mulled wine. A weird desire to have a nose in the church on Christmas beset me. But alas, there was no ice skating rink in the courtyard, and no jingle bells blaring out (I don't really think that is what happens in English churches at Christmas, but that is what I was missing!). I realized if I wanted Christmas I'd have to make it myself, but first there was the new year to celebrate.

Baba Noel

I couldn't go through the year without somehow marking the New Year, so I arranged a party for all my cousins at another cousin's house. I cooked enough pasta to make strega nonna jealous, decorated the flat with lots of tinsel, and then we danced, dance, danced. Everyone agreed we could dance to my khareji ( foreign) music, but when I put it on only one person was willing so it was quickly changed. I'll get 'em next time! My cousins bought some disco lights- strobes and everything, and we even got our hands on some booze, throw in some E's and we've got a rave, especially as I guess by Iranian law, it was completely illegal. We also ate a big home made cake, which took the edge of I guess, and everyone bought me presents too. It took me completely by surprise and I was very touched, although I kept saying that in my culture we don't by presents for New Years. Not that I am complaining, I was missing Christmas wasn't I?

Ravin!

After New Year came Christmas, we were working to the Orthodox calendar I suppose. My dad and I decided to cook a proper Christmas dinner for everyone. Debates raged for a week about how to cook the turkey, one Ameh suggesting we needed to boil it first, I insisted that we just had to stick it in the oven but no one wanted to listen. It then took awhile to convince people that it would still be a meal without rice and that yes, the potatoes and stuffing would fill us up. We found the biggest turkey possible (we had 25 mouths to feed), and trips to various green grocers proved that both overpriced parsnips and brussel sprouts are available. In a pork free country we couldn't find any replacement for pigs in blankets, but got sour cherry jam instead of cranberry sauce, and made the best homemade stuffing (which we never bother doing in UK). For dessert we had a carefully smuggled Christmas pudding, stewed apples and custard. Sadly no brandy, so we couldn't set the pudding alight, and I think its magic was lost on everyone. All in all everything went down a treat and was great to be able to invite everyone over instead of always being a guest.

I've never seen a potato...

.. or turkey this BIG before

Turkey with all the trimmings

The holiday season continues, as Moharram is just around the corner. The roads have been decorated with black and green flags and any day now men and women will take to the streets. The holiday is mainly celebrated by crying a lot for the martyred Imam Hossein and partaking in self flagellation (Is that the right word? The one that means hitting yourself, NOT farting). I guess it is like national group therapy, maybe as cathartic as carnival, just in a very different way….