OML... As in Oh My Lord!
It was on Wednesday, almost three weeks ago, that I decided to visit my family in Tehran. The internet was at hand, the ticket was booked for Sunday, and my Girl accompanied me on the visit.
This was also the reason for not writing my blog for the length of my stay away.
You see... Although we had WIFI at home, there are restrictions for tapping into sites such as Facebook, YouTube or blogs; you need a VPN to log on. Bloggers have been caught and punished severely, mainly for political content I am not interested in.
It was on Wednesday, almost three weeks ago, that I decided to visit my family in Tehran. The internet was at hand, the ticket was booked for Sunday, and my Girl accompanied me on the visit.
This was also the reason for not writing my blog for the length of my stay away.
You see... Although we had WIFI at home, there are restrictions for tapping into sites such as Facebook, YouTube or blogs; you need a VPN to log on. Bloggers have been caught and punished severely, mainly for political content I am not interested in.
As my stay was only for two weeks, I decided to put my passion aside and concentrate on my family and friends... Oh! And catching up on some well-needed sleep. Which is precisely what I did. Time is short, whether on a trip or in life.
I saw my mum, recovering at home, lying horizontally in front of the TV screen for most part of the day. Mind you, this has been one of her favourite pastimes for many years now. I recall telling her once:
"Mum, you watch so much news I sometimes wonder whether you plan to get into journalism!"
She would smile at me in the sweetest ways and get back to her news as though to say, mind your own business, girl. I do love my mum.
I even got glued in to watch a nightly series, Moroccan, Mexican dubbed in Farsi. It was a routine family affair.
Back in high school, I once wrote an essay about 'Mother' on Mother's Day in Persian, and when handing out the graded papers, our teacher, the only lady teacher to come to class in a black veil, was a chador. She said:
"Before I hand out the papers, I'd like to ask one of you to come up for the first time and read her essay to us." She continued: "I read this, and it touched me in a way I couldn't stop crying."
We all looked at one another in surprise; in a class of 42 students (if I remember that figure correctly as it was many decades ago!), the teacher announced my name aloud!
I was shy and quiet at school. However, I do remember reading my four-page essay aloud and finishing to look up towards not a dry face in that classroom. The only sentence I recall was... and your tear drops like a pearl falling down your face.
If I have one regret, it would be losing that essay after leaving my hometown to attend boarding school in the UK. Oh well, there is the choice of writing another one now, all those years later.
I saw my mum, recovering at home, lying horizontally in front of the TV screen for most part of the day. Mind you, this has been one of her favourite pastimes for many years now. I recall telling her once:
"Mum, you watch so much news I sometimes wonder whether you plan to get into journalism!"
She would smile at me in the sweetest ways and get back to her news as though to say, mind your own business, girl. I do love my mum.
I even got glued in to watch a nightly series, Moroccan, Mexican dubbed in Farsi. It was a routine family affair.
Back in high school, I once wrote an essay about 'Mother' on Mother's Day in Persian, and when handing out the graded papers, our teacher, the only lady teacher to come to class in a black veil, was a chador. She said:
"Before I hand out the papers, I'd like to ask one of you to come up for the first time and read her essay to us." She continued: "I read this, and it touched me in a way I couldn't stop crying."
We all looked at one another in surprise; in a class of 42 students (if I remember that figure correctly as it was many decades ago!), the teacher announced my name aloud!
I was shy and quiet at school. However, I do remember reading my four-page essay aloud and finishing to look up towards not a dry face in that classroom. The only sentence I recall was... and your tear drops like a pearl falling down your face.
If I have one regret, it would be losing that essay after leaving my hometown to attend boarding school in the UK. Oh well, there is the choice of writing another one now, all those years later.
As a mother... To my mother
Oh, my Dear Mamma
You have been my first love
The one given to me from the Lord above
Watching your positive attitude
Your smile and all the gratitude
The liberties you have granted me
With all the love you have wanted me
You taught me 'the beauty of life.'
From the plants to a stream and the joy of jive
Your tear as a pearl flowing down your gentle skin
Life is but what you make it, as light and sharp as a pin
Mamma, if for any reason I've questioned your ways
It's not of blame, but learning to make changes in days
To make the world a better place to live
Flow the love freely and certainly know to give
Also, this I got from you, the stubbornness in my attitude
I smile and count it a way forward with all my gratitude
Mamma, I adore You.
Tehran was fun. Although it was Ramadan and the restaurants and coffee shops were closed till dusk, we could use our pool during the day without making any noise, in case the sound of having fun was heard in the street. Especially since any public swimming pools in private gyms, etc, separated by gender, were closed as swimming would wet your lips, and fasting is encouraged by the government. Frankly, I hardly came across anyone fasting!
In the Iranian culture, we were encouraged to call our parents good friends, aunts and uncles. We got invited to an aunt's intimate dinner party, where we sang, danced and caught up with everyone's news. It was Angel, mamma's first outing after a while, but surrounded by all the love, we did not get back till 1am.
I was introduced to a lady who used to be a renowned actress, and frankly, looking at her, she had barely changed; she was just as stunning in person now as when I last saw her at my parents' parties decades ago, before the 1979 Iranian revolution. Pouri was directly involved in many charities, especially with orphans. Hala had told me she had visited her in one of the orphanages, which happened to be in a house that once belonged to our family, which the government had confiscated. At least they made good use of that environment.
I had a confession to make to Pouri:
"May I tell you how much I adore you and how beautiful you are? You haven't changed since I was a child."
She hugged me warmly; those good deeds shone through her whole being. Without a trace of work done, in her natural beauty, she was pure elegance. Pouri offered to take a photo with my girl and couriered her old movies to our apartment the following day.
My aunt and her two daughters, with whom we grew up, made the evening delightful to be cherished.
Hala and I went to Jade's pool party from midday on the weekend and were greeted warmly by her family and friends living in Tehran. Her cousin, the artist, has been painting in silence behind closed doors for many years, using surrealistic themes in black charcoal with touches of red, creating thoughtful messages of which the world had been deprived. Her loving, strong mother was the reason for Jade's return to live in her city of birth, who welcomed us with open arms.
And my wonderful brother Soltan and his adorable lady Tuba, who have been so supportive, looking after our mum with so much love. Several evenings, they drove us to the private surroundings of the member's club in the middle of the city, consisting of a significant open Food Court at the entrance, a golf course in the middle of the vast grounds, many available tennis courts, squash courts, bowling alleys and a padded ground to walk and jog around the closed-off arena. Think I forgot to mention the separate swimming pools. The place is called 'Bashgahe Enghelab'. As eftar began (the time to eat at dusk), the various restaurants opened for business, and food was served. The dress code was no skirts for the ladies, people dressed in fancy track-suits and what can only be called exciting outfits, with the latest head covers for the women and Western caps for the men. Best place for people watching.
If it wasn't for my plane ride back aboard a full Emirates flight via Dubai to London, which was a disaster, my two weeks in Tehran would have been memorable, and I would have come back with a fulfilled soul. However, OML, on the seven-hour journey, I sat next to a lady covered in a thick vale with two small children. Despite my plea to the stewardess about being allergic to small children on flights, never mind BO, she apologetically informed me of the entire flight and no spare seats. I tried to concentrate on two movies while the lady next to me fell asleep, and her punch of the elbow in my back made me jump through the pressure of the seat belt. She slapped her two-year-old by the window seat a few times as the poor child made the slightest of noises, then shouted at her in their native language. At one stage, I woke up to the sound of her baby passing wind, sleeping almost on my lap! I mean, Really... I went to the stewardess in tears towards the end of the flight and begged her for her seat, even if momentarily. Which was granted to me with a glass of Shiraz.
All I said at the end of the flight to my neighbour from hell, in imperfect English so she could perhaps understand, was:
"You... No more children."
She seemed surprised, now looking pleasantly at her off-springs and asked:
"No? Why no?"
Thank God...The plane had landed; I just picked up my bag and left in despair.
Home ... Bliss, home again.
Oh, my Dear Mamma
You have been my first love
The one given to me from the Lord above
Watching your positive attitude
Your smile and all the gratitude
The liberties you have granted me
With all the love you have wanted me
You taught me 'the beauty of life.'
From the plants to a stream and the joy of jive
Your tear as a pearl flowing down your gentle skin
Life is but what you make it, as light and sharp as a pin
Mamma, if for any reason I've questioned your ways
It's not of blame, but learning to make changes in days
To make the world a better place to live
Flow the love freely and certainly know to give
Also, this I got from you, the stubbornness in my attitude
I smile and count it a way forward with all my gratitude
Mamma, I adore You.
Tehran was fun. Although it was Ramadan and the restaurants and coffee shops were closed till dusk, we could use our pool during the day without making any noise, in case the sound of having fun was heard in the street. Especially since any public swimming pools in private gyms, etc, separated by gender, were closed as swimming would wet your lips, and fasting is encouraged by the government. Frankly, I hardly came across anyone fasting!
In the Iranian culture, we were encouraged to call our parents good friends, aunts and uncles. We got invited to an aunt's intimate dinner party, where we sang, danced and caught up with everyone's news. It was Angel, mamma's first outing after a while, but surrounded by all the love, we did not get back till 1am.
I was introduced to a lady who used to be a renowned actress, and frankly, looking at her, she had barely changed; she was just as stunning in person now as when I last saw her at my parents' parties decades ago, before the 1979 Iranian revolution. Pouri was directly involved in many charities, especially with orphans. Hala had told me she had visited her in one of the orphanages, which happened to be in a house that once belonged to our family, which the government had confiscated. At least they made good use of that environment.
I had a confession to make to Pouri:
"May I tell you how much I adore you and how beautiful you are? You haven't changed since I was a child."
She hugged me warmly; those good deeds shone through her whole being. Without a trace of work done, in her natural beauty, she was pure elegance. Pouri offered to take a photo with my girl and couriered her old movies to our apartment the following day.
My aunt and her two daughters, with whom we grew up, made the evening delightful to be cherished.
Hala and I went to Jade's pool party from midday on the weekend and were greeted warmly by her family and friends living in Tehran. Her cousin, the artist, has been painting in silence behind closed doors for many years, using surrealistic themes in black charcoal with touches of red, creating thoughtful messages of which the world had been deprived. Her loving, strong mother was the reason for Jade's return to live in her city of birth, who welcomed us with open arms.
And my wonderful brother Soltan and his adorable lady Tuba, who have been so supportive, looking after our mum with so much love. Several evenings, they drove us to the private surroundings of the member's club in the middle of the city, consisting of a significant open Food Court at the entrance, a golf course in the middle of the vast grounds, many available tennis courts, squash courts, bowling alleys and a padded ground to walk and jog around the closed-off arena. Think I forgot to mention the separate swimming pools. The place is called 'Bashgahe Enghelab'. As eftar began (the time to eat at dusk), the various restaurants opened for business, and food was served. The dress code was no skirts for the ladies, people dressed in fancy track-suits and what can only be called exciting outfits, with the latest head covers for the women and Western caps for the men. Best place for people watching.
If it wasn't for my plane ride back aboard a full Emirates flight via Dubai to London, which was a disaster, my two weeks in Tehran would have been memorable, and I would have come back with a fulfilled soul. However, OML, on the seven-hour journey, I sat next to a lady covered in a thick vale with two small children. Despite my plea to the stewardess about being allergic to small children on flights, never mind BO, she apologetically informed me of the entire flight and no spare seats. I tried to concentrate on two movies while the lady next to me fell asleep, and her punch of the elbow in my back made me jump through the pressure of the seat belt. She slapped her two-year-old by the window seat a few times as the poor child made the slightest of noises, then shouted at her in their native language. At one stage, I woke up to the sound of her baby passing wind, sleeping almost on my lap! I mean, Really... I went to the stewardess in tears towards the end of the flight and begged her for her seat, even if momentarily. Which was granted to me with a glass of Shiraz.
All I said at the end of the flight to my neighbour from hell, in imperfect English so she could perhaps understand, was:
"You... No more children."
She seemed surprised, now looking pleasantly at her off-springs and asked:
"No? Why no?"
Thank God...The plane had landed; I just picked up my bag and left in despair.
Home ... Bliss, home again.
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