EFFECTS OF EARLY TRAINING

July 10, 2009 by thenewcomer

Growing up with my parents, we socialised with two groups of people: those in front of whom it was necessary to cover my hair, and those in front of whom my hair was free. My parents’ civil servant colleagues and some distant cleric relatives of my mother fell in the first group (she actually used to wear the full black chador when seeing that family), close family and pre-revolution old friends were in the second.

The reason my parents (my father, mostly, who in those days was paranoid about his reputation and his job) gave were simple: We are government employees. We follow the rules of this government, otherwise the government will not give  us our daily bread, in the form of a monthly salary and a good university job. I, who preferred to spend most of my time in my room reading and rereading novels and tended to bite guests with my eyes, agreed to the rules, which were similar in the households of most my friends and peers.

The younger generation growing up were not so compliant. So, I can remember furious whispered arguments in the corridors with my sister, or my sister-in-law, when they refused to cover their hair to greet Mr. So and So who had come for a visit and tea. In fact, I can remember my brother-in-law begging me to persuade his high-school sister to cover her hair when she served tea to his boss who was visiting them, in fear that he might be so offended by her flowing mane that he would stop working with him. Those young girls had different strategies. Sometimes they didn’t come out to meet male guests at all, but would sit seething in the back bedrooms. Sometimes they would come forward defiantly with uncovered hair, causing winces of agony all around. Sometimes they would cover their hair, but in such a way as to make a mockery of the whole thing: use a loose silky shawl which left most of their hair visible anyway, bare their necks and chests so their hair would be covered but their boobs would almost graze the noses of the male guests they were serving tea, use enough make-up to cover all the models in a Dior fashion show. I don’t actually think anybody lost a job for it- times were supposed to be getting more relaxed- I am now speaking of the Khatami era, when we were all friends together and dialogue was the catchword of the day.

But I was never rebellious like that. It was an easy enough thing to do to please my parents after all.  When you see religious people, you just cover your hair. It is a mark of respect, as the elders said.

So, fast forward to Halifax. I register the princess in a local evening sports class, and lo and behold, amongst the teeming parents at the door of the class waiting for their young ones, I run into compatriots of the “R” type. Husband: elderly high-ranking university employee in Tehran. Wife: much-younger deeply-veiled housewife. Fervent supporters of Mr. A. We cannot avoid talking. And I am agonizing aware of my near-nudity.

The next session of the sports class, I catch myself wanting to change from my usual summer day clothes (tight t-shirt, tight skirt above the knees, bare legs- yes, the sun has actually deigned to shine) into something more covered, more decorous, more respectful. I feel myself  almost under the mesmerising spell to show respect to them by dressing more appropriately.  Respect. I can hear them say it. We have to respect them.

I scream at myself. I am no longer in the household of a government employee. I shake the respect-thoughts out of my head. And I dress myself and my daughter as I please.

GUN ‘N’ ROSES ‘N’ FAST CARS

July 8, 2009 by thenewcomer

Or, MEMORY MUSIC

My brother was driving very fast on a flat grey racetrack, whizzing around. I was watching. I could hear the roar of the wheels and the motors, the squeals of sirens… The car somersaulted. I jerked out of my nightmare. But the wailing squeal was still there – the sound of the door buzzer squealing through my head. It was still dark, perhaps 2 in the morning. I stumbled to the door. I was not surprised to find my brother, with a scar on his face.

He had smashed up my father’s government car, while joy-riding with his friends. And instead of facing my father’s gentle sorrow and my mother’s hysterics, he had came to our house to lay low for a while until the storm blew over. Apart from his scratched face, no-one else was hurt.

I can’t remember much else of that particular episode- I can’t remember whether I had children? Was pregnant? It was many years ago. But I can remember the music. One bizarre consequence of it was that for one week or so afterwards my brother, accompanied by my husband, went out at 12:00 midnight every night to go and find a certain police officer, to bribe him in order to get back the car documents. I don’t know why they had to go out at midnight to meet the officer? 

And while they were waiting for midnight to go and catch the officer, they would watch Guns N’ Roses clips,  with the music very loud, in the living room.

With the result that, perhaps ten, or eight years later, whenever I hear the wail of Axel, or catch a glimpse of his pretty face with the red headband, or Slash with the  snakes, or two very pretty girls fighting in a bar, or a drowning green-eyed baby, or a wedding dress short in the front  and long and puffy in the back, on some tv or monitor screen, I am jerked back to that night, that dream, my brother coming up the stairs looking as if he is coming up from hell, vomiting with stress and worry, calling my parents and hearing my mother’s screams and sobs, eating factory-made creme-caramels at 2:30 in the morning and then having diarrhea…

And becasue I listen mainly to rock stations, I get to hear Guns almost every other day.

But of course, it is not just Guns.

As I rapidly approach my 35th birthday, I realise that almost all the music I actually like to listen to is deeply, deeply evocative of memories with my family… Nirvana: my father-in-law’s funeral. My sister lip-synching. Smooth: cooking in my mother’s kitchen while they were away to Mecca, for a month-long pilgrimage. And so on, and so on.

I need some new music. I need some new memories. But somehow, I think all the best songs have already been played. And I can have no more memories in this land of fog and distance.

HAPPY ENDING ON SUNDAY MORNING

July 6, 2009 by thenewcomer

Sunday morning, 10:30 am.

The meat (beef stewing cubes, $4:87 from Superstore) and soaked pinto beans are boiling merrily. I have chopped the onions and they are sizzling in a frying pan. Time to add the dried herbs -ghormeh sabzi for Sunday lunch, Monday supper, and hopefully Tuesday as well.

I start looking for the ghormeh sabzi herbs. I know I have a huge package somewhere. I blogged about it sometime ago. I open the cabinets, and peek into bags. No- this is purple cow-tongue flower for herb tea. No- dried mint. No- esfand, a kind of incense burnt to keep the evil eye away and set smoke alarms off. Where are the herbs? Pasta in this cabinet. Tinned goods in that one. No sign of the ghormeh sabzi herbs. Was I mistaken? Is this the revenge of the grandmother, because I complained about sending too much stuff from Iran? Did she come and spirit away the last packages of herbs? It is 10:45, the children will want their lunch soon.

I decide to convert the stew to “khoresh-e gheimeh”, which does not require herbs. But that needs potatoes! No more potatoes! OK- I’ll just do a plain stew with meat, pinto beans, and tomato paste and spices. A no-name stew. Never mind. I start hunting for the new unopened can of tomato paste I just bought yesterday.

I can’t find it.

11:02. The beans are staring to explode. WhatshallIdo whatshallIdo whatshallIdo? I bang the cupboard doors together. I KNOW I bought tomato paste yesterday. I ask the princess if she has seen the tin. She points me the ketchup. I push around the frying onions which are starting to blacken. I think what to do. I am on the verge of panicking. I had planned at least three meals ahead with this dish- my whole week will unravel if I can’t get a decent lunch together now.

I look in the freezer. I look in the refrigerator. I push things back and forth. 11:20. I open all the cabinets again. And then- I see it- a big red plastic bag as big as a cushion. How did I miss that the last forty million times I looked in that particular cabinet? I grab it and with tears of joy, open it. The last package of herbs.

Sunshine bursts through the grey clouds and fog of Halifax.

CANADA NIGHT

July 2, 2009 by thenewcomer

If there is anything more annoying than immigrants who constantly complain about the weather/lack of jobs/high prices/general unfriendliness of their chosen country, it is those insanely cheerful immigrants who wave maple-leaf flags and sing O Canada on Canada Day. The first group merely annoy and bore me, the second group make me want vomit and then stuff the flag down their throats.

Seriously, I do not really appreciate this obssession with countries and national  pride. Since the ice age, people have migrated to places where they believed they would be a-safer and b-make more money. That’s why people migrate today. Flags have nothing to with it! Let me tell you, o immigrants singing in the local park under freezing rain and in milky fog, that your “fathers” were never chasing beavers in Canada, and there is no “z” in “thee”. Go home and make yourself a nice hot meal with ingredients bought from the closest Asian market. The real Canadians are sweaty and damp, jogging by in shorts, Nike sneakers and Adidas tops, glancing at you with amusement and just a tad of condescension. They wouldn’t be caught dead singing on O Canada on Canada day (or any other day of their life, if they can help it).

For real Canadians, Canada Day means in fact Canada Night. As evening draws on and the immigrants go home to dive under their blankets, the Canadians come out to party in their bars and pubs in a sea of red. They celebrate Canada Day by drinking a lot of beer, and listening  to very loud pop music. That is the spirit of Canada, and what it means to be a Canadian. And that is probably what your children will do when they become teenagers, if you can stick it out that long.

THE CONSPIRACY TO KILL MICHAEL JACKSON

June 26, 2009 by thenewcomer

The same thousands if not millions of people who were speaking of their tears and sobs and heartache and pain and outrage upon watching a certain video documenting the death of a certain girl from a certain country, are now luxuriating in those same emotions as they hear of the death of the self-named King of Pop. Check any news website or news blog if you don’t believe me.

Far be it from me to disrespect to Mr. Jackson, or or suggest that his death is not worthy of all the attention which it is receiving- I just wish there was a slight sense of priorities.

For the past ten days, the top news item on both the Guardian, the BBC, as well the tops stories on the Slate were devoted to the civil unrests of a certain country, somewhere in the middle-east. You know, the country shaped like a cat. Jezebel posted pictures of attractive female protestors, and people commented on the bravery, the self-sacrifice and the other blah blah blah of the blah blah. The cat-country is nowhere to be seen, now.

After all, what is grave abuse of human rights, what is killings and beating of civilian protestors, what is the what, compared to THE DEATH OF MICHAEL JACKSON???????? 

It is times like these that I find myself hating the capitalist media system of the developed countries, and their insistence of promoting whatever sells. Graphic pictures of  gory violence on the streets of Tehran? Excellent! Michael Jackson had a heart attack? Couldn’t be better!

It’s funny, that I read this morning (a tiny item tucked away in a general news round-up) that the authorities of the cat-country have blamed the CIA / terrorists for the shooting of the girl whose name means call. To turn the conspiracist tables on them,  I do not hesitate to lay the death of Mr. Jackson at the feet of the those cloaked authorities. After all, from their point of view , it couldn’t have been timed better. Even if their henchmen didn’t actually force the medication which led to the death of Mr. Jackson down his  throat, then without doubt, they dialled their special access line to God, and ordered this event. And God was ever willing to please.  

As He has proved in the past.

A GIRL IN IRAN BLOGS

June 24, 2009 by thenewcomer

“I have put my head under the snow.

Contrary to popular belief, it is not cold under the snow, but deliciously cool.

It is completely white, no black, or red, or green in sight. That is very beautiful.

There are no Taliban or Basiji under the snow.

No bombs or electric batons.

There are no sounds of shots, or cries of Allahu Akbar. Only the music of Ville Valo and the sound of laughter can be heard.

Everybody is poor equally, under the snow. Oil and money have no meaning, under the snow.

Under the snow, everybody is a blasphemor, and the “scent of prayers” is not in the air.

There is no government under the snow. Everyone is free.

They do not execute homosexuals under the snow.

Everybody can flirt with each other freely, and anybody can sleep with anybody else…and no one is stoned for adultery.

There is no jealousy or family honour under the snow.

SMS is unlimted, under the snow.

Phone lines to other countries are not blocked, under the snow.

You can get a visa for Canada easily, under the snow.

Under the snow, everyone goes and visits their brother and sister in Canada for the summer. No, sorry, under the snow, our brother and sister have not gone to Canada, because there are no borders and no different countries. There is no difference between Canada, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.

We have lots of “Friends” under the snow. It’s fulls of Rachels, Chandlers and Phoebes. Full of Rosses and Monicas and Joeys.

MTV is as clear as a mirror, under the snow. And they play my favourite clips all the time.

Mother and Father do not age, under the snow. They are young forever.

Under the snow, your mother is in love with your father, not with Leonardo DiCaprio.

And your father in love with your mother, not beautiful newscasters.

I can sleep easily under the snow.

There is no rape under the snow.

Under the snow is full of poetry and books.

Under the snow is full of discotheques and “Book Cities”

We read Emily Dickinson and Sohrab Sepehri under the snow.

My novel is published under the snow. Even under the snow, it doesn’t sell very well, and critics hate it.

There are no phone bills under the snow, and I can chat with my gay friend for ever.

Under the snow, my gay friend’s partner is Johnny Depp. I invite them both for dinner. Amazingly, they both come and do not put me off.

Under the snow, cheating in exams is allowed, but cheating in elections is forbidden.

No depression under the snow.

No early mornings under the snow.

It is very safe, under the snow.

And I am not afraid, and I can do useful things, instead of fantasizing and hallucinating. “

Translated from Persian, from the blog “Crab Salad”, by my sister.

THINGS THEY TEACH IN CANADIAN SCHOOLS

June 19, 2009 by thenewcomer

-”Are you done now, “Mary”? Wipe your vag..a please. Now get up and wipe the toilet seat. No “John”- put your pen..s into your pants.”

I was in the large daycare toilet which holds about six cute little toilets, helping the golden boy to wash his hands in the manner prescribed by the Department of Health.  I fell in a state of shock. I had never ever heard those terms spoken out loud in polite society- by a teacher! to her pupils! I wanted to die. I always referred to the unmentionables of my children with cute funny names “mooli“, “shoongooolz“. My mother had always a preference for names of edibles, and so we heard a lot of talk about “angoor” (grapes) and “adas” (lentils) when we were growing up. I understood that English-speaking parents also used cutsie names like “weenie” and , and, well, – I’m not sure what they use for girls…

But, we were doing it all wrong, acording to a health and seks education pamphlet which the princess brought home from school a few weeks ago. We should not use pseudonyms and childish names for the gen… but instead refer to them by their proper scientific names, the same way we talk about hands and nose. What???  For one thing, I am not even sure what the proper scientific name for those body-bits are in my mother tongue (do they even have proper scientific names????) The pamphlet went on to tell us that maintaining a healthy attutude to seks (Oh my God! Oh my God!) was essential in bringing up children, and that research proves that children who received proper seks education in schools and by their parents are less likely to have danegrous seksual practices (such as unwanted teen pregnancy) later on. We should be ready to answer all questions without squeamishness and embarrassment, fully and truthfully, and by the age of five, children should be able to identify and name all their body parts…

No! OK, Canadian Government, you can deport me back to Iran. I refuse. If being a proper Canadian means talking to my six-year old and my three-year-old about their you-know-whats, well, I prefer to walk from Haft-e-Tir to Azadi square shouting Where’s my (non-existent) vote and risk arrest/disappearence/death. Count me out. The teachers can do that seks-education thing, while hopefully teaching them to read and write properly as well. I’ll continue with the mooli and shongoolz, thank you very much.

OUR FIRST POLITICAL RALLY

June 17, 2009 by thenewcomer

Being a lazy, apathetic, selfish, stuck-up, salaried  middle-class pseudo-intellectual , I had never attended a political rally (or indeed, voted.) However, the riveting pictures from my home country, together the declining interest of my daughter in anything to do with Iran sparked my dormant patriotism.

-Princess, we are going to a rally.

-What is a rally?

-The people of Iran are going through a very difficult, tense time now. They are having a lot of problems. We are going out with other Iranians to show we care about them.

-Will there be food?

-No!

And in an attempt to convince her of the importance of the event, I added: “People are being killed in Iran!”

Her eyes widened: “You mean my aunt and granparents are all killed now?”

-NO!

Halifax has perhaps around 500 Iranians- mostly international students, provincial nominees, and a few long-established business folk. For some strange unaccountable reason, skilled workers such as myself do not show up here, preferring the larger cities, where they think there are more jobs. Perhaps less than a hundred had shown up in front on the Public gardens. Many wore green:  ironically the colour of the descendents of the profet, now the colour of “reformist”s. To my horror, a very small group were holding a very large flag with the emblem of the previous regime. Thank God, the police politely told them to stop waving the flag- apparently because the permit for the rally did not include holding flags, not because the Haligonian provincial police cared which intricate emblem was on the flag. They also told demonstrators off for stepping on the pretty circular flower-beds in front of Public Garden, and warned them to remain on the pavement. I think they must have received slightly different training from their Iranian counterparts.

I felt very stupid, at my first political rally, holding a placard which said “Where’s my vote?” I hadn’t voted! As there were no polling stations in Halifax, it should have read “Where’s their vote?” The princess and the golden boy looked around. My compatriots shouted slogans, some of which I didn’t agree with. Some of which I did. In any case, I am not used to shouting on pavements. I pulled my pretty Splurge summer hat low over my eyes. I felt glad I didn’t have teenage children in Iran. I felt like a fraud. After all, there were my real compatriots, dodging batons and bullets, and here was me, standing in the cool evening sun of Halifax, by the pristine lawns and quacky ducks of Public Garden. I felt confused. Be safe, my compatriots. That is all I can chant for you. Be safe.

IRANIAN DINNER PARTY

June 15, 2009 by thenewcomer

This is what I prepared for a circle of about 20+ classmates/family/colleagues (collectively known as friends) last Saturday night. They were wowed. For most of them, this was their first taste of Iran.

In order of deliciousness (for me, obviously):

1. Kashk-e bademjan

Ingredients

Main dish: Eggplants, onions, kashk (purchased at the Persian restaurant on Hollis Street)

Garnish:  sauteed garlic with turmeric, saffran (strictly optional), mint, more fried onions

Time to prepare: one hour

Preparation: Peel eggplants and slice into thick wedges. Sprinkle with salt and let sit for a while, for the bitterness to drain. Pat dry and fry the slices on low heat until nicely golden-brown on both sides. Drain fried eggplants on tissue paper to get rid of the extra oil. Separately, dice onions  and fry until deep browny colour, also add turmeric while frying. Put fried aubergines and onions together in big deep pan, and some water and let them simmer together for as long as you like. Occasionally mash and mix together. Add some salt, but not too much because of the kashk. Do NOT add the kashk to the mixture while it is cooking, as my father will be upset if you do that.   

Serving: Put the aubergine/onion mixture (which should have the consistency of thick yogurt) in a flat dish.  Decorate with lots of runny kashk, fried mint, fried onions and fried garlic, walnuts, saffron. Eat with bread and fresh herbs. This is one of my favourite dishes ever, and is hard-core traditional food.

2. Salad Olivier

See link:

http://thenewcomer.wordpress.com/2008/12/08/memory-potato-salad/

This time, I garnished it with carrot sticks, baby tomatoes and fresh herbs. Very nice.

3. Rice with lentils

Ingredients

Main dish: rice, and surprisingly enough, lentils.

Garnish:  fried onions (yes, we spend a LOT of time frying onions in our part of the world), dates sauteed with turmeric and cinammon 

Time: Less than an hour.

Preparation: Wash rice. Bring to boil with about a finger of salted water over it. When the water is almost disappearing, add the lentils which you have already half-cooked. Stir them with a fork. Add a bit more water. Turn the heat low, and leave to “settle”.   Meawhile prepare the garnish. Chop dates, and add to oil warmed in the pan, and push them around a bit. We want it lightly heated, not deep fried. Add the onion which have been fried previously (in my case, the evening before), and add tons of cinnamon and slightly less turmeric. Mix well.

For meat eaters,  this dish can be served with meat balls or just ground beef fried well with turmeric and cinnamon.

Note: As I explained to my guests, this not really party food, but rather everyday food which moms prepare during weekdays- perhaps with the exception of the eggplant dish. For “proper” formal parties back home, we have kebabs, lots of different kebabs, which I cannot prepare (nor can any other Iranian woman I know). For less formal family gatherings, the usual dishes are one or two types of khoresh (stews), or chicken cooked with saffran and rice. However, I cannot cook khoreshes in large amounts, and in any case, I have noticed non-Iranians are not as fond of khoreshes as we are. So this kind of food worked well in a informal party setting.

Partying while Iran burns. What else can we traitor expats do?

WAXING VS. THREADING

June 9, 2009 by thenewcomer

I meant to write on this topic sooner, but was prevented by the sheer weightiness of the issue. However, to the Iranian ladies intending to immigrate to Canada and considering the possibility of settling in the Maritimes, a word of caution: They don’t do threading here.

This simple fact, overlooked by the dozens of researchers working on immigrations issues and the difficulty of “retaining” immigrants in the Maritimes most likely lies at the heart of those numerous decisions to pack up bags, bid farewell to Halifax, and head to Toronto. After all, in Toronto there is a decent beauty parlour with an Iranian girl who threads eyebrows round every corner, and thus the beauty concerns of Iranian ladies are solved.

How can it be true? Is there a city in the world where they don’t thread eyebrows? How can they bear to look at each other then? I hear you, my friends.

The answer is simple: waxing. Less painful than threading and  more efficient, Halifax “aestheticians” as they are called shape your eyebrows expertly, with a tub of warm wax in less than ten minutes.

The results vary. Threading, which is done in combination with a good deal of plucking with tweezers, gives a certain artistic arch shape to the eyebrows, which waxing simply cannot achieve. With waxing, you get pleasing, smooth clean eyebrows. Threading however,  gives a je ne sais quoi, -a narrower tail? A saucy twist? to the eyebrows- a sort of sharper, more defined, less natural look than waxing.

As you can see, our passion for imitating the west is limited to cars, mobiles and satellites. In terms of style and beauty, we set our own standards.