Dust IV

The wedding is in full swing, out of breath I step outside for a few seconds of quiet. Behind me the dancing goes on, the lines of lights hung above my head do little to dim the brightness of the night sky. It’s a good night to get married as Şewat my old childhood friend had told me a few minutes ago.

Thankfully he missed the conversation me and Dad had earlier in the night. I still hadn’t come to term with what he told me. It appeared that I had made an impression on one of the village girls and she had managed to convince her dad to talk to my dad. Marriage was not something I had come back home for but in this case it required a bit more thinking. First off she was gorgeous; I still remember the surprise on her face when she ran into me in the courtyard a few mornings ago. Second she was a genius, she had learned to read and write at the age of 4, by the time she was 12 she could handle most of her older brothers homework. Of course now that she was 15 she had surpassed all of her brothers and not to mention she had put Benaz up to finding out marital status. I mentally think about how I could break this to my friends in the US. Maybe a telegram would do.

FOUND LOVE WITH 15 YEAR OLD GIRL STOP WILL BE MARRIED NEXT YEAR STOP COME VISIT STOP

Hmm somehow I don’t think it would be a very full wedding of course the wedding wouldn’t be happening for a few years at least but with a green card there would be no stopping her from getting a first rate education.

I turn back and see someone looking back at me in traditional Kurdish clothing. It’s a bit unsettling and as I raise my hand in the universal gesture of hello he does the same. I feel a bit silly waving at my reflection but it’s not really me; it’s a different version of me, a changed me, a Kurdish version of me.

Labels define us in so many ways, American or Iranian, Tehrani or Kermanshahi, Irani or Kurdi, Asad or Assad, each choice each step towards or away from another label. Here’s another one, my reflection down a different path, marriage, work, life in Iran as … I am not sure what. In the US self-made has always been my identity but what will it be here ? Guy who couldn’t make it in the US and came back ? Guy who helps his dad install water pumps ? Or is this just a vacation, a spike in the norm ? Back to the US and being Asad again next week ? or stay here and be Assad ?

1 week later

I sit on the plane and smile a bit, I didn’t get married but I did talk Dad into helping Azîn she will get her college education in Sanandaj along with Şewat’s family. Strings were pulled, people were talked to and at the end she would be the youngest student at the university.
The seat belt snaps on with a metallic click and immediately goose bumps form on my skin. It’s as if a thousand needle points were just placed all over my body, the airplane rolls forward and I feel the needles no hooks sink in deeper and deeper until finally they catch on something intangible and pull. I take a deep breath and the feeling goes away, I look outside my window and see someone standing on the runway, Assad waves goodbye to me. We’ll probably never meet again.

3 years later

My cell rings and I pick it, I have another 10 minutes to waste before I catch my flight to Tokyo. I hear Dad voice on the cell, he’s talking about a wedding I force myself to concentrate. Şewat is getting married to Azîn. I ask Dad to congratulate them for me. I hang up and walk towards the door, alone.

Dust III

We’ve been on the road for about an hour and the sun is just starting to peak out from behind the mountains. We had to get an early start so that we would be in time for the wedding. A distant cousin is getting married and we are invited. This is going to be my first Kurdish wedding, Dad is already napping in the back and the constant brown landscape is putting me to sleep as well. The last time Dad and I spent any significant amount of time together was 3 years ago when I barely made it back in time to see his father pass away. I had visited my grandfather’s grave a week earlier although afterwards I wish I hadn’t.

The cemetery goes on as far as the eye can see. The graves cover the horizon and pain radiates out of the stones, the air, the sky itself. It’s not the pain of relatives passing of old age, it’s the pain of stories that were stopped before they could start. As I walk down between the neat rows of white and black stone I try to not look at the pictures. They remind me too much of the past, of the recruitment stories they told us in school. How we could help in the rear of the army, how we could help defend our country. I was 14 at the time but I still remember the pitch. These are my classmates, my friends, my extended family, we all grew up together only I got to leave and they didn’t. I don’t read the inscriptions; I don’t want to know if they went to the front or if they were unlucky and lived in the wrong house when the bombs started to fall or if they passed away from a common cold. It doesn’t make a difference, dead is dead. They will never finish the stories I saw them begin, the poets, the scientists, the writers, along with the thieves and the murders. It’s unrealized potential and wasted life. I avert my eyes from the small bundles of cloth that dot the landscape. They house the wives, mothers, and sisters who have come to visit their husbands, sons, or brothers. The pain springs out of them like water and it swirls around the graves, it tugs at me and reminds me of the past. I quicken my pace, all I want to do is pay my respects and leave.

But I can’t, this place won’t let me. I am almost there when a picture grabs my eyes, I am frozen in place. It’s the curly hair that caught my eyes. Alireza was the only kid in our school with that hair. He was the reason I was second in our class. Always ready with a shy almost apologetic smile, he made it look easy where the rest of us had to struggle, he had the best penmanship, the best math score, the longest poems memorized,… Every year I would chase him and every year he would be at the head of the class again. I won’t look at the inscription, I refuse to know. I won’t acknowledge this. Instead I look at the rest of the pictures; around the giant blown up picture of him his family has left a series of smaller pictures. I look at the last picture, it shows him smiling next to another taller kid, it takes me a second to realize that tall skinny kid is me. There I am without a worry in the world hanging out with one of my best friends. He was the best of us, the brightest, if you had to pick one out of that class to lead, to survive it would be him. Life is not fair.

I pay my respects to both Alireza and grandpa and leave as quickly as I can. I half expect someone to yell that there’s been a mistake, that I have somehow taken Alirezas spot in life. By the time I get back to the car I am almost running, Dad assumes that it’s from seeing grandpas grave and I don’t bother to correct him.

Dust II

As evening approaches we head back to the village, my back aches and I feel filthy covered with dust and dried sweat. I could really use a hot shower but I don’t remember seeing a water heater in the village. The landrover is going across a dry river bed and I hold on to the side to avoid being thrown face first into the window. I think people usually pay for this type of “outdoor” fun in the US but right now I’d gladly pay for a few springs in my seat. The car is older than me and the seat is basically a thin piece of foam on top of a steel sheet. It feels like I have a direct connection to every rock and pot hole we drive over. At least my back does.

I notice Dad and Sabar arguing in Kurdish and strain to understand what’s going on. My Kurdish was non-existent two weeks ago but I have picked up a few words here and there and remembered a few more. I finally manage to decipher what the argument is about. Sabar wants to kill a sheep for us to celebrate the installation of the pump and Dad is arguing that it’s not necessary a goat will do and in either case he will be back next year when they have a much bigger crop and we can all celebrate then. Reluctantly Sabar gives in, then he pulls out his mobile and dials one of his cousins. Siwar notices my incredulous look and laughs, he tells me while the village has only one land line and electricity is spotty at best (everyone house has a generator) most people own mobile phones. It’s a necessity, especially considering how far the flocks have to travel for food. Sabar haggles quickly over the price and they close the transaction.

We arrive at the village to meet our happy goat who is tethered in the yard munching on some grass and drinking out of his bowl. I immediately name him delicious. I head to the bathroom to wash up with the cold water and a green piece of soap that has seen better days. I clean up as best as I can but I still miss the hot shower, by the time I come out delicious has gone to that great farm in the sky and is munching on some heavenly grass.

I go inside and unconsciously look for the tv remote. But there is no tv and Dad and Sabar are engaged in a discussion of water table, wheat and market prices. I sit down and suddenly realize how tired I am. I could have done the welding instead of the digging but Abbas is a great welder and I haven’t welded anything in years. While he was busy welding the pipe onto the pump me and Siwar had dug a short canal for the water to flow down and into the fields. My back aches and I can feel blisters forming on my hands.

Modan Siwars younger brother sits across from me and opens up his backgammon board. He looks up with a shy smile that shows a gap and asks if I’d like to play. I say sure and he starts to setup his tiny board, it’s made out of walnut wood just like a regular board but the pieces are smaller and it looks a bit battered. I setup my side and we start to play, thankfully the first few moves are easy but within a few turns it becomes clear that he’s the better player. I need to count before I can make my moves while he’s sliding his pieces around with ease. Modan has a puzzled look on his face probably thinking why is it that this guy who lives in America can’t play worth a damn. This could be bad, not just losing to a 6 year old but losing badly without managing to get a single one of my pieces off the board. I can’t be marsed by a 6 year old. I look to my side, Dad and Sabar are deep in their own game of backgammon I think I heard one of them wager a cow and 2 sheep on the game. We don’t own any cows or sheep I hope they are just joking I definitely don’t want to be around if we have to deliver livestock to this village.

Suddenly a ball of bright clothing and hair jumps into my lap, it’s Benaz. She looks at me with a huge smile that sports an identical gap to the one in Modans face. A dentist could make a killing in this village just with these two. Before I can ask what she wants she starts to whisper in my ear what my next move should be. Great I have an 8 year old girl as my coach so I don’t lose to the 6 year old. I lose that game and manage to win the next 3 thanks to Benazs help, we are high fiving each other when Modans mom tells them it’s their bed time and we pack it up for the night.

Before she bolts Benaz turns back and asks if I am married, I look down at the skinny 8 year old with the missing teeth and a smile that’s half her face and tell her no but as soon as she’s all grown up I’ll come back to talk to her dad about getting married. Benaz laughs jumps up and runs away. I go to bed with a smile I am only 15 years older than Benaz after all.

I wake up and for a few seconds I have no idea where I am, the ceiling is white with wooden beams running through it. The bed I am lying in is very hard and I can feel the concrete below me radiating cold. Then I remember, we are in a no name village about a days drive outside of Sanandaj. I am here with Dad to help install a water pump. They had seen one of our pumps in a neighboring village last year and this years watermelon crop had them astounded. They had come to Kermanshah and bought one of the larger German water pumps we sell.

Dawn is just breaking and I can hear the women of the household making preparation for breakfast. I get up and walk to the bathroom which is located outside the main building. As I stumble towards it I notice someone watching me, I turn back but all I see are a pair of surprised eyes and a chador which quickly retreat into the kitchen. The cold water cuts my face like a sharp knife but at least I am awake.

I walk back into the main room to see everyone else is awake and sitting around the sofreh, I take my place next to Dad and immediately I am handed a small glass of hot tea. It’s darker than I am used to but I drink it gladly. The bread is freshly made and delicious along with the feta.

We set out towards the pumps location after breakfast, me, Dad, my cousin Abbas, the village head Sabar and his son Siwar who is a few years younger than me. The pump is already there sitting on the brand new platform they have built for it. I put on gloves and a large belt, while Dad directs us we each grab a side of the pump. We yell “Ali” in union and lift the heavy machine towards its place on the platform bit by bit. It takes us most of the morning to set it up right and by lunch time we are all exhausted. As we sit Siwar starts a small fire for the tea and hands out some more bread, feta and a few pieces of raw onion. I take it from him gratefully; I had forgotten how dusty Iran gets.

As usual it has not rained during the summer time and now fall is approaching the mountains are cold and dry not yet clad with their normal snow caps.
Sabar turns on an old radio that’s held together by tape and a sweet Kurdish melody crone out of it. I don’t remember the last time I was this comfortable, Persian and Kurdish flow around me as Dad, Abbas and Sabar talk. The voices are familiar and soothing it has been years since I heard Kurdish, the sound along with the mountains in the distance combine to put me in a daze.

Slowly I realize that Siwar is talking to me. I snap out of my reverie to hear Siwar repeat his question again. This time slower, my Persian has gotten rusty over the years and at times Siwar is not sure if I understand him. He’s asking me why do American hate Muslims? Why do they kill Iraqis and Kurds ? It’s ironic, in the US I am always defending Iran and the “Terrorists” now I am in Iran and I am defending the US. Siwar laughs at my answer that America wants to help, he’s too cynical. He’s seen how the central government in Iran praises the deeds of the Kurds during the Iran-Iraq war but doesn’t follow the flowery words with any actual help. Before I can say anything else Dad and Sabar get up and it’s time to get back to work. I am only too happy to start again I’d much rather lose myself in physical labor than to argue politics.

Reza is back, APGIC and Tina have new locations.
And there’s Negar whose blog always reminds me of college, friends and a having fun. If I had to compare her blog to a restaurnt it would be the sub shop we would all get together. The food was pretty good but we really went there cause it had a cool vibe and the owner seemed more interested in talking with us than making money.
Dot, Gufona and Solmaz all have decided to quit which sucks. Personally I blame Anahita for all of this.

Ahh two of my favorite things and they mix so nicely together. Indiana Jones made it look easy I don’t remember him paddling as hard as we are. He just sort of floated up the river damn you Hollywood you fooled me again. We paddle up and it’s gorgeous, the river is a chocolaty brown, the trees very green and the sky is confused. The sky is having serious issues it can’t figure out if it wants to rain, pour or shine bright. So it does all 3. First it pours on us, then the sun dries our cloths and finally we get a nice drizzle all this in the span of 30 minutes. And during that time we get both sun and pouring rain at the same time. It’s really weird to have a bright sun shining on you at the same time as you are getting soaked.

We are finally getting near our destination, the last set of rain has swelled up the river somewhat and at the fork we see all the tour guides have taken the right side tied up their kayaks and hiked the rest of the way. But not us, we are not senior citizens we can take the river head on. We are young and strong, we can paddle. Or can we ? first crack in my confidence appeared when S said “Dude this might be a bad idea we should think about it”. About 10 seconds later this became clear, we had gone halfway up the narrow part of the river, it was rushing back down at us a bit too hard and it didn’t look like we were going to make it. The head of the kayak started to turn back, the shore was very green, in my head I thought “ oh we’ll just turn around …” and then the sky turned brown. Ok this sucks, I have about $2000 worth of camera equipment in that water proof bag that shit better not be affected. Oh and I should be worried about this whole breathing thing too. Let’s see oh yeah you kick up, crap that hurt it felt like someone slammed a baseball bat to my shin and I didn’t owe anyone any $ either. Ok reach up the water is not that deep, umm what’s all this wood doing blocking me from the air that I am really starting to miss. Ok just reach up grab something and pull up and back. Oh yeah here we are it seems that I got sucked under for a second or two there. Ahh there’s the kayak and there’s S and oh look we are headed back down river just like Indiana Jones. And oh there are the senior citizens smirking at us. Fuck it, we turn the kayak over and ohh crap we have no paddles. We swim towards everyone else and walk up oh yeah that’s why no one tied their kayak here you sink up to your knees in the muck instantly. Ahh and here comes one of our missing paddles. I swim back to it and grab it as we both float down stream.

Exhausted, wet and tired we ford the river a bit higher and hike about a mile to the falls. They rock, the tour people are there eating their sandwiches and drinking their sodas. We have a granola bar each. We are partially covered in mud, wet and tired. We hike back and I just can’t stop thinking about the other paddle. S says forget it how much can it cost to replace it’s not worth it. I can’t let it go. I think about how I could get back to where the kayak capsized, I could go further upriver and try to swim down and grab the paddle on my way back, but the river is just too fast I’d have no way of controlling myself. I tried to cross the river further upstream and come back from the other side, I just get a series of bug bites and scratches, the jungle is too thick to move in.

Finally I decide to swim upstream and see if I can get to the paddle that way. I make it upriver a bit and try to hold on to a branch that seems pretty solid, it’s not and I do my floating back the river thing again. I climb up some trees and spot the paddle. It’s stuck upside down by the branches that were blocking me from coming back up. I gingerly sneak up to it holding onto another branch. I finally manage to get the damn paddle and get back to the kayak and S. It feels great, screw nature, screw the senior citizens we have our paddle back. We float down like you know who back to where we started. The chocolaty water was not sweet, but the trip was definitely worth it despite the bug bites, the bruises and the scratches.