tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171963392008-09-01T15:22:47.806+04:30ddmmyyyyThis blog details the discovery of Iran by a British/Iranian, born and raised in England with little previous involvement in the Iranian culture.ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-2690590884428393552008-08-17T23:39:00.004+04:302008-08-17T23:50:32.218+04:30SPRING CLEANED<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/118.jpg" /></a><br /><p>The telecabins<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"So would you like to explain what brings you to Iran", I ask the forty-something German standing within my view finder. His voice adapts to a semi-serious tone as I played around with the video camera positioning, "I'm in Iran to cover the elections", he responds, explaining that he will do so as a photographic journalist as part of many politically orientated projects he's working on around the middle east. We stood almost halfway up a scenic mountain setting overlooking a hazy Tehran, I set our photographer-guest to the side of the frame to both catch the passing groups of curious Iranian tourists and the crossing telecabins hanging in the sky behind. He spoke with an impassioned frustration about his more prominent project, "I'm photographing walls, that is, walls of detention: the West Bank in Israel/Palestine, the Mexico border and Belfast for example". <br /><br />The impromptu interview came to a natural close whereby I realised I should probably get the borrowed video camera back to its rightful owner. We squinted up and down the mountain in search of the group we'd arrived with yet a quick phone call confirmed my suspicions that the day's events had pretty much been called off and a regroup for tea and cake had commenced. With disappointment we set back down to join the group and with further disappointment I listened to the real meat of our guests opinions as the camera hung switched off and by my side. <br /><br />The Big Green Spring-Clean: join us in clearing up the clog-up. In and effort to rid Iran of rubbish we are conducting periodic team cleans. Begins Friday 7th March (17 Esfand). Meet @Bam-e-Tehran @Tochal (end of Velenjak). 9am. Bring gloves, wear green & make a sign "People came & cleaned me". Pass it on.<br /><br />"I know the leader of this certain NGO", interrupted one of the American raised Iranians at the cafe table, "and I could arrange coverage with this certain publication", she continued. This triggered others of similar culturing to add in, "oh, and I know this person, who knows this other person, who's involved in this certain group". Within a short period of time we'd amassed a list of potential-maybes to come to an event with no clear definition. "How about we just set a date; all of us here will attend; do this once and then take things from there", I suggested, conscious of putting talk into action for this proposed ongoing event. But supposedly one group needed to notified, another person needed to pull some strings, things needed writing and delegates needed to be found to delegate to the lesser delegates. Apparently I was not appreciating the dream; indeed I appreciated the hidden purpose by which Iranians can nurture their association to the land (that they may feel has been taken from them), yet my suggestion of leading by example was met with silence. "Next Friday, 9am we meet at this location, wear green, bring gloves, make signs and be ready to document the process", I put it, "I'll send a message around, please pass it on".<br /><br /><p class="tagline">The Afghanis persist on undermining our efforts. We've still yet to find so much as a pistachio shell</p>"Day three of the Big Green Spring Clean...", I jokingly gasped as one of the group was rolling with the camera, "... and the Afghanis persist on undermining our efforts. We've still yet to find so much as a pistachio shell". We were fooling around, yet it was true, we came across a waste bin every 20-metres and an Afghan circling every 40, yet this didn't deter our 20-plus team. Headscarfs were held in place with one hand while plastic bags were grasped at in the other; contingents of mostly young women leaped off the beaten track to respond to the calling of a glinting ring-pulls. "Excuse me", interrupted a woman while I'd gotten to day four, "I just want to say, what you are doing is great, keep up the good work", she continued before darting off. "Did we get that on film?", I asked as I turned to the camera once again.<br /><br />I tried not to read into the fact that only one of the three well-connected, American-raised conspirators turned up (and late at that) and instead enjoyed the abundance unfamiliar Iranian attendees wearing some shade of green. But I later learned that the successes didn't stop there, another mixed ethnic friend who also didn't attend informed me that the multinational company she works for awarded her with a prize for writing about green issues. She'd suggested some association within her writing, "I hope you don't mind", she smiled. Her prize was a trip to Malawi to take part in some kind of green activity – I can only guess that'll involve delegating tasks to locals on how to offset the carbon footprint her trip will produce.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-68469775140437998272008-05-18T20:24:00.006+04:302008-05-20T10:27:18.478+04:30AMERICAN PEACE<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/116.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Gathered among friends<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div><strong>This is a slightly adapted email sent out recently…</strong><br /><br />So, this weekend; the final of the three-nights-one-location party stint ended on a good note. The first of these nights deserves a write up in itself, having been spent with English Farsi students and being reminded of how much I’ve adapted to this place. It was weird to have my Englishness trumped.<br /><br />So, as mentioned, the regular and rotating Peace Delegation from America came once again to [my friend’s] house for a soirée of sorts. Before they arrived I joined the group of cosmopolitan Tehran folk amassed and discussing the variety of guests due. Our friend linked to this Delegation informed us that the Delegation’s organisers had exceeded the annual quota of visits and that there was talk about increasing what was seen as a successful program.<br /><br />[The host] was freaking out [with joy] about having a black woman, a Jewish Rabbi and some dude high-up in some church be guests at his house. Oddly enough, the Rabbi turned out to be a young Jewish author and the Christian dude ended up being a former band manager of various greats (having toured and worked with The Dead, The Who and a few others that escape me now). It was only the black woman who failed to fit the description; she turned out to be a well decorated Native American from a reservation in Arizona.<br /><br />As we met them at the door they needed each name to be repeated until they comfortably got their tongues around the strange new sounds. “And you are?”, they asked one-by-one, “David”, I responded, reaching out my hand. “David?”, they repeated, “yes David” … “David?”, they asked again, awaiting a reassuring punchline that never came. As the weather was pleasant we guided them through the house to sit out on the balcony whereby they, like many before, commented about the great view [of the Alborz Mountains] – even though little could be seen in the dark condition.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">"I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much"</p>It turned out that the touring Christian (of some peculiar strand) was from the [San Francisco] Bay area like [the host], to which streets and notaries were reeled out one after another; the native Indian answered questions related to her cluster of clothing and I made inquiries with the Jewish east coast gent about his book that was short-listed just that day for a prize. He talked about this book, informing us that it was entitled ‘Children in War’, which was - if I remember rightly - a collection of non-fictional accounts, as the title would suggest. During his explanation he came back on somebody’s comment with, "I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much". I asked him why he thought like that, to which he went into detail as to how there are apparently a large volume of Jews who fit a schizophrenic profile, Jews who simply can't deal with both the Israel issue and their conscience. He then went on to talk about some kind of lobby thing called J Street that is there to confront or compete with K Steet - or was it the other way around? By this I gathered that he meant there was a lobby group(s) that has strong support for the plight of the Palestinians.<br /><br />Similarly, I was talking of American politics with the Christian dude, but not before I answered his list of questions about Iran. Every other sentence I had to remind him that what he sees before him and over the balcony – if anything at all – is far from the reality of Iran. He mentioned that he was about to begin a PhD in Sexology, to which it took a few minutes for the group to move beyond the resulting jokes. I both volunteered information I'd learned about sex in Islam to which he brought further inquiries. He said that they were heading to the holy city of Qom the following day to which I mentioned that he could be in for a treat and could also stock up on literature for his future studies. I spoke about the sex calendar devised by the mullahs, indicating the best times for a Muslim to have sex within the week/month/year. He perked up on that one. I also mentioned a few of the related Islamic laws and also of one in particular concerning falling through floors during earthquakes and impregnating things below - that and matters concerning anal sex. He'd asked about gay folk in Iran - to which I had to amusingly remind him that we didn't have any here. I followed on this by adding the oddity that is gayness in Iran; that the men pretty much do all but penetrate in display of their affection with other men. I talked of a book I'd read entitled, ‘Sex Morals and Marriage in Islam’ saying that he might be able to get one of the clerics to run around for him to gather this and many more.<br /><br />With that I felt it best to educate him on how he should behave before the people he was about to meet in Qom; educating him on how better to shake hands and how best to phrase his requests. By coincidence he was already wearing a ring very similar to those worn by mullahs; that, coupled with the beard he’d been especially growing for the visit, assured me he’d do just fine.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb</p>My conversation with the Christian dude pretty much carried on until they left - for which I was a little worried that I consumed all his time when there was so many other interesting people that he could have spoken with. He mentioned at one point about having visited [the Iranian poet] Hafez's tomb, following with complimentary words about the nation and its history. He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb. He welled up in his explanation; nearly enough to drop a tear. Seeing his red bulbing eyes partly avoiding me seemed to trigger me off too, yet for wholly different reasons.<br /><br />I was engrossed with his perspective on America and its politics; he was deeply critical and deeply angered. He was sickened by paying tax and knowing that the official figures of how much of that got spent on the military is about 35%; we agreed that this is more than likely lower than is the case when noting how these things are publicly presented. He spoke of the big players such as Haliburton, KBR and the Carlyle Group and how the American people are at the whim of these corporations in many respects. Obama he was looking forward to, suggesting that it might be a break from the current elite - I contended that this result would make little difference should it actually transpire.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">"I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted.</p>On that, we spoke of possibilities that might swing it another way: Iran was his suggestion. I suggested that something would surly be brought out of the bag for the voting occasion to inspire a specific choice, sadly I had to admit that Iran could indeed be that. He was disillusioned with the system and felt maybe it needed taking back, yet had no confidence in this coming about. With that he spoke of his concern for his children, suggesting at one point that he feels bad for bringing them into the world with what he felt was looming: "I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted. He followed this with talk of fuel prices, limitation on food, decreasing employment figures and a disgusting health care situation.<br /><br />We brought the conversation back to Iran, whereby he asked about the political situation both now and previously here. It seemed he’d done his research and there was little for me to add. We spoke of the '53 coup, the Shah and the current regime which led to talk of the current developments in the nation with regards to sanctions and how Iran is dealing with business internationally. I brought it back home with the big topic of these days that is inflation. He was worried about the dollar for next year and I was worried about how over 90% of Iranians would be able to afford anything next year if the events of this year repeat themselves. It all seemed rather odd to discuss all this from the balcony of one of the more fancy high rises of Tehran.<br /><br />Details were exchanged and goodbyes were said before we wished them well for their pending Qom trip. The Christian dude went to shake my hand and frightened me by doing so in the mullah like way - it took a moment to remember where he'd learned it from.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-64706093663099185592008-03-16T08:11:00.005+03:302008-03-16T16:58:17.394+03:30CHOOSING DEMOCRACY<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/115.jpg" /></a><br /><p>In the process of voting<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div><strong>THE WAR AND THE DAY BEFORE</strong><br />"Guys, don't you get it, every time we vote we are voting against ourselves", I tried to point out to my colleagues-cum-team mates as we sat huddled around a table for our end of year party. "Hey come on, we gave you four votes on the last round!", gasped an opponent on the neighboring table as an end of round vote count was taking place. To say that the system descended into chaos would be to suggest that it was ever anything else; true, the lady who beat me by one point in the acting round of the competition did do a great job of convincing us she was constipated, but merit was long forgotten by that point.<br /><br />It was a simple situation; ten tables with roughly five or six people per table; each round we'd send a suitable candidate to either sing, draw, dance or appear a little clogged up. Following each round we were asked to vote on the performance but with the exception of not being able to vote for one’s own representative. Yet, with this haphazard recognition system it soon became apparent to me that one should never rightly cast a vote for they'll only vote against themselves. Regardless, the voting went on; be it for recognition of merit and a willingness to ‘enjoy-the-taking-part’, or be it for the tit-for-tat; back scratching; "we voted for your shit skit, where's our payback?".<br /><br />Naturally I took it all very seriously, paying careful attention to the new and unavoidable vote bartering, yet conscious that we'd always schemed the better result. As the competition concluded our mixture of great team performances and vote trading brought about a tie for first place with the Media Monitoring department, for which was oddly settled with a round of tug-of-war. Our failure here was in accepting the newer and shinier end of the two-part, make-shift rope, leading to a swift demise and very sore hands.<br /><br /><strong>THE WHO AND THE WHAT</strong><br />Another small voting matter took place this weekend, with equally as many peculiarities and equally as contended. This weekend saw the elections for the parliament of the Islamic Republic of Iran; which – depending on what side of the Atlantic you stood – was an event that would test of the president’s approval, or be a display of defiance against the Grand Arrogance.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">‘who’ and ‘what’ were therefore interchangeable; without somebody to vote for there was nothing to vote for</p>“Are you going to vote?”, became a repeated question asked by very few optimists. Many considered that I’d presented my willingness with these words, for which were often thrown back with a, “what is there to vote for?”. This question would rouse resentment, for which seemed to centre around the vetting process, whereby many so called reformist candidate didn’t gain prior approval by the Guardian Council (the supreme authority in Iran). The words ‘who’ and ‘what’ were therefore interchangeable and thus without somebody to vote for there was nothing to vote for.<br /><br /><strong>THE PRAGMATIST AND THE ABSTAINERS</strong><br />A friend of mine assured me that one must be pragmatic; that one must pick the lesser-of two-evils and to at least put an, “urgently needed halt to some upcoming disastrous policies”. I could appreciate his desire for crisis management but wasn’t convinced that this is a sensible solution.<br /><br />My friend stood alone among all those in my circles. “What for?”, became the reasoning for a boycott, but yet again I found no comfort in this being a solution. I was reminded of the end of year work party, "guys, don't you get it, every time we vote we are voting against ourselves", but like the party we would surely end with a tug-of-war.<br /><br />I’d gathered a few friends for lunch on the big day, whereby we’d hoped to reach a decision for the will-we-won’t-we? I’d pitched my optimist friend against a self proclaimed intellect with opposing views, yet the resulting sparks – though entertaining –still had me sat on the fence. The decision tormented me as I tried to openly consider all options. My immediate options were as follows: to vote (pragmatically and based on trusted advice; for I was desperately lacking), to boycott or to spoil the ballot. Each option held a weight that tugged hard against the other, yet the rope seemed to somehow be wrapped around our throats with only the means to breathe being the thing that would give.<br /><br /><strong>THE MEDIA AND THE SAY</strong><br /><p class="tagline">“I think Iran is a relative beacon of light in the region and in some ways refreshingly honest with its democratic process”</p>“So who did you vote for?”, came a microphone to my face, “I don’t know”, I responded, being half true and slightly ambiguous in my words. “So what do you think of the elections so far?”, returned the microphone, “In what respect?”, I questioned, conscious of all the eyes turning in my direction as I spoke in English. “It’s interesting to observe so many people having faith in a strange ideal”, I continued, sticking with the ambiguity. Her questions were also vague as she alluded to how things compared in a global context, “I think Iran is a relative beacon of light in the region and in some ways refreshingly honest with its democratic process”. Her astonished face led me to want to retract my words, “how do you mean?”, she came back at me, “well, the controversial vetting process, I’d say other nations have more subtle means, but nevertheless have some form of vetting; it’s interesting to see that it’s rather straight-up here”. My indifference almost silenced her; it seemed too much to consider that somebody from beyond these borders wasn’t bleeting for democracy. Again she asked what I thought of this local display, yet I didn’t know what to add, “you tell me, you’ve been here longer. How does it feel for you? Do you think this is going well?”, I said in agitation. As I turned the questions around, she turned her microphone around, flicking the off switch underneath and indicating to the cameraman that they were done.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-63693443050606511862008-03-09T00:26:00.004+03:302008-03-09T08:08:19.200+03:30BIG PITCH<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/114.jpg" /></a><br /><p>The director's birthday cake<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"If vee look at dee graph ve can see der eez several picks", continued my colleague in her monotone drone as she readjusted her headscarf with the beginning of each projected PowerPoint slide. I looked on in horror as a graph indicated PICK, PICK, PICK, PICK and a fifth PICK, all of which marking high points with some audience of some form of media; the subject of which was lost on me as the lines reached up only to be capped with an excitingly coloured misspelling. I shriveled back in my chair to hide from the other native English speaking in the room for whom we were presenting to. "PEAK, PEAK, PEAK, PEAK and frinkin' PEAK!", I muttered into my hand, conscious of how this only reflects badly on me.<br /><br />"Using world of mouth", popped up on a later slide for which a further crevice on the chair refused to absorb me as I edged further back. Over 300-slides flashed before us during the 3-hour pitch to a private mobile network provider, a recent comer to the market of which broke the state run monopoly. Me and seven other colleagues arrived to try an achieve what we didn't last year with the previous pitch. "Daveed, I want you to present the creative side of the pitch", announced the company director having just dragged me from the busy studio. Being slightly concerned that the development of the proposed campaign evolved way beyond my understanding (due to my attention being needed elsewhere) I suggested another colleague. "Why me?", I asked, trying to hide the traces of stress in my voice while tapping my pen down on a long list of other projects bullet pointed in my diary. "Prestige", responded the marketing direct to my other side, leading me to draw the pen to the pending new year date circled on the lower end of the diary. The thick circle transformed to a zero before my eyes, for which I imagined being added to the end of my pending salary increase.<br /><br />"What does the slogan exactly translate as again?", I asked the director as he stared on emotionlessly, "is this it?", he responded, "have you started the presentation?". He knew only too well that not only I but the entire department lost the love for the concept – his concept – upon having it forced on us; poo pooing all the others shortlisted. Before the four unimpressed eyes my embarrassment shifted to confusion as I once again questioned exactly who assumed the most senior creative role.<br /><br />Who holds the most senior creative role has been a mystery to me ever since joining the company - at times I've erroneously considered it might be me. Not only has this been illustrated otherwise on many occasions but was literally evident on slide 245 whereby by an incorrect spelling of my name sat below that of a former colleague who no longer works for the company.<br /><br />During the live performance I animated myself as best I could to the shortened version of the creative team's section of the presentation. I tried to gloss over the fact that the concept didn't seem to correspond with how things function with mobile network providers and compensated for this in a fine display of BS, plucked from thin air as it seemed appropriate. The result was a grinning director and none of the glaring gaps pointed out by the prospective client.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">But then pinkie needed to go, leaving me baffled as to why the presentation continued in English</p>One-by-one our team stood before the four bemused Iranian faces and one foreign key player's. It was bizarre to hear my colleagues present their respective department's efforts in English and yet pleasing to hear that more errors existed in the typed word glowing before us. Two of the twelve watched in comfort, but then pinkie needed to go, leaving me baffled as to why the presentation continued in English; was all this for my benefit I thought as I pinched myself. This lasted about 20-slides before we all realised that we were Iranian and thus heated words were exchanged in the resulting power vacuum.<br /><br />Their second in command emerged with peculiar criticisms, maybe to show us that he warrants his role despite his age. None of these made sense to our side of the table as he careered on and above the noise brought about by the open-office, "Salam Mehdi jaan, sedaam miad... Allo, Mehdi... Khoobi?". The resulting laughter wasn't helping number two's platform. "Allo, Mehdi, goosh kon... Mehdi, balah baleh... nah, 'W.W.W, dot, eye arr aye'... Mehdi? Gerefti? 'W.W.W, dot', Mehdi?", continued the hilariously loud voice as I pondered if the network provider in use was also the one we'd come to try and win work from.<br /><br />My director rose to conclude the tiring episode and brought laughter again to the room with his repeated mention of not being served tea as yet, "it's not Ramazan is it?", he remarked, only getting another wry smile from the other side of the table. We were done; laptops closed; notes gathered and hands shaken, we took to the lift and waited for the doors to close before expressing our thoughts on the afternoon. Unlike my colleagues I grumbled on about the absence of warm beverages; questioning what exactly we in Iran are trading these days.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-62958228645132501702008-02-13T19:10:00.006+03:302008-02-14T10:10:42.473+03:30DIPLOMATIC STRUGGLES<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/113.jpg" /></a><br /><p>During this week we saw the 29th anniversary of the revolution, for which I went along once again<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"David...?", she asked, slowing toward the end with the intent of me following up with a surname. "Just David; he'll know who it is", I added before casually turning once again to her husband – the Nicaraguan ambassador to be – "so how long till you open then?", I enquired, nearly diverting his gaze from our female company. We were provided with a vague schedule for which seemed to hinge on the Iranian president's approval; maybe a month he guessed. The reminder prompted a sigh from his wife, who had apparently just exhausted the Hotel's Thai and Italian menus and wasn't enjoying being prisoned by the unfamiliar snow. <br /><br />"I don't suppose there's any tension with America for opening an embassy here in Iran?", I enquired, attempting to sympathise with some blurted rehash of Chomsky's Nicaraguan/World Court pièce de résistance. Since I was in deep, I threw in the name Chavez a couple times before retreating back in wait of a damage assessment. Impact was made regarding the torturous 80s; it also seemed that Chavez was maybe helping things (if only for new flight routes) and lastly, no problems were perceived in developing diplomatic relations with the Nicaraguans. "And what about you girls; have you not got husbands?", he suddenly popped, the ticker was now fully operational, "such beautiful girls; why not?", he tocked as the south American charm offensive could been seen visibly melting Tehran's month old snow.<br /><br />Our loitering around the hotel entrance had run its course and in an effort to spare the girls of the simmering Latin blood (and myself from an inevitable diplomatic slip-up) we concluded our chance meeting. "So I'll be telling the president that David said hello?", remembered the wife, "yes, and wish him luck too", I added as my friends stood confused as to whether they should maintain a straight face.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">"If anyone asks, you're a diplomat from the American Embassy*", I told my Americanised compatriot </p>Coincidentally, that evening I was invited to the leaving do for the Swedish Embassy's Cultural Attaché. Last I heard he was due a promotion, so the preceding hours to what was sure to be a proper knees-up were over-shadowed by a curiosity for what lay behind. "If anyone asks, you're a diplomat from the American Embassy*", I told my Americanised compatriot as we arrived at the uptown apartment, yet my ice-breaker took a tumble: "Oh, you're with the Swiss* Embassy!", a European diplomat later responded, knowingly playing it back at us with a wink.<br /><br />I pointed out a mutual friend's urban art – traditionally framed and scattered among the apartment – as we found the room to dump our coats. Turning the light on revealed that two of the four walls were top-to-bottom with books, "how are they getting back?", I gasped before heading off to correct these mounting questions. "Here's some pistachios", I explained to our departing friend, thrusting forward a box of the most expensive ones I could find, "you can't leave Iran without pistachios; we've just saved you the shopping time".<br /><br />"So what the fuck?", I exclaimed in unison with my compatriot, "why are you leaving us?". As he was explaining, I surveyed the room, making playful assumptions with the mixture of skin tones, accents and hip movements. Among the English speaking; young and old, yet another wall revealed itself to me, leaving me once again gasping; this one was filled with a generous offering of international catalysts, positively dripping with availability.<br /><br />"So how many people work at the Argentinean Embassy?", I asked the coincidentally Iranian looking guy, "two", he responded; "I'm the deputy", he added with mixed frustration and pride. I was distracted as he effortlessly jumped between Persian and English, amused at how his Spanish tongue wrapped around the local dialect better than with English. He went on to inform me of their meager existence, for which seemed to sustain itself out of some stalemate, "there was some incident with a bomb a few years back", he partially explained, before finding a polite moment to exit in the direction of the hubble bubble pipe where he sat for the rest of the night, connected in solitude.<br /><br />"So where are you from", I asked the very English looking chap waiting in turn for the hubble bubble pipe, "Dublin", he responded. My slip-up came, reflexively I asked him which embassy he worked for, and while I failed resolve the capitals of the republic and the north he came back, "what do you think?". I answered wrongly, "these British don't know there geography for shite!", he gasped ! I bowed my head in shame to him and the all the twenty other Republic of Ireland folk that were apparently also in the country someplace. He offered the hubble bubble pipe to me and I offered to wrap it around my neck before slipping off to seek exile among the few compatriots.<br /><br /><em>*There ain't one.<br />**What little diplomatic relations there are is conducted via the Swiss Embassy.</em><br /><br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-9710079742853466702008-02-03T08:06:00.000+03:302008-02-05T16:55:30.480+03:30HAPPY BIRTHDAY<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/112.jpg" /></a><br /><p>The knife dance as performed by Reza The Styx<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you", we sang to a rendition of the Iranian version of the song. I looked on as we also made our way through the Iranian version of events, nearly forgetting that it actually was <em>my</em> birthday and the glowing face we all looked on at was celebrating four days late. "Who's this one from?", shouted the helper as they sat before the recipient; perfume, a fancy shirt and ornamental modernist candles revealed themselves with kisses and hugs returned in kind. Group photos were arranged before the cake was cut and distributed. "Happy birthday", I wished the host as she smiled back with thanks; I restrained from mentioning it was actually mine.<br /><br />Following the relief of finishing my weekly Farsi class I was picked up by a friend, "happy fucking birthday man!", he reminded me before suggesting a plan to fill out the otherwise unplanned afternoon. "Let go find some chicks", he prompted to which a place sprung to mind with embarrassing ease. "Those girls are checking us out", he said under his breath to which I later look to my 3 O'Clock as instructed. Two of them later left the cafe; "that's a sign man", I was informed, to which he also up and left, leaving me to contemplate if being freshly thirty really was too old for this type of thing. Both the girls and my friend returned and the text messaging began. "Dude! she says, 'I like your friend', I'm gonna give your number; tell her it's your birthday". A text message arrived for me; "Happy birthday", I read out to my friend. Reluctantly I played along and called the number as suggested; "they'll meet us outside in a few minutes", I summarised as we settle-up and left. Conscious of the legal and religious obstacles we quickly greet them to rearrange a rendezvous. "We're out celebrating our friend's birthday", says the one who likes me, to which I inform her it's mine on this day too. "Oh no, hers was the other day", she corrects me as we discretely slip off for safety. "OK, it was a pleasure meeting with you", my friend interjects in response to the girls' suggested plan, "we've got a birthday party to go to", he adds, and thus I guess it goes.<br /><br />"Happy birthday Daveed", my friends greeted me as they arrived one-by-one to my house to celebrate the dying moments of my twenties. "It's not my birthday" I remind them, repeating the dying hours of the twenties part, "my birthday is tomorrow", I remind them as I'm handed various paper bags with gifts within.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">Dance away a decade of decadence. Dance dammit, dance</p>'Dance away the dying moments of his twenties. Dance away a decade of decadence. Dance dammit, dance', it was written on the amusing invites made by a friend. I felt slightly safer having these printed and distributed knowing that he'd forgotten to add a time and date for the event.<br /><br />"Daveed, why are you not dancing?", exclaimed a friend, interrupting my playing host. "Can it go louder?", "put on the Iranian music" and "when's the salsa coming on?", they came as I struggled with my make-shift set-up. "When will we do the cake", they came, "when will we do the presents", they came as I jumped between various music genres and failed to pleased.<br /><br />"Who's this one from", shouted my helper as he sat before the me. The eyes glared on as I was worried they would: I'd needed to maintain a consistent level of surprise and gratitude. Books, traditional bowl, books, traditional shirt and more books revealed themselves before I gave my gratitude speech in two languages.<br /><br />"Who's going to do the cake dance", shouted a guest as the traditional beats fired up while I sat before the 'Happy Birthday David' cake. My house mate then pulled off some traditional shuffles with a knife being delicately dangled before me. Tradition has it that I'm to be denied the knife three times as it's danced before me; I got two traditional shuffles before the slicing and distributing began.<br /><br />"Happy birthday", they wished the host as he smiled back with thanks; the host restrained from mentioning it wasn't actually his birthday.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-20787609198613236902008-01-21T00:16:00.003+03:302008-01-23T12:29:38.282+03:30ON ECONOMICS<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/111.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Snow arrived covering my out-of-town neighbourhood. The development to the left are the ongoing, still unfinished Mayor's offices<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"What is it; house prices double every five or so years?", I put it, plucking a guestimate from nowhere in particular, "no, not at all", my friend's father – a property developer – corrected me. I expected him to maybe add another year, but it was quite the opposite; "no, house prices double every two and a half years". With my jaw still hanging some place below my neck I listened to him explain of how land prices increase at such a rate that development is given up on, leaving the major cities filled with concrete skeletons gridding the skyline.<br /><br />My five year guestimate was certain to be off if only I'd remembered a family member purchasing a small spot of land in the north of Iran that long ago, at what would be $5000, and it currently being valued at nearly $400,000. This land, like the neglected patches around the major cities, has simply been left untouched; and why not; why have the headache and expense when you are earning while sitting still.<br /><br />Not too recently I decided to look for a place to rent that would be closer to the office and the Tehran night-life. Initially I had problems with wanting to cohabit with a male friend; two young lads rang alarm bells with landlords. The next problem was having to front a refundable deposit of roughly ten months rent in advance, of which not I nor my friend had saving to hand. And it's this situation that baffles me daily: inflation is at such a rate that the money in my hands, or even the bank (if I was to use one here - which I don't) is currently depreciating at such a rate that it's frustrating if not futile saving for those big ticket items. <br /><br />An odd, yet equally unfeasible alternative for us could have been to give a large sum of money to a landlord upfront. With this, our deposit of roughly $30,000 within a one year period would have adjusted (through inflation and bank interest) so much that upon getting this exact figure back from the landlord our rent would have materialised. If that same landlord were to invest it in land in the north of Iran then my five year residency could have gotten them a $2.5m asset to play with.<br /><br />My friend and I gave up on the house hunt and continued living in the out-of-town apartment gifted by my family. The monthly rental amounts we were looking at never ventured below the national minimum wage (per month), meaning that to rent in what is wider-central Tehran, one must be of a healthy threshold. Although I met this threshold comfortably it didn't justify the exchange in commuting and would have paradoxically decreased the means to enjoy the Tehran night-life.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss</p>With these big ticket items I am often castigated by my grandmother for not looking to invest in a house or being a, "real adult", and getting a car – apparently the money I drain away in coffee shops will bring this to reality. As she keeps pointing out, I do get a relatively healthy income putting me in the top 0.5% of earners here, yet when I thinking about saving money (which is made easier by my not currently paying rent), I can't help but wonder if I'd be wasting my time; that I'd be better off spending it fast. By that I mean that my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss.<br /><br />If I was to use a bank, I could accumulate the money there at what I think is around 18% APR, but this would probably still not keep up with the cost-of-being-alive and certainly not with the current climate in the property market. With this move I might then also be able to ask the bank for a loan, which I hear would be hard to arrange and not likely to be enough to get a footing. As for a full mortgage; they are pretty much unheard of here in Iran.<br /><br />I was quoted in an Indian economics journal recently about this inability to keep up, yet was cut off without qualifiers such as joining the capitalist tramplings, using banks or using my family. The tramplings I think about a lot, by which I could buy and sell land - yet at the cost of any moral sensibility. The banks give me the same unease and the family is an altogether different unease. It's hard to avoid getting drawn in though; the longer I don't join in the tramplings the harder it will be for me - but I can't help but feel I would become part of the wider problem if I do.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">everybody has two jobs - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference between being alive and living</p>For those slow or unable to indulge the tramplings there's always the blood loss. There is a funny comment I often hear in Iran; that everybody has two jobs, and that they work harder on the second - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference, the difference between being alive and living. It is increasingly more common to hear talk of all the above while sat in taxis around Tehran; the government bear the brunt of the frustration for which harsh words get shouted back at the car radios. Often I hear both inside and outside of the country that the president, Ahmadinejad is responsible for all the developing financial issues; I couldn't say either way, but I rather think he's an easy target and people maybe neglect external pressures and the country full-on embrace of neo-liberalism among other incidental matters.<br /><br />The Iranian new year is coming and with it the usual price adjusting period where within a single week one can observe a national inflation hike. My healthy wage should increase also during this period but I figure it will only keep up with the post new year adjusted inflation, meaning that as the year creeps forward I'll lose more blood for my Rial and I'll still not consider buying a house or even a car. You'll more likely find me regularly draining it away in coffee shops, attempting to at least appreciate its value while discussing how bad this could all turn out.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-41455341938196647362008-01-06T23:58:00.000+03:302008-01-07T00:19:31.234+03:30IN MUMBAI<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/109.jpg" /></a><br /><p>A sculpture in the Prince of Wales Museum, Mumbai.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"So where abouts in England are you from", asked the gentleman propped at the bar, "Oh I'm not from England my friend, I'm from Iran", I semi proudly responded, cautious to not seem too snooty as I glanced around at the various leathery northern England sorts that out numbered me. I got a similar response then as with all the other times I was asked while away, which was a slight pause in anticipation of a punch line.<br /><br />I think the slight sense of cultural elevation carried over from stepping into Bombay's attempt of an international airport and seemed to continue throughout my trip. I can clearly remember the smell of Tehran as I first stepped out of the airport nearly 5-years ago and I'm sure the smell of Mumbai will remain just as long. India was to be a recorded for me by smells and it begun there as a waft of warm moist air literally hit me, filling me with memories of my hometown as I sensed the sea being nearby. If I found freedom from the Islamic Republic is was in air quality – I could breath in the literal sense – which was odd as most Indians I met complained about Mumbai's pollution for which could be seen lining the sky so thinly as we landed. I kept tasting the air as we made our way to the terminal at which the smell blended to a slightly soggy, chlorinated whiff, much like that of a water park.<br /><br />I was in Mumbai for two days where I met my sister who'd been in India for nearly month already. My visit was to coincide her birthday, Christmas and meeting with my mother and a brother from England. My two days in Mumbai were to be followed by four in India's former Portuguese ruled Goa - now very much a tourist spot recognised as much by many Iranians before I left.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">There was no consistency in anything I thought as rich and poor shared every square metre that could be found</p>During the lengthy journey from the airport to the hotel my sister filled me in on her adventures with many a surprising story of her lone travels. I was lost between following this and nine months of catching up as I tried to absorb the scenes from our tin can of a taxi in which the driver repeatedly sat on the horn or shouted some form of abuse when not. There was no consistency in anything I thought as rich and poor shared every square metre that could be found. Animals would do the same as dogs or cows lay rested where they would least be hit. Billboards tried to keep the standard up with their flashy graphics and English slogans but directly below would be families housed in corrugated metal sheet shacks with men idling, women cooking and children playing in the dust. Our journey ended as we reached a part of town that closely resembled Europe with its Gothic sculpted exteriors presumably gifts of the colonial past.<br /><br />Those two days continue with much of the same as my sister and I chopped it up between rejected the barrage of harassment, "hello, come take at look at these", and the, "sir, can I help you - buy this!". It was a peculiar environment where I would remain baffled by how English was spoken everywhere, even with natives among one another. Think accented nationals would wonder the museums informing their children of the exhibits in English while I would accidentally respond to people in Farsi through confusion of a second language.<br /><br />Continued <a href="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/2008/01/in-goa.php">IN GOA</a>...<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-13851055648431108852008-01-06T23:36:00.000+03:302008-01-07T00:06:24.912+03:30IN GOA<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/110.jpg" /></a><br /><p>My brother standing in the Indian Ocean.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"All the usual, the people in Iran that you don't know have once again asked me to say hello", I redundantly informed them as much of the nine months of catching up got repeated as we took an equally long journey from Goa's airport to our seaside villa we hired in a lively part of town. My mother and brother had timed the flight with ours and their ensuing stories would compete with my tales of Iran and my sister's of India. The journey through Goa to the villa was illustrated with palm trees and narrow terracotta soiled roads would occasionally be blocked by heavy traffic and the occasional elephant being rather a different scene scene from Mumbai, lush and tricky.<br /><br />As the family rested from their long journey I took to the moonlit sea shore and followed the far off sound of life pulsing in the distant. I followed the louder sounds, struggling with the soft sand as music from the passing beach huts blended into one another, "you want a drink sir?", they asked one by one and even on one occasion; "yes, yes my friend, you want some ecstasy". I reached the thick of it where nationals were leaping around to their fusion beats before I decided to head back. While returning I found that most of the huts had closed for the evening with tourists wrapped up asleep on the brollied sunbeds. I'd reached an open space and aroused a pack of dogs where the bark of one triggered many more as they set after me. I carried on slowly, not looking back, nor making a move to arouse them further, "OK doggies, I'm leaving", I nervously said as I felt every centimetre of distance between us. Just as they let off, fireworks exploded close by, setting the dogs off once again. With the increasing darkness I'd gotten lost, over stepping my noted marker, Jack's Shack, "Is it raining out there", asked my brother when I did eventually arrive back; I looked in the mirror to which I was dripping with, no doubt, nervous sweat.<br /><br />In daylight things were very different, the sunbeds still had occupants but they were far from wrapped up. I did as one is suppose to do and tucked into a book and lay still for a few hours only breaking for the occasional swim in the warm water as the sun set upon the ocean. Sadegh Hadayat's Blind Owl described his mother's Indian background as beach traders interrupted offering massages, trinkets, nuts and even Christmas carols.<br /><br />We took to a popular night club in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere to celebrate both my sister's birthday and the coming of Christmas. The local preference of trance music intoxicated the punters beyond the free bar where the staff juggled bottles if only to compete with the flame swallowers on the lower level. I made up for the nine months, intoxicating myself enough to not be conscious of my mother shuffling to the beat and then her chatting with the twitching guy that was coincidentally from our home town.<br /><br /><br /><p class="tagline">"you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold</p>Christmas happened, or so I was told. The following day we set of to the market for some harsh haggling. I thought I'd gotten the knack for it until I got treble-teamed by three young female traders, "you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold. With each piece of crap I bought to fend them off they would pass that item to the next dragging me to their nearby stall. They were curious as the Iranian money they caught glimpse of; I explained who the picture on it was of – "how much is it worth?" they asked, to which my answer led them to reject it even as a gift.<br /><br />I caught up with the family later and sat in a large beach hut where my sister was found in the linked internet cafe downloading her excel 'finance' spreadsheets, updating it then uploading it again. My mother had joined her there; checking on the Boxing Day football results as I sat with my brother observing the drop-outs skinning up as the sun came down. With the smell of weed, joss sticks, spilled beer on the tables and varying international dishes passing before us, both my brother and I turned to one another and agreed that we really didn't fit in. It was interesting sitting there observing what nice weather, nice scenes and relative currency strength brings. Among the culture of intoxication that has become associated with Goa I sat there breathing it all in; we were all breathing a freedom of sorts, and although mine may have been comparably modest, it was just as intoxicating.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-68895975281011360322007-11-27T08:21:00.000+03:302007-11-28T10:08:34.894+03:30FOUND HEART<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/108.jpg" /></a><br /><p>In position for the shoot.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Close your eyes Daveed, look up Daveed, press your lips together Daveed, look down Daveed", the makeup artist requested as she poked and prodded various devices at my face, "what's your eye discrepancy? Me too, can I wear your glasses; I forgot mine?". What a strange job for Iran I thought to myself as the face staring back at me gradually resembled my favourite character in the Wizard of Oz, "you must be one of few in this trade in Iran, I mean, you must be spending more time making-down than up", I curiously asked. She responded with an anecdote of a film she worked on in which a scene was scraped as the chicken on the table looked "too erotic".<br /><br />Another cigarette break saw her on the chair complaining of back pain; something about a car being lifted when she was eleven. I looked around the room with a sense of awkwardness, two of the audience were wheelchair bound, one of which had just minutes before stared at my hand as I went to shake it; unable to move much below the neck. A young observer kicked a bin across – it slid just in place for the falling ash – before he continued his swaying back an forth between the various helpful moments. I noticed his odd shape, like his arms were firmly crossed with every maneuver; it looked oddly arrogant. It was only when the phone rang and I saw him chin the receiver to his shoulder that it came to me – the guy has no arms; cripes, I thought as I imagined my daily routine without arms. A coincidence I thought; my face was caked in makeup for which I could not touch no matter how much it itched – what does he do when he has an itch, needs to piss, change clothes and what breaks his fall. "Can I take a photo of you?", he asked as I saw him with a mobile wedged between his big-toe and next-toe. And so my photo was taken as he balanced on one leg and somehow pressed the correct button from the other. "Look; not bad!", he joyfully stated, having rotated the handset to show me the results.<br /><br />A few days prior to these scenes I'd nonchalantly agreed to partake in a photoshoot on behalf of a local client. Oblivious to what was planned, I'd turned up obscenely early for work to then join colleagues on bus journey to the south of Tehran to a place known as Kahrizak (derived from the name of the charity), a place better described as a large megaplex, housing 1700 variably challenged Iranians and 700 rotating staff. We'd been requested to provide an advertising campaign that didn't focus on getting donations of money – for apparently this was in plentiful supply – but rather on asking people to give there time and love.<br /><br />Having been made-up, we made our way round to the theatre in a golf buggy wearing the label, 'donated by LCS, London England'. As the manageress dodged the wheelchairs being pushed around by the slightly more able, I was amused at how it was I that was being stared at; I heard echos of my mother, "David, don't stare!", yet it was I that was the odd one out with a silver face and a Star Trek tunic.<br /><br />"Look into her eyes; you know, this is the woman you long for", enthusiastically requested the shoot director as we arranged ourself on stage, "yes, reach your hand out to her", he added as I jokingly brought out the thespian in me. If only he knew the existing office gossip about me and the colleague that he asked me to connect eyes with for an uncomfortably long period, "yes, that's it, you want her!".<br /><br />"Excuse me, can you put my leg back on the rest?", asked the man whose hand I couldn't shake, "oh, and can you readjust the newspaper in my hands?", he added between the director's shuffling of the wheelchairs back and forth. What the photographer didn't capture, the toes of the no-armed guy did as we moved to a new arrangement, "now you're angry; point at her; shout at her!", I was instructed, "yeah, you screwed up on that Renault account!", I shouted as she turned to ignore me – just as instructed.<br /><br />We were buggied to the MS centre for which everybody felt the need to remind me, "this is the MS centre", with a deliberate pause following. This section of the shoot didn't involve me so I took great amusement in walking around and being stared at, like some visiting clown. I joined my fellow protagonist and another female colleague in what they referred to as 'head hitting' – a euphemism for paying visits I assume. "Hello, we're here doing a photoshoot...", explained my colleague as she entered each room. I would wait outside initially; we were in the women's section, "we have a man with us, is it a problem if he comes in?", she would ask on each occasion.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">With each room I was surprised at their surprise – ah yes, I look like the Tin Man I had to remind myself</p>With each room I was surprised at their surprise – ah yes, I look like the Tin Man I had to remind myself. The first two girls perked up for the occasion with one reciting cheeky poetry as she lay before us, each word struggled to pass her lips as her eyes spun like fruit machine wheels. The next room was not as severe and the one after held a delightful sense of humour – how they transformed as we entered – TVs were immediately switched off and smiles bridged the little skits they performed for us.<br /><br />The last 'head we hit' had a performer who battled with severe convulsions, "you turn the TV off, let me put the music on", she asked as she shook the stereo into giving us the pop, yet slightly traditional sounds of Pourya. Upright on the bed, she shimmied back and forth not missing a single word with each song. We joined in, cautious to not alert the staff, "don't tell them", she whispered, "it can be our secret". The Tin Man had been oiled-up and pulled out a few moves to the first, second, third and forth song. Our performing resident was playing Pourya, pointing at me – the subject I guess – with each reference, "I can't live without you", she nodded to me with a wink.<br /><br />"Shall we go after this one", I asked my colleagues in English, "what?", asked the girl. I lied in response, "I was saying, c'mon, let dance!". I was convinced that we'd repeat the album again and my colleague seemed to not have the heart to break the performance – one of us had to be brave.<br /><br />Our reason for being there, at Kahrizak, became clear to me at that moment as a difficult goodbye was made. "In one month!", protested the girl as we told her we'd come again. "You know Daveed, she's the same age as me", my colleague added as we walked away, but she was courageous; not dropping a tear over her stage makeup. And me, I guess I found my heart; I guess I'll go back.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-7582392868386906722007-11-02T23:47:00.000+03:302007-11-02T23:57:47.376+03:30COSMOPOLITAN TEHRAN<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/107.jpg" /></a><br /><p>This shot was not taken in California.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Ahh man! That dumb ass Bush!", piped up on of the more lubricated girls, dropping her conversation in favour of the table talk going on behind. She leaned in with one hand supporting her swaying body and the other waving around with a barrage of insults. This spectacle caught my attention beyond the spillings of an oddly pretty thing; she'd effortlessly adopted an American twang with the English she'd brought to the table and amazingly gifted those sat around with a similar ability. I was distracted from the conversation with the gentleman to my left; the English being spoken was of native quality, yet in all the time I'd sat there this convenient ability had not been displayed. I turned back to my left and made some comment about this gentleman also hiding such ability, "yeah, I grew up in Orange County, California", he responded, later adding, "hey man, you're Persian's not too bad considering how long you've been here".<br /><br />I guess this begun with an interview that never happened. A fellow dual national friend of mine invited me to contribute to a piece for Al Jazeera News; simply to give an Iranian perspective on their news service. I'd arrived late, for which I was to be the last to comment. "Yeah, Al Jazeera, that's the one on channel 6 yeah?", I responded to the off-air question, "no it's on satellite only", they came back at me, leaving me confused as to what that Arabic news channel on 6 was all about. "Oh, well I don't have satellite and the TV is only on for football", I added, embarrassingly bringing a conclusion to interviews.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">Iran is a sanctuary of sorts; to enjoy an elevated status maybe; to bum around and sponge from the parents</p>Following this non-event we gathered at my friend's office to which I found myself surrounded by dual nationals of the American kind, "ah, another refugee", I teased with each as they stated the volume of time spent here and there. We shared our reasons for being in Iran – when given the choice not to be – and found that the was a lot of overlap; we were all 20-somethings, educated in the west, curious with regards to heritage, with much family still in Iran and non-plussed about which borders surround us. I get the impression that there is also a hidden story with each person, it seems that Iran is a sanctuary of sorts; a place to escape to; to enjoy an elevated status maybe; to bum around and sponge from the parents, as is common with many Iranians at that social level and age.<br /><br />For a few weeks now I've been meeting these new found friends, for which our mutual associations have expanded to a community of sorts, bringing me a very different feeling towards living in Iran. Its been great to share the oddities that only we see, the jokes that only we could know and the advice that only relates to us. I'm reminded of my father's expat friends in my hometown and all those moments where he fast finds an affinity with those other first generations whom found themselves on British soil for whatever reason. Yet in my case the affinity is drawn through language and a similarity in culture more than nationality for I've found far less British dual nationals.<br /><br />As I sat at that table in the uptown penthouse apartment and listened to the crowd of perfectly bilingual guests I was surprised at how un-Iranian everything seemed. The football that was silently playing in the background on the television had switched to still of the supreme leader's face for which I was amused by the juxtapose as I scanned across the room. The moment came as oddly settling as I felt I'd found a liberating scene; for a moment I was distanced from the concept of borders and reveled in the cosmopolitan atmosphere I'd stumbled upon, both then and since.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-88799584391385937192007-10-22T23:03:00.000+03:302007-10-28T18:14:11.251+03:30BLOCKING BLOGGING<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/106.jpg" /></a><br /><p>A recent expedition to update my passport - it must be 5-years ago that I first came to visit as an adult.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"That was something I wanted to ask you...", interjected the more European sounding of the two as a microphone crossed my face and the direction of the eyes came my way. A perfectly intellectual sounding and possibly interesting question was being formed but they might as well have asked in any other European language as I wasn't able to absorb it. The mic fell before me, "are you still not wanting to say anything David?", asked the main interviewee, to which the mention of my name seemed to not help, "don't worry, keep it rolling", I replied and with complete disregard to the question, I spilled out the pent-up counterpoints to my friend's prior commentary.<br /><br />"I wanted to come back on a point my dear friend was making", I begun, noticing the nearby table of customers re-show interest as a new mouth fired-up. "I often get contacted by the western media showing an interest in the Iranian blogging scene and I wonder if they kind of project a romanticism in it", I added, repeating a point made in my initial contact with our international guests. "I'm not really qualified to answer in any case as I don't read blogs in Persian; because of my level of competence, and there's very little else that interests me that is written in English", I somewhat embarrassingly revealed. I returned to another point I'd mentioned in my prior correspondence, "I think it is too simple to think that politics is affected by the politically orientated; such thinking neglects to appreciate a more subtle and possibly more powerful undercurrent".<br /><br />I spoke of the sweeping fad that is Yahoo 360; a social networking site that took over from the blocked Orkut; currently evading blocking by virtue of the inability to form groups, as my friend later pointed out. I'm not a subscriber to this fad but often hear it spoken about and frequently find a fellow colleague at work obsessing over correspondence or tweaking new photos of himself. I also spoke of Flickr, which is blocked here, but has a simple way around it. With Flickr, I mentioned a point that has always interested me so much with this site, this is the unifying subject matter or photography. With this cover, all manner of activity is catered for without arousing suspicion; in the case of the Iranians, this can be making new inter-gender relationships as well as delving into politics. I referred to the Flickr community, which strike me as a relatively unified, yet wholly charming bunch of people, and made a point that such active use of these sites help substitute restriction in both the culture and laws.<br /><br />With such situations whereby some news organisation or another expresses an interest in the romantically suppressed Iran, I normally get turned off; if only by feeling that I'm expected to confirm western perspectives. Similarly, I watched a series of NBC reports from Iran the other day, whereby it was suggested that Iran, "has a long way to go", referring to the segregation on the innercity buses*, they explained this half-truth further, "women – by law – have to sit at the back". Well yes, but men by law have to sit in the front, and they failed to mention that the metro is unisex with even a special section for women only. With these western goggle firmly wrapped around their heads I get frustrated in meeting the requests, and not to mention paranoid for my personal safety, for which I've adapted various automatic responses.<br /><br />As we arrived at the agreed coffee shop location for the interview I realised that I'd once again forgotten to get and give descriptions of how we looked. "Excuse me, are you...", we unsuccessfully asked as several foreign looking possibilities sat around. For the occasion I had invited several similarly situated friends, yet sneakily I'd not informed either party of the eventuality. With this, the plan was to deflect my input, increase the quality of results and maybe to have safety in numbers if all turned out to be not as it seemed. Upon meeting the journalists, no evidence was provided to prove their associations and a few interesting details were given that seemed odd for them to have not mentioned before; all of which not helping ease my mind. Thankfully though, common ground was a plenty and although certain points roused me as they unsuspectingly (I hope) triggered sensitive points, I managed to settle.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">With a slight lapse in security, the whole of the regime would surely be gone – I was sitting in a dream American target</p>Both my friend and I, between us, seemed to provide an interesting juxtapose of points during the recording, to which much of my friend's words were new to me. He mentioned a declining interest in politically motivated blogging for Iranians, as the results and threats do not weigh up. It was suggested that the fate of the nation seems beyond control between elections and thus a certain futility is felt in such writing; certainly as friends of his have been punished for such activity. Among his incite he presented a fascinating volume of technical facts concerning internet activity in Iran that had both me and our international guests wide-eyed with interest.<br /><br />My friend concluded on an amusing point, "we know the president is how he is, why write and complain when it's beyond you to do much about it; it's stating the obvious, like saying that Donald Duck is a cartoon duck; that he's a character by Disney and he can talk – you know, nothing changes". And with this summary the romanticism was surely dispelled as we all laughed an awkward laugh.<br /><em>*Only on the innercity buses - intercity buses are mixed.</em><br /><br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-20138930454557881642007-10-14T08:13:00.000+03:302007-10-20T22:53:21.880+03:30THE REGIME<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/105.jpg" /></a><br /><p>My special ticket to the said event.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Hizbollah, Hizbollah, death to America, death to America, death to Israel!", the attendees repeated again, in response the sporadic outbursts coming from the back. I took a look around to check out if I was in the minority in not repeating these chants; I was. I turned back and glanced across the varied crowd, made up mostly of representatives from many national institutions, and noted with some surprise that many were smirking as they played along. This moment brought memories of the days I mimed out hymns at school assembly not helped by the fact that we were all sat crossed legged on the floor listening as verses from the Quo'ran echoing throughout the room.<br /><br />"Daveed, what are you doing tomorrow?", my uncle phoned and asked, curious as to how I planned to spend the national holiday marking the end of Ramazan. "Do you want to come and see the Spiritual Leader?", he asked, finally getting round to a long spoken about moment. "Of course!", I responded without hesitation, "but what do I need to wear?", I went on, confused as to whether we are celebrating or not; because at times it's difficult to tell here. "Wear Basiji stuff", he said partly in jest, referring to the type of clothing worn by the moral police, by which he simply means an open-collar white shirt, ill-fitting trousers, sandals and overgrowth in facial hair.<br /><br />I sat twiddling with my finest tasbi (praying beads that is), besides my uncle whom I kept close for translation purposes as the sporadic chanting continued while we awaited the Spiritual Leader. Gradually the room filled up, for which I took great amusement in watching varying ranks arrive in order of reverse-importance. Army, navy, air force and police personal took seats bringing increasingly decorative uniforms and commanding a larger fuss on entry.<br /><br />Some socks crossed my face and an apology followed and with little sign of shame, a Basiji looking chap had practically sat on my uncle's lap. "Are you going to stay there?", I ask this man, "If you'll allow me", he responded, "you're sitting on my uncle", I reminded him, "yes, I'm sorry", he politely added. Maybe I was out of line but I thought I'd see it through, "don't apologise to me, it's his legs you are sitting on", I exclaimed, arousing the attention of those around us. He came back at me calmly, "when the leader arrives everyone will rush forward and everyone will be on everybody else's legs". My uncle gave me a blink, that indicated that I should leave it, after which this guy sought new legs to sit on.<br /><br />Somebody shouted something, a name maybe, to which the entire room raced to their feet. I didn't think, I just joined them to which the next few seconds seemed to arrive in slow motion. "Khaamenei, the leader!", came the chants as scores of men raced in front of me, followed by us being pushed forward as the crowd condensed. I tip-toed to look ahead and saw the Spiritual Leader snap out from behind the curtains, to my utter surprised there followed Ahmadinejad, the president, appearing from his left, and then Rafsanjani, the former president, appearing from his right. I was astonished at this fan of cards that was put before me, a full-house for sure.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">With a slight lapse in security, the whole of the regime would surely be gone – I was sitting in a dream American target!</p>I scanned the room; the head of the parliament, the head of the judiciary, the nuclear negotiator guy, two former presidents, the most senior ranking members of the institutions, and these were just the faces I knew of. With a slight lapse in security, the whole of the regime would surely be gone I thought to myself in horror - conscious that I'm sitting in a dream American target. <br /><br />The resulting mosh-pit calmed as the stars took their seats on the stage; we joined them, and arranged ourselves on each other's laps as the Basiji guy had previously mentioned. The president took to the microphone first, for which I understood pretty much nothing of what he had said. I got the impression that he was reading poetry but it's always so difficult for me to understand Iranians when they use the formal 'book' language. There then followed the stern tone of the Spiritual Leader, of whom I understood a fair amount more; although I found myself rather distracted by his prosthetic arm, that I'd heard so much about, yet never seen. I was mesmerised by its ability and its strange strained look when in the open position. This appendage turned in time with his other hand as he accentuated his agitation; being very critical of American ambitions and very supported of the Hizbollah cause citing concerns for the Palestinian people, yet mostly he referred to the region developing though indigenous desires.<br /><br />Although there were roars of supportive cheers, there was no encore as the stage emptied. This moment seemed to have been as snappy as the entrance with large volumes of the attendees rushing off to try and get backstage. I joined them; not entirely with reason but rather with curiosity, yet all I had seemed to do is get in the way of the top brass as they wished each other well on this celebratory day.<br /><br />I rather enjoyed the fact that I may have been surrounded by some of Iran's most influential names and not have been aware of it. In fact, this became a bit of a game to me; guessing the value of these cards as they shuffled themselves around at the end. Yet in this moment I was reminded; this is the only way in which I am a player among them.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-43694814448321934382007-10-05T19:49:00.000+03:302007-10-14T12:47:27.297+03:30OUR PRESIDENT<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/104.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Scenes from Palastine, edited between scenes of demonstrations in Tehran in support of the Palastinians.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Oh my f...", yelped a friend having just switched over from a Manchester United game to an interview with our president by a CBS reporter. The ensuing gasps and the shrieks were more appropriately related to the football and certainly the excited leaping from the chairs and fruitless flicking of Vs. "What the... shut up, just shut... you liar!", came the reactions to what was an all together different match. Such emotive responses surrounded me with every touch of the ball by our president, but I couldn't see the fowl play they repeatedly protested about. Yeah, there were dives and excessive rolls, but it's part of the game, and in this game and that room, it appeared I was rooting for the underdog.<br /><br />I'm an odd supporter of the home team, going so far as to carrying a photographed keyring of our star player. Yet, how I'm scorned at for this, regardless of how far my tongue is wedged in my cheek. I get a similar responses when pushed to vocalise my thoughts; it's not that I'm fashionably backing the outsider, but more that, at times I hold a view that the games can have as much relevance as an actual football tournament.<br /><br />"This is a terrible translation", both my friends simultaneously remarked as I strained to keep up with the pace; the only errors I noticed being the additional, "Mr. President", and other courteous terms padding the translated questions for the home team. I was enthralled; lost between needing clarification from my friends and not wanting to interrupt. This match was perversely important however; a long running tournament seems to be reaching its final stages, with a great many heated fans hungry for a slip-up; an excuse to vent anger and transcend the event; offering their own interpretation of a red card, regardless of a referee's decision.<br /><br />For me, these vigilantes who seemingly shroud themselves in their own comfortable understanding of events, have at best, historical amnesia and certainly a gross immunity to self-awareness. This became prevalent with the media circus surrounding a recent visit by our president to the, "Lion's Den", which could be marked as the away-game to the previous week's interview.<br /><br />"The Evil Has Landed", we read in the morning papers as the cogs of the corporate media shifted a gear. Various tactics had been considered by the home team; or even stolen, with 11/9 victims once again not left to rest in peace. Predictably, the media performed its tacit role of 'amplifier' well, with the volume turned down for this and also for the main reason of the visit: the fact that our president was a guest to the United Nations. Where the volume was increased however, was with our president also being a guest at Columbia University. Here he was made equally as welcome, being introduced as a, "petty dictator". Such flattery! And I'm serious.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">no amount of witty uppercase-play can invite the situation whereby he will hover his finger over a phantom red-button</p>Such flattery that can only exist with tiring ignorance of our system, and this man's role; this democratically elected man I should add. He is arguably less influential than his international equivalents – simply a face, some stock-words and a nice beard, but one should be careful not to over-estimate him. One should know that he does not preside over the military, unlike the much loved former shah who was not democratically elected, did preside over the military and was not shy in using it against his own people (with a blind eye from the west). So one should be aware that no amount of witty uppercase-play ("AhMADinejad") can invite the situation whereby he will hover his finger over a phantom red-button.<br /><br />The madness could be attributed to the provocative words on the holocaust; clumsy at best, but broaching this taboo in its current way of, "let's allow more research", invites an interesting response. These little pokes at western hypocrisy seem to be chipping away at the roots of a regional issue and – depending on who does your indoctrination – it resonates in great volume, yet in different ways. I might be so bold at this point and suggest that the surrounding rhetoric is awkwardly refreshing; so rare to hear a representative at such a level to stand up against the status quo and even represent his people. Today, for example, is an international day of recognition for the plight of the Palestinians, with a national televised demonstration running through most cities – yes, it reminds me of when in Britain we had national days of recognition for the struggle against the Apartheid. Remember? I put it to you, this guy is not mad; he is a mirror, one that is highly susceptible to smearing.<br /><br />I heard that the airport flooded with admirers upon the return of our man, with crowds no doubt thankful for his safe return. I couldn't help but also feel thankful for this, as it was with each day that I gritted my teeth and begged that he not slip-up. But how silly of me; this has been proven to not be necessary; the age-old "wiped-off the map" – dusty rhetoric for the Islamic Republic – had recently gotten a fresh mistranslation and amplified by the corporate cohorts.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">It is exactly that which we in-turn fear, the cyclical repetition of, "bringing democracy to the middle east", as this for us is like being wiped-off the map</p>But when these words are not being hideously mistranslated, they are not all that outrageous; in fact, much the opposite in my mind and no doubt the minds of a great many others in the region. I should add, I'm under no illusion that these words are said with as much sincerity as, "bringing democracy to the middle east", but they resonate with the same effect to a different audience. Yet, it is exactly that which we in-turn fear, the cyclical repetition of, "bringing democracy to the middle east", as this for us is like being wiped-off the map.<br /><br />The tournament is racing to its final stages, and with this, my greatest fear is of the resulting hooligans; for you [my readers] are the one who allows the transcending of the game. Be cautious, your anger or fear might be measured by your ignorance. So I feel we should be vigilant, so as not be seduced for want of our vigilante behavior, for it does us no credit and we far from benefit. I might then end by provocatively suggesting that, if you want democracy, respect it, and respect ours.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-34455040736337003762007-09-24T14:22:00.000+03:302007-09-26T13:11:37.334+03:30FLICKR GATHRING<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/1104058380/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/103.jpg" /></a><br /><p>My panoramic effort of the group shot - click above to see the full effect.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"My name is <a href="http://www.tocrossthestyx.com/">Reza</a>; ID; '<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thestyx/">The Styx</a>', S.T.Y.X.", spelled out my friend before the camera made its way round the ring people to me, "my name is <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi">Daveed</a>; ID; D.D.M.M.Y.Y.Y.Y", I added in confusion; wondering if I'd numbered my 'Y's correctly. "You forgot the forward slashes", reminded a fellow member before as we moved on to other members; "...full-stop, colon, 'Saha', colon, full-stop", and then, "...'Thirsty Fish', greater-than sign, equals sign, smaller-than sign, greater-than sign".<br /><br />This tedious introduction was as difficult to relay above as it was to sit through. It was a getting-to-know-you moment for the now regular Flickr photographer's gathering, which in this case, was hosted in a lush public garden in up-town Tehran. I'd first joined Flickr to help extend beyond my words – or vice-versa – just before coming to Iran and was a short time after that that the Iranian Flickr community saw its first <a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/iranmeet/">gathering</a>. I received an invite to that occasion and politely declined. It was a simple decision for me; the site is forbidden in Iran and in those tender early days, where I'd yet to settle my behaviour and understand the boundaries, it seemed perverse that I should expose myself. Several gatherings on from this, Flickr hosts – in just <a href=" http://www.flickr.com/groups/iranian/">one case</a> – a group of over 1000 Iranian (related) users with over 22,000 photographs of which around 30 of those Tehran users joined me for my first experience.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">we were friends; in the virtual sense, I'd been commenting on their work for maybe over a year and now there they were before me; with their wife, child and a grinning face</p>For <a href=" http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/sets/72157601407846386/">this</a> occasion I was only nervous at the thought of greeting the many new faces, and thankfully not for being carted off by a tipped-off police squad. It only occurred to me upon my first introduction that the game of replacing names with IDs was going to make things a little trickier. "I'm Daveed – 'D.D.M.M.Y.Y.Y.Y'", I repeated, struggling to mouth out this damn alias; this would be followed with a fellow member mouthing out various character combinations in return. It was funny, we were friends; in the virtual sense, I'd been commenting on their work for maybe over a year and now there they were before me; with their wife, child and a grinning face.<br /><br />Americans can only try and have such a smiling group of friendly faces; it was unreal, we were 'virtually' family. We darted around, photographing the garden, photographing each other photographing the garden; some of us photographing the photographers of the photographers. "Go stand over there", one would ask, "sit on in this area", put another as digital clicks and analogue snaps sounded around me. And then there came the traditional <a href=" http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/1104058380/">group shot</a>.<br /><br />I'd seen many group shots arriving in the Iranian groups, with numbers increasing, associations growing, and now, it was my turn to be another face in the crowd. The <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25124491@N00/1429320773/">nested</a> photographic situation arrived with this moment too, as we arranged ourselves into the photographers and the photographers of the photographers etc. I did both before sitting and smiling; both at making this moment and in the knowledge of being able to follow the follow-on tradition of being able to add a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/hamed/1083010927/"> note around my face</a> when the photos were later posted: "Me! It was great meeting you all; I look forward to the next".<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-73448249379681052862007-09-18T11:14:00.001+03:302007-09-18T11:26:41.346+03:30YOUR MOTHER<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/102.jpg" /></a><br /><p>The month of Ramazan is upon us - good luck to all those observing it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Don't worry about it; buy something for your mother", I suggested as I slipped the money back over to her side of the table. I cannot recall a having experienced a silence quite like the one that followed, not for a while at least. In curiosity as to why everybody had stopped talking, I looked up; two of the horrified faces staring at me opted to snigger into their hands, everybody else's gapping mug waited until after they'd given me a look of disgust before they looked at one another in disbelief. "Daveed!", exclaimed another, under her breath, as I started to grasp how what I'd said might have sounded. The very small English one-penny-piece had then dropped as I read the face of another colleague, "you idiot!", it said, almost reveling in my slip up.<br /><br />Having survived the episode, I later consulted my informant colleague for clarity, "you are suggesting that her mum is in need of charity!", she laughed, displaying a face not unlike those at the lunch table. "But I followed this by clarifying; saying that I meant she should buy something like flowers", I fruitlessly protested, "I was trying to be complimentary while deflecting the subject - you know, 'if you won't take, and I won't take it, then let somebody else have it', for example – In this case her mother". I had indicated as much during lunch, but I fear it looked like too much backtracking; certainly too little, too late.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">I should have paid more attention to my father's advice, "never mention or ask after wives or sisters – or generally any female relative"</p>I should have presented the deflection in English – the usual language I talk with this particular colleague – at least I would have limited the damage. Yet, simply, I should have said nothing and paid more attention to my father's advice, "never mention or ask after wives or sisters – or generally any female relative", he's warned me after having escape previous such moments.<br /><br />"So, how's the wife?", I've occasionally asked, having exhausted most other pleasantries. My expectation is to hear, "she's fine; switched jobs; better hours you know; she's happy, yeah", but I rather feel that this question is like asking about a man's locked-away possession or asking, "have you still got that lawnmower?", a questions that implies a follow up, "can I borrow it this weekend, I've a lawn that needs a good seeing to".<br /><br />My father had helpfully explained; that this comes across like I'm asking with intention: what exactly do I want to do with her? Maybe the mention of flowers then, didn't make things any better. Like with similar such 'protection' over women in this country, I find it projects an inadequacy. The whole awkward episode certainly presented an inadequacy on my part.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-51214320478419114262007-09-17T15:09:00.000+03:302007-09-18T11:57:34.395+03:30BRIGHTON SCENE<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/101.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Borbonesa: ZAPART respond!.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>WARNING: This entry is about as factual as most American media reports regarding Iran.<br /><br />An open letter to High Art Today<br /><br />Sirs: I'm writing concerning my observations of the so called Brighton scene.<br /><br />The Brighton scene is simply that; aside from the obvious film analogy; of which I shall return, there is a feeling one derives while cutting through the poky streets; where one can witness a near disharmonious biosphere of recent histories. This – I should add – is a biosphere only in respects of a time-space relationship. One can't help but notice the ignorant coexistence of [film] stills ranging back to the city's proud Victorian past; they are almost evenly distributed; these extras, decked-out by the charitable wardrobe departments. Lacking gainful employment (chosen or not); and at an increasing rate, they loiter; shamelessly available for such roles. <br /><br />I came to notice that they present an artistic importance also like that of an extra; essential in atmosphere only. I might like to suggest that in the absence of any filming there is a consciousness to be active; maybe a fear of foundation. So, in this spiritless age; an ageless age, they draw from the anarchic remnants to form an annual memorial known as the Fringe Festival.<br /><br />A recent tour of mine concerning a collection of essays entitled, "Rotting Briton", had me sat in turn; waiting before an audience during this self-concicious theatre. The event in itself may warrant a separate letter, in that this was the only leg of the tour that I was unable to speak. But, one is quiet careful to describe those series of events, and wishes not to indulge it further for fear of continuing this scene as others could have intended. Yet with brevity I shall elaborate.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">she visible struggled with them; screeching, "no, this isn't it... guys - no, get them off. My hair?!" – surely the only time a Brighton extra played a part</p>A veritable network of nepotistic neverbes - patiently waiting for their turn to be looked at - preceded my slot. A young lady of [London's] Royal College merit, filled time with mildly interesting perspective on neglected transient environments, to which proceeded with the conscious ignoring of the fart-cushion heckling (only arousing a glimpse over the spectacles at best). Getting only ten or so minutes into this, some previous speakers; Punch Judy and a policeman (not my embellishing metaphor) sought to evacuate her, later citing her and the event as, "artistically criminal". The spectacle gained the canned laughter it had no doubt intended (based upon the associates joint amusement) as she visible struggled with them; screeching, "no, this isn't it... guys - no, get them off. My hair?!" – surely the only time a Brighton extra played a part. With Punch and Judy either side the policeman began reading from a series of, "Artistic Bylaws", with proposals of, "zapping" – this, that and the other. Due to the alphabetic order of things and the limited time, my slot was, "zapped", maybe also intentionally. The event organizer then followed this scene; entering the stage with a self-congratulating smile; joking that he must be the crocodile – the silly sausage. Not wishing to continue my part, I chose a moment to exit this self indulgent trash; I'm tire of such self-congratulatory in-jokes.<br /><br />These specific Brightonian extras were the end of it, like Brighton's deepest available retrogrades, borrowing from the core of it and presenting it with a snobbish delicacy. They wear the weathered Victorian landscape with painful detail, presiding a silent authority on all things artistic. Propelled by a nostalgia for white supremacy, they expand in a passive aggressive manner as one's floral frock trumps another's panama hat. Romantic reassurance is found as one enjoys varying side-events like tea parties and picnics. Yet maybe this supremacy is haunting them through their high-ceilinged seaside-maisonette; that the consumed blood of our empirical fore-fathers is weeping with further need from the walls of their kitchens.<br /><br />I conclude that the, so called, Brighton scene is simply that; well bred children, caged in the trolley of our rotting commercial times; causing a public commotion – not by screaming for escape, but rather, presenting a shameless desire for the old and unimproved Battenberg.<br /><br />Curiously yours, [ddmmyyyy]<br /><br />RELATED TO<br /><em><strong>Saturday 15 September 2007, 6-9pm</strong><br /><a href="http://www.borbonesa.co.uk">Borbonesa</a> is a much-loved Brighton-based publisher of overly-wrought novelty printed matter. ZAPART is a brand new critical action group. To celebrate the release of Borbonesa's new Micropaper - Emitron 4, ZAPART have prepared a response. Both the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/permanentbookshop/">paper and response</a> will be <a href="http://www.permanentbookshop.com">unveiled</a> on Saturday 15 September 2007, 6-9pm. Entry is free.</em><br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-32334373434899961442007-09-10T08:33:00.000+03:302007-09-10T11:55:07.466+03:30PUBLIC AMUSMENT<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/100.jpg" /></a><br /><p>This guy doesn't hide well in society.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"So which is better: here or there?", asked the barber, predictably, as he skirted his large everything around the chair while sculpting at a painfully slow pace. "Well it depends...", launched my friend as I sat waiting behind him, having been fussed over myself just moments before. My glazed stare at the passing weekend-traffic outside gained focus as my friend had plucked some plausible response out of the hat. He was interrupted, "so where abouts in England did you live?", I knew how my friend was going to respond, and froze hoping he wouldn't; I mimed the answer in horror as he said it; "Brighton...". I had to check I was there; I could see my reflection; I could see my friend's face in the reflection, but in it my friend failed to register my rigid eyes aiming him up in disapproval.<br /><br />I've recently extended a charitable hand to a dear friend; offering him the spare room in my flat for an indefinite period. In this deal, however, I had not offered him aspects of my life to merge with his for public amusement. Aside from that, this new living arrangement struggles to be mutually beneficial, as I am reminded once again of communal living; it's great for the company, but such arrangements bring tedious clashes. For a change I am the tidier party, and with patience I put food back in the fridge, turn lights off in rooms (not being used) and take cups and plates continuously back to the kitchen, where I find meals continuously in some state of being prepared or eaten. My method for confronting this difference has so far been to knock on the doors of the empty room with lights on, and say, "hello? hell-lo-o?", then turning to my friend, "Who's in this room?", I ask; this usually brings a laugh and apology. Gradually he's getting it, and gradually the phantom tenants are disapearing.<br /><br />The incident at the barbers was part of an outing of exploration, to discover the other end of the neighbourhood. It proved a success, with the discovery of an excellent bakery, a well stocked corner-shop and a dry cleaners.<br /><br />Back at the barbers:<br /><br /><p class="tagline">one such case being the repeated situation whereby English written menus are automatically given to my friend, and the Farsi version to me</p>As our newly-found neighbourhood barber pranced around, I sat listening to my friend's (and my) semi-fictional life being unveiled. His mostly-correct answer about British life had me itching to jump in; to clear minor errors or elaborate. I didn't though; like the barber, I was absorbed, yet was struggling to track back when I might have said the words he was regurgitated. On reflection, maybe I was being a tad uptight about this; what does it matter to the barber that the minimum hourly wage is not 4-pounds (this one can't have come from me).<br /><br />I guess I'm not in a position to complain though, I too occasionally adopt alternative presentations of myself for passing strangers, mostly to avoid the many personal questions brought about when my accent reveals me. In fact, this is something we both do together, mostly due us attracting attention as we jump between languages. Embarrassingly we are beginning to firm-up on these roles we play; becoming characters in the repetition. Amusingly though, words are not needed; we are recognised without them; one such case being the repeated situation whereby English written menus are automatically given to my friend, and the Farsi version to me. This - it should be added - is more likely due to him being 6'.4", blond and dressed like a marine - and now, sporting a kooky hair cut; he's not exactly inconspicuous.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-87879263672365862612007-09-04T08:39:00.000+03:302007-09-04T09:02:06.015+03:30GETTING SCREWED<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/99.jpg" /></a><br /><p>The writing's on the wall.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"And she's got hair like yours", my auntie gleamed before I halted her, "she's loosing hair like me?" – I bark with intent. She held a smirk; gave me a moment to let me know she's serious, "no, it's short - she's the mirror image of you!", she continued, gesturing a body shape that wasn't too offensive. I'm glad one of us was exited; the sales pitch was dire, "oh, and she speaks French", interesting I thought, "but not English and more importantly she's not Turk", I added as flattery for her. My ensuing silence measured my discomfort in having been called up on my bluff, "great, arrange it for the weekend and tell me where and when". <br /><br />In a rare moment of inter-office flirting I laid a few pointed questions before one of the secretaries; I got interrupted before a conclusion and figured another opportunity is sure to arrive. Four days passed before I was to be given the chance again. It could have happened in the even rarer moment, with her coming to the floor I work on. I noticed a lot of fuss, a lot of pink, a lot of makeup and something passed around before the procession left. I jumped as a tap came upon my shoulder; taking my earphones out I was greeted with, "have you heard?". Drops of bitchiness were gathering into a pool of jealousy, festering with "did you see the way she was dress? - slutty?". I got the story; without being told. Iranian living abroad*; wants semi-packaged bride; in town for a week; engaged that night; married the day after; discovery day followed, I presume; back to work the day after; "do anything nice this weekend?".<br /><br /><p class="tagline">"That's very nice Daveed", she responded with a warm smile as I caught my reflection in the frame, "if you had of asked me Wednesday I'd be your wife now"</p>"So, if I'd have asked her on the Wednesday, I could be a married man now?", I rhetorically put it to my informant. "Daveed was saying that if he'd have asked you on Wednesday..." – farting would have made me feel more comfortable at that point. I stood holding a framed picture of what looked like the secretary in embrace with her now husband, "crumbs, look at how she's dressed", I thought. "That's very nice Daveed", she responded with a warm smile as I caught my reflection in the frame, "if you had of asked me Wednesday I'd be your wife now", she smoothly added; I gave a cocktail-party laugh; dragging it out as I struggled for appropriate questions. "He's gone back", she responded, "I'll join him when the paperwork goes through, in maybe eight month's time". "Oh me? Errr, I just hang out with my family this weekend", I responded as I passed the frame back to her.<br /><br />I've still had no news from my auntie regarding the suggested khastegari** but have been increasingly hearing the question arrive, "have you found a wife yet?". Maybe again it's my hair; as it creeps back it exposes a look of loneliness. My mind collapses at the thought of taking these people seriously; I'm not sure I'm capable of such levels of certainty and don't care for such consistency. I'm assured that Khastegaris are rigorous and calculative, but it still seems so arbitrary; such a shocking gamble; maybe even inhumane depending on one's philosophical persuasion.<br /><br /> I've been here for almost exactly two years now and the weekend gone was the closest I've gotten to the much spoken about event. My family know the likely result and have – so I've recently learned – turned down many invites due to this. "Having my auntie pick me a future wife", I asserted to my friend upon being asked about the planned weekend, "is like asking her to choose software for my Mac: I'm sure she return with something I might work with, but there'll certainly be fundamental compatibility issues".<br /><br /><em>*Abroad, or, "Khaarej", as we say; simply meaning 'foreign'. The word has a certain ring about it – all things superior are Khaarej; escape is khaarej.<br />**"Khaastegari", is a proposal ceremony of sorts; an arranged event whereby potential coupling takes place. If I ever go on one I'll explain what is involved.</em><br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-69276647181260175752007-08-26T23:30:00.000+03:302007-08-27T00:28:30.994+03:30GRANDER CHANDELIERS<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/98.jpg" /></a><br /><p>My grandmother's kitchen wall.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Y'Allah! ... Y'Allah!?", I enquire in a deep mock-Arabic tone while stood looking at my toes as they skirt the door frame. "Y'Allah!? ... can I come in?", I ask, "yes, yes, come in Daveed", replies my auntie as she hops out from the pokey wash-room connected to the kitchen and tightens the headscarf she'd just had to grab. "How are you? How are things? Where have you been these last days?", she asks as she makes her way to the fridge to prepare me a diluted fruit-juice with ice. "Salam Daveed, how are you?", greets my grandmother as she comes in the door behind, "salam grandmother, how are you?", I ask her in Turk, mustering my finest mimic of her tonguey-tone. As I sit to my diluted fruit-juice I observe the questions as they branch off in there usual fashion, to which I unavoidably answer my way through them.<br /><br />As the summer goes on I've been playing host; to some degree, with the various relatives arriving from abroad. Among these, I've just recently had the pleasure of my young brother's company; and, I should reluctantly add, that of his mother's. Sadly, too much of this precious time has been consumed with bickering: "he's got; she's got; we've got", and the gatherings; few though they have been, have been preoccupied with slagging matches. In an effort to avoid premature heart-attacks and give my father a break from the petty demands, I've tried to keep the conversations to contrived anecdotes.<br /><br />"Take a look around grandmother's house; go in each room", I joked while sat to varying summer fruits and tea with the step-mother, father and my brother. "Look at each clock: the kitchen, 30-minutes fast; the hallway, 10-minutes slow; the front room, 1-hour behind; the guest room, stuck on 5". "They live in varying time zones", I point out, "but it goes beyond the clocks: they eat dinner any time around 11pm to 1am; lunch maybe 4pm and breakfast not too long before that". I then explain further, "If I stay there, I struggle to sleep while they* chat, argue or watch TV till 3am; and then during the night my grandmother scuffles past me; checking I'm comfortable; adjusting doors; putting blankets on me; fiddling with mosquito deterrents". We chuckle in recognition, "then, just before the traffic begins outside; say 5am, 'Daveed, are you not late? Daveed, are you not late for work?' - 'it's the weekend', I remind her - voy!".<br /><br /><p class="tagline">The place has not changed in 30-years; same fridge, cooker, tables, chair, curtains, gas lamps, and the same damn clocks", and then I remember, "new seat covers though; 30-year old design however"</p>While relaying the alternative time observations of my family I realised that it's not just hours that are distorted there. "Just recently they bought new rugs; a change of colour, yet I went back the next day and they'd changed them again: new versions of the old ones". It was coming to me, "take a handful of mod-cons out and the place has not changed in 30-years; same fridge, cooker, tables, chair, curtains, gas lamps, and the same damn clocks", and then I remember, "new seat covers though; 30-year old design however". I wasn't complaining, nor suggesting unnecessary changes, it was just interesting: a conscious lack of change.<br /><br />The off-spring and in-laws battle for grander chandeliers, I've seen them; they kiss when greeting, but their eyes calculate curtain prices as they go left; right; left. Maybe they even calculate bulb quantities; I have; my uncle and aunty's "museum" – as another uncle coined it – has 48 bulbs in the front room alone! Their clock is stuck on 6.15 though - it's a change I guess.<br /><br /><em>*My grandmother lives in a 3-story apartment owned by her but cohabits (between floors) with her youngest son and his family who pretty much look after her in her senior years.</em><br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-64391727156424009192007-08-20T00:02:00.000+03:302007-08-26T10:07:20.238+03:30BAH BAH<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/97.jpg" /></a><br /><p>My grandmother sorting out the meat.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Bah! Bah! Bah!", right cheek; left cheek; right cheek, followed by a hug. "Bah! Bah! Baaaaah!", right; left; right; another hug and a pat on the back. "Bah! BAAAAH!", right; left; right; centre; centre; centre. So many men and so much kissing; a ring of them, bursting from the exit of Tehran's undersized airport. I joined in, "Bah! Bah! Bah! Dear uncle, welcome back", I warmly greeted him; cautious of him going central. With the embraces done, our visitor stood circled; trapped by the airport crowd and ringed by gleaming faces. Again it came; round two: "Bah! Bah!", in an emotive, pirouette finale.<br /><br />Before the airport exodus I'd dashed round to grandmother's to bum a lift with another uncle; "your eyes are bright", I exclaimed to my grandmother, stating a common phrase for such occasions - "<em>your</em> eyes are bright", she reply with an amused smile. She was sat at the dining table, labeling numerous lumps of meat spread across it, "Are you coming with us?", I asked; more out of politeness, as I already knew the answer, "no... I'm an old woman", she sought to remind me, as she incrementally slapped squares of paper on the fleshy mounds. "So you sacrificed a sheep for the occasion?", I added; stating the obvious, as I waited for the eventual, "Shall we go?", from my uncle who was now ready. "Your eyes are bright", I answered, "<em>your</em> eyes are bright", he responded with an amused smile.<br /><br />Around a year and a half ago my uncle returned to America from Iran, concluding his lengthy stint back here. This was a sad occasion for me, especially considering I'd freshly arrived to live here. I gravitated towards him more than my other three uncles, simply because my weakness in Farsi, and his strength in English; yet there was more. Like me, he'd matured in a Western environment – mostly – and thus he became an important bridge for me to unite cultures. Of course, my father also performs this role, yet the objectivity, and dare I say; increased intellect, was a valuable thing to me. It was interesting for me to see that our common ground had increased, as my uncle – bless him – battled jet-lag and fatigue while we caught-up into the early hours of that first night.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">Three sheep, I thought to myself; I was out of the country for 25 years, and the only thing killed for me was my curiosity</p>The following day I was privy to a second round of greetings; joining my uncle on a visit to Karaj. We arrived at the entrance of the family business where a crowd had gathered in anticipation; eager faces lowered to get a glimpse in the car as we rolled in. Among the crowd were some special guests; two sheep being held between labourer's legs – I think I tutted: can we not just buy icecreams? Three sheep, I thought to myself; I was out of the country for 25-years, and the only thing killed for me was my curiosity.<br /><br />Another kiss ring ensued as hoofs flapped around in the background, "come and see, come and see!", my young brother yelped; taking our younger cousins by the hand. They met with a pool of blood coming just as fast in their direction, before decided to go do something else. As the kisses turned to questions, melon and tea arrived; blood was washed away and skin turned inside out - my eyes were still bright.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-63678814106137928952007-08-05T23:45:00.000+03:302007-08-06T10:11:04.860+03:30ON TAXIS<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/96.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Sometimes the views can be good from inside the taxi.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"...And then we pulled away, only to stop a few metres ahead whereby another person had gotten in with us!", I often retell, as if a great punch line is about to be dropped, "in horror I turn to my Dad who's nonchalantly looking at nothing in particular – 'Dad, what's going on, why did they get in our taxi?', I whisper...", and so goes another anecdote of my first Iranian experiences. My sister came to Iran for some of the same, and in my efforts to prepare her for the Iranian oddities I'd deliberately left off the shared taxi part. I'd looked forward to seeing her face with this moment, like a child in wait of some lame prank – I'd set my bucket above the door and now I just needed to wait for her to open it. She did open the door and without a flinch she sat beside another person and just like my father she glanced straight ahead – why didn't the bucket fall!? She later informed me that she'd traveled to Bolivia where share taxis are also usual practice – damn my ignorance.<br /><br />Shared taxis are now too much of a feature in my daily life yet I still amuse myself when thinking of the tacit rules, the variables and the knack one needs to utilise this national nightmare of a transport system. I thought I'd take it upon myself to add another entry for a possible guide thingy, I've done <a href="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/2007/05/iranian-money.php">money</a> and now here is one on taxis.<br /><br /><strong>GETTING SEEN</strong><br />Being anywhere near a road invites the sound of a car horn as taxi drivers anticipate customers, the more lost you look and the less you move the more the horn will sound. This will continue with car after car until you get in or get away. A single toot will announce the taxis' presence followed by a toot-toot - "where you going?". Then there's the 'approach' as the driver aims for your legs to pull to the side. This can take a few forms – eye contact is made as both parties lean in, the driver won't commit to a stop unless you are going on his route yet the distance and noise leaves a small period where one's lips pucker for a location name. "Straight ahead", I yelp, shuffling my feet back, yet I'll often get the Iranian 'tut' – a slow lift of the head – "where the fuck else is he going", is normally what I mumble to myself as the I gear up for another approach. Occasionally hand gestures can aid the approach but one must know the layout and assume the driver does too. A circular stirring index finger gets you to the next roundabout, four fingers gets you the next cross roads and three gets you the next intersection and I imagine two or one get you run over. Mostly I give the point and wag - 'straight ahead' – but this more often than not needs a stated location.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">basically they don't sit in the middle-back, unless there is another female beside or the knight is defending a bishop and the king might slip into check. Ok, basically, if the piece is black do what you can to not touch it</p><strong>GETTING IN</strong><br />Once the driver gives you a lowered head – "yes" – you must then prepare for a little seating rearrangement, this can take two forms. Firstly there is the location rearrangement whereby by passengers will get out, thus putting you deeper to the left – assuming you get the back three seats – this of course means they will alight sooner. This is a 50/50 may-or-may-not happen scenario whereby other variables will effect the decision: mostly ease-of-arrival-shuffle or predicted ease-of-departure-shuffle, mostly to traffic. The front seat is also subject to seating rearrangement whereby passengers will naturally free the space in the rear when possible – yet not always. The second rearrangement come with the positioning of females – a minority passenger but respected one. If possible women sit beside women and if not, by a door or in front, basically they don't sit in the middle-back, unless there is another female beside or the knight is defending a bishop and the king might slip into check. Ok, basically, if the piece is black do what you can to not touch it.<br /><br /><strong>GETTING SCREWED</strong><br />At this point if you don't know your route then you've made a mistake – know your route and it's corresponding price, or, ask in advance! You will be safe in numbers or on short runs but if you are alone and not certain then don't be surprised if you get into an argument as you pay upon arrival. It should be noted that you are hugely advantaged in an argument if you have smaller denominations of money and also profess to only have on you the money that you think is fair for the journey. As a rule, keep smaller denominations, it does everyone a favor - I once had amounted four unopened packets of chewing gum in my pocket (bought quicker than I can chew) to get change in anticipation of taxi troubles. Now I think about it there was a series of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prisoner's_dilemma">experiments</a> regarding this Iran taxi payment dilemma. OK, ultimately you can walk off without paying but if you've given a large denominator and are sitting waiting for change then your loosing and if you've exited the car to wait for it – you've lost.<br /><br /><strong>GETTING OUT</strong><br />A series of computations will be needed for alighting. One must simultaneously judge the speed of the moving taxi, foresee the traffic and times one things by another, divide something else, do a square route thing and then calmly say, "may your hands not be tired", to which you will get, "are you getting out?", from the driver. If you get the computations correct you will stop just where you wanted, which would normally involve cutting up a few cars before a possible reverse seat rearrangement. Excuse mes and thank yous are said and then as you walk away, wait for it – toot, toot toot.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-21700141744634151922007-07-30T10:30:00.000+03:302007-07-31T17:11:30.835+03:30TEHRAN HOLES<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/95.jpg" /></a><br /><p>A Tehran hole.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Iran is not blessed with the best of capitals", I read from the book my Turkish tourist friend had left before me as he dashed off to the toilet, "concrete, cars, traffic, pollution, bits of road and pavement absent", this was the Lonely Planet's comedy endorsement – read travel guide – of a place I now call home. I read on fixated, maybe a survival guide would better describe it as warning after warning explaining the uniquely bizarre and unsafe environment organically inflicted on the nation. I was in open laughter a pages kept referring back to the cars drivers and roads, "Tehran's taxi drivers are exceptionally good drivers", they reassured us as anecdote after anecdote found its way on the page. I can't say I've read many Lonely Planet guides but I'm sure they all aren't consumed with stark warnings and frustrating tales.<br /><br />I have gradually become numb to these oddities yet occasionally a fresh pair of eyes arrive to remind me of this daily chaos. "There was a hole in the path – just path and then a great big hole, no warning...", they tell me as I am brought to tears of laughter. I laugh because I've said the same and because the person I told laughed at me for finding it strange. There is more, they too have pages of anecdotes as a whole spectrum of absurdity folds me over in laughter. I laugh at them, at myself, at the Iranian people, what is this place Tehran, a clash of 15,000,000 ideas simultaneously manifesting themselves in some attempt of a capital.<br /><br />I recently wrote of my lack of enthusiasm for returning back here but I fear I failed to qualify my analogy. I believe I wasn't naive in coming to live here in Iran, having visited the place a couple of times before I was aware that the culture can be abrasive and that it would likely toughen me, bringing calluses to my soft English manner. I embraced this as character building, but hard skinned is not how I would describe myself. I've learned to rival cuntish behavior with cuntish behavior but I might more correctly describe this as being sore skinned: I am sensitive to the trampling and clamor to not be kicked down. I'm gradually learning to be a city arsehole and now leave the house armed and trigger happy.<br /><br />There are two things new to me here, city life and Tehran city life. I have lived for 3-years a piece in probably England's smallest cities, other than that I'm of the small town, and a dainty one at that. London could have made me that city arsehole or cunt if you please, but Tehran's 15,000,000... I look to nature for analogies, ant hills? Far too organised and clearly all inhabitants are of the same species - they do walk all over one another though.<br /><br /><p class="tagline">It's tiring – holes and arsholes, all 15,000,000 of us. I'm not part of the solution and gradually becoming part of the problem</p>I might single out just one daily moment, one I've not numbed to and have still yet to learn how to snap at. It happened once again today just minutes before I began writing. I was being served in my local corner shop, actually in verbal intercourse when some cunt walks in shouting, "razor blades, give me three razor blades!". I don't think he'd even entered the door when his demand was placed but he'd managed to barge in front of me as the shop keeper respected the law of the jungle, serving him first. I didn't respond like the other times today, yesterday, everyday as I was not sure which person's throat I should take those razor blades to.<br /><br />It's tiring – holes and arsholes, all 15,000,000 of us. I'm not part of the solution and gradually becoming part of the problem, this might not be character building but rather character destroying. And what was it <a href="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/2007/07/coming-going.php">I was saying</a> about holding my breath?<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-4470819527361737042007-07-28T00:58:00.000+03:302007-07-28T01:04:46.587+03:30NT STAYIN<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/94.jpg" /></a><br /><p>More posters regarding the Islamic dress code.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"David is ur english friend who wanted 2marry an iranian still available? Are u watching channel 3? Mother fucker bastards [other words edited out] is sayin any girl dressin against our 'islamic stndrds' deserves 2b raped. I am nt stayin here 1more day. Whatever d price...". I wrote something back to this, philosophical it was – I kinda believed it too – it seemed to help calm things, at least until two days later when we were discussing this again over coffee.<br /><br />It felt wrong that two men sat plucking from history the development of nations to justify those broadcasted words. We aired our supposed views, one girl was steaming and the other not even listening, "I'm not staying another minute!", shrilled one as the other tapped messages on their mobile. I joined my male friend in forgiving the bad mouthed child, "they are adjusting, in a difficult position, it takes time", and I kinda believed it too.<br /><br /><br /><p class="tagline">Our development must be aboriginal, my counterpart pointed out, for we are not insignificant and this is our problem.</p>"Iran is fresh to the industrial world, fresh to these concepts that have matured over a slow period among 'western' nations", I respond, "the Shah's time was a blip, a facade of the west, I'm not sure it suited the Iranian people and culture, not en-mass, such unequal development can crack the society and did". "Foisting these ways upon a nation without the background, the infrastructure or the understanding might cause more problems than solve", I suggested, ignoring counter arguments arriving with my every word. I went with it, consistently seeing this perspective out, "without these things we might be leaping into subservience (again?), facing west, behaving western yet never being western – by that I mean being in control of our destiny". Our development must be aboriginal, my counterpart pointed out, for we are not insignificant and this is our problem.<br /><br />"Western seduction is easily succumbed to, frequently so and why not?", I pointed out, referring to chronic brain drain of which our female friend wanted to contribute, "thus development is distressingly slowed". My counterpart reminded us that relative to the region things are not all that bad, I agreed, I champion Iran, would choose it over many other neighboring places – the other oligarchs – subservient or not – don't appear half as indigenous. But I threw it out there, "Iran is stalling", I suggested, "waiting for the inevitable new world order, where it will comfortably face east and allow itself (and be allowed!) a suitable renaissance", and I kinda believe it too.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196339.post-60067404736495927192007-07-18T00:02:00.000+03:302007-07-18T00:12:04.968+03:30COMING GOING<div class="article-img"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal for further photos regarding this entry"><img src="http://www.ddmmyyyy.org/i/93.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Me, before.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyaghoobi/" title="Visit my Flickr photo journal"><span class="style1"> flick<span class="style2">r</span></span> </a> View my photo journal</p><br /> </div>"Did you do the back?", I asked as I lifted my hand from below the plastic bib to check for myself, "yes, it's just like that guy now", the hairdresser mocked, referring a passport photo I'd stood next to the mirror, one taken roughly a year ago, just after the last haircut. "Did I wear glasses in the last photo?", I then asked, referring to the 'before' picture I'd took before he began – I wanted consistency for the 'after' picture you see – "yes, with glasses", came an unamused response, almost like he'd expected me to ask.<br /><br />Among all the events over the last year (marked with the unruly curls that were now scattered and sharing the floor) the local cheap-chops had had a price hike, what was the equivalent of 30p for your standard short-back-and-sides was now 40p! Another change that could've been found somewhere amid the arches of the curls would be my ability to grumble about this and be understood, which I didn't do, but I felt it illustrated an important difference made during the time between cuts, one maybe worth the extra 10p.<br /><br />My recent visit to England was expected to be a little disappointing, I knew I'd have to condense too much of what was familiar and missed into a series of partly overlapping events. I'd expected an amount of adjustment in the plans and tried as best as I could to plan around the inevitable alterations. On the whole I'd successfully managed to spread myself thinly across as larger group loved ones as possible, I'd drawn up plans, listed must-dos and pretty much got there – it was all so unfulfilling though and didn't set a good mood for a return to Iran. Coming/going back, however, was not so easy, but it wasn't just the leaving all the renewed familiarity behind.<br /><br /><br /><p class="tagline">yet I'm too aware that I can only hold my breath for so long before needing to be in an atmosphere where I can breath once again</p>I've often found it an appropriate analogy to describe being in Iran as being underwater – it's like I've decided to dive down to the murky unknown seabed, curious as to what I'll find, curious as to whether it's like they say, yet I'm too aware that I can only hold my breath for so long before needing to be in an atmosphere where I can breath once again. This underwater analogy is often extended and ever more fitting, but I think it helps illustrate where my recent psychological retraction from Iranian life has come from.<br /><br />When those curls were beginning their first curve so much of Iran was unfamiliar to me, I mostly received the place predigested, presented in English with helpful 3D renderings. Coming/going back last year was easy, the murky seabed still had so much to be discovered, this time around it's different, it's not that I've haven't discovered interesting things, more that the novelty has been lost. I have also now reached a standard whereby I can digest this place first hand, where I have an independence, where I'm able to communicate and where I can grumble about a 10p increase at the local cheap-chops. Yet the price hikes feature low as it is with each day that I discover another thing to grumble about and yet another thing to make me want to resurface.<br /><br />ddmmyyyyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11453892605140843595noreply@blogger.com