Read Online The Ministry of Guidance Invites You to Not Stay: An American Family in Iran by Hooman Majd - Free Book Online
Authors: Hooman Majd
Tags: General, Social Science, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Political Science, International Relations
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anything to do with something as backward and potentially dangerous as yogurt made locally by who knows whom.
We hadn’t been in Tehran long before I was reminded that children in Iran, boys and girls equally, are considered precious, conspicuously so. Too precious at times, it seems to me: mothers refer to their sons as doodool talah —golden penis—which has only resulted in millions of Iranian men the world over truly believing that their manhood is gold, to be treasured by every woman they meet and even those they don’t. My own rather Westernized parents never took expressions of filial affection to that extreme, so I never imagined quite how Iranian society treats children until I had one of my own and walked the streets of Tehran with him.
In our first few days on Safi Alishah, we had ruled out using our stroller in the neighborhood: not only was it rather cumbersome and heavy to maneuver on the tapering or nonexistent sidewalks of downtown Tehran—never mind getting across the joobs , the narrow canals that line Tehran streets and that once used to channel water from the mountains north of the city to residents in the flats and beyond—but it would be impossible to go into even a deli with the damn thing, given that entrances to stores were barely negotiable by single adults. No, children too small to walk are carried by Iranians, and strollers are an extremely expensive proposition in Iran anyway, purchased and used only by upscale Persians farther north in the city. Although we were proud, like all new parents, of our son’s percentile ranking in weight and height, it ruled out actually carrying him even a few blocks, so the BabyBjörn sling became Khash’s mode of transport for a short while. We didn’t know, of course, that baby slings don’t exist in Iran, or that even if they did, no self-respecting man would strap his son to his chest rather than just carry him, like a real man.
The looks I received from women, but mostly men, were disapproving to say the least. Unlike Westerners, Iranians are entirelycomfortable expressing their thoughts on children and child care to complete strangers. I caught on fast that walking down the street with a baby against my chest seemed unmanly to passersby, but there was apparently another concern on the minds of some. “Don’t carry your son like that!” one elderly man admonished me. “He’ll get a hernia.” Huh? My quizzical look encouraged him to explain. “His legs are spread too far apart, and you’re bouncing him up and down.”
“Thanks,” I replied, walking away. “He’ll be all right.” Like staring, which is also perfectly normal and acceptable among Iranians, nosiness, or foozooli , is a Persian trait one simply has to adjust to if one lives in Iran. And other complete strangers, if not worried about our son’s well-being, felt free to marvel, quite sincerely, at his beauty, or to comment on how fortunate we were to have been bestowed this gift from god, some expressing their undying love for him and even begging for a kiss or a hug.
Iranians’ solicitude toward children and their well-being is annoying and touching at the same time, but it doesn’t extend to two particular circumstances: while driving in traffic and in crowded situations, such as in the bazaar, where people jostle one another trying to move forward, backward, and into the merchants’ stalls. Karri refused to return to the Tehran Grand Bazaar after our visit the first week to buy some washcloths and to look for manteaus for her: she walked with both hands protecting Khash from the elbows and shoves of shoppers, and in the Friday Bazaar, Tehran’s main flea and antique market, which I ordinarily like but which Karri also refused to ever set foot in again, she faced not only rude and aggressive behavior, despite the baby strapped to her, but the admonitions of a young woman who chased us down an aisle in the searing heat and repeatedly told us, in English, that the
We hadn’t been in Tehran long before I was reminded that children in Iran, boys and girls equally, are considered precious, conspicuously so. Too precious at times, it seems to me: mothers refer to their sons as doodool talah —golden penis—which has only resulted in millions of Iranian men the world over truly believing that their manhood is gold, to be treasured by every woman they meet and even those they don’t. My own rather Westernized parents never took expressions of filial affection to that extreme, so I never imagined quite how Iranian society treats children until I had one of my own and walked the streets of Tehran with him.
In our first few days on Safi Alishah, we had ruled out using our stroller in the neighborhood: not only was it rather cumbersome and heavy to maneuver on the tapering or nonexistent sidewalks of downtown Tehran—never mind getting across the joobs , the narrow canals that line Tehran streets and that once used to channel water from the mountains north of the city to residents in the flats and beyond—but it would be impossible to go into even a deli with the damn thing, given that entrances to stores were barely negotiable by single adults. No, children too small to walk are carried by Iranians, and strollers are an extremely expensive proposition in Iran anyway, purchased and used only by upscale Persians farther north in the city. Although we were proud, like all new parents, of our son’s percentile ranking in weight and height, it ruled out actually carrying him even a few blocks, so the BabyBjörn sling became Khash’s mode of transport for a short while. We didn’t know, of course, that baby slings don’t exist in Iran, or that even if they did, no self-respecting man would strap his son to his chest rather than just carry him, like a real man.
The looks I received from women, but mostly men, were disapproving to say the least. Unlike Westerners, Iranians are entirelycomfortable expressing their thoughts on children and child care to complete strangers. I caught on fast that walking down the street with a baby against my chest seemed unmanly to passersby, but there was apparently another concern on the minds of some. “Don’t carry your son like that!” one elderly man admonished me. “He’ll get a hernia.” Huh? My quizzical look encouraged him to explain. “His legs are spread too far apart, and you’re bouncing him up and down.”
“Thanks,” I replied, walking away. “He’ll be all right.” Like staring, which is also perfectly normal and acceptable among Iranians, nosiness, or foozooli , is a Persian trait one simply has to adjust to if one lives in Iran. And other complete strangers, if not worried about our son’s well-being, felt free to marvel, quite sincerely, at his beauty, or to comment on how fortunate we were to have been bestowed this gift from god, some expressing their undying love for him and even begging for a kiss or a hug.
Iranians’ solicitude toward children and their well-being is annoying and touching at the same time, but it doesn’t extend to two particular circumstances: while driving in traffic and in crowded situations, such as in the bazaar, where people jostle one another trying to move forward, backward, and into the merchants’ stalls. Karri refused to return to the Tehran Grand Bazaar after our visit the first week to buy some washcloths and to look for manteaus for her: she walked with both hands protecting Khash from the elbows and shoves of shoppers, and in the Friday Bazaar, Tehran’s main flea and antique market, which I ordinarily like but which Karri also refused to ever set foot in again, she faced not only rude and aggressive behavior, despite the baby strapped to her, but the admonitions of a young woman who chased us down an aisle in the searing heat and repeatedly told us, in English, that the
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