Life goes On!
Other Neighbors
Arabs
Our next-door neighbor on the other side
was an Arab family. No one in the family
and especially their children spoke Farsi.
The communication was a big issue and if I
was to friend with their kids I had to learn
Arabic. They were unlike us so we made
fun of them. We called them “Arab
Papatee”-Barefoot Arab- and in return they
called all non-Arabs, “Ajam” which meant
ignorant.
Therefore, in the first few years of my life
in Ahavz I managed to learn just about
every cuss word available in Arabic. The
only incidents I remember with my Arab
neighbors are my fights. And one fight in
particular is engraved on my brain forever.
This horrific event was played out as follows:
1. I was on our roof and their kid was
on theirs.
2. We had a disagreement-details are
blurry perhaps because of what happened in
step 3.
3. Without any hesitation or prior
notice, he threw a big piece of brick and
whacked me right in the head.
4. Blood covered our roof and I passed
out.
5. I decided not to ever play with Arabs
again due to unpleasant and unforeseeable
consequences. (This decision was made
after I gained conscientiousness.)
Jews
A few doors down in our street we had a
Jewish neighbor. Since they were not
Muslims, they were automatically qualified
targets of rumors. We’d heard they kidnap
children and drink their blood. The father
was the owner of a cinema in Ahvaz. They
had three sons, two of whom were good
friends with two of my brothers. Through
this friendship, my brothers saw many
movies for free and enjoyed complementary
Pepsi and Bologna sandwich. And with them
I also tasted free heaven.
I never forgot the incredible taste of the
Bologna sandwich and Pepsi in the darkness
of a cool cinema watching a western movie.
After these pleasant encounters with Jews,
I gradually questioned the validity of
vicious rumors circulating in the
neighborhood regarding these nice people.
Suddenly I couldn’t see anything wrong
with these vampires. I found them to be
very well mannered people who happened to
like sipping blood instead of carrot juice.
These nuances could not stop me for having
a Jewish friend. Now it was my turn to
extend a hand of friendship to the youngest
son and enjoy the fringe benefits.
However, soon I found out the little boy of
the family was not interested in my
friendship at all. I knocked on their door on
several occasions and he didn’t come out to
play. I was desperately craving for his
friendship and free bologna sandwich in the
cinema and the fish was not biting. He was
either tipped off about my ulterior motive
or simply didn’t like me. He never became
my friend and in return I never
remembered his name.
Although I continued to enjoy the fringe
benefits of having well connected friends by
association, I never managed to earn such
free lavishness on my own merits.
Gypsies
We had so many gypsies wandering around
in our neighborhood everyday. Although
they did not own a house yet they were
always present in. We’d been told they
kidnap children and drink their blood just
like our Jewish neighbors. But the Gypsy
stories seemed more credible. They were
mysterious nomads. Although we knew
nothing about them, yet we were convinced
they were all thieves and murderers.
I remember Gypsy women in our street
going from house to house, selling kitchen
gadgets and pots and pans. Under their
colorful skirts, they wore more brightly
colored puffy pants. They draped
themselves in tin bracelets, chokers,
charms and tiny bells—even around their
legs. Their babies were strapped onto their
backs while older kids followed their
mothers silently. As much as I wanted to
play with them, I was both forbidden and
too scared to do so.
Even at that young age, the Gypsies
fascinated me. They were people with no
past and no future. I always believed they
were wandering ghosts as I’d never known
where they came from or where they were
going.
The only thing we knew for a fact was that
Gypsy women were all fortunetellers. One
told my mother that everyone has a
Hamzaad or birth-mate. The Hamzaad is
everyone’s twin ghost, born at the same
time they are and when you two meet, you
die. So you must prevent your path from
crossing that of your birth-mate.
One Gypsy once read my brother’s palm
and told my mother my brother’s Hamzaad
was in water. This prediction ruined his
childhood as he was forbidden from ever
getting in the water.
At this time, my father knew the chief of
police. Once he invited my father to attend
a Gypsy wedding and for some reason, my
father decided to take me with him. Since
the Chief was a friend of the Gypsy tribe’s
leader, he personally assured us we’d have
a safe and enjoyable experience. I was so
thrilled, yet terrified to see for myself how
these colorfully dressed specters lived.
We rode in the police Jeep, with the Chief
wearing his uniform and gun and baton on
his belt. We bumped along for two hours
through rocky terrain until we reached a
remote hilly area. In the middle of nowhere
and in total darkness, the Jeep stopped. The
chief said we’d walk the rest of the way. I
don’t remember how far we walked through
the darkness, but suddenly the sky shone
red from hundreds of little fires. These
flames arose from drums with holes pierced
in sides. I was dazzled seeing so many
Gypsies at once, but I felt safe with my
father and the chief of police by my side.
The Gypsy women were dressed as
colorfully as always. All men carried
shotguns. They fired sporadic shots into the
dark sky in celebration. In my country,
citizens are not allowed to carry guns. But
Gypsies weren’t exactly citizens.
Girls danced to the music played by their
fathers; simple musical instruments made
of gasoline containers with three strings
tightly stretched from top to bottom. I
witnessed a shooting contest. A rooster was
held in place about a hundred yards away
and men aimed at his crown and shot.
When I look back at my childhood, I see a barefoot kid running after a ball. My main pastime, just like
every other boy in our neighborhood, was to chase a striped plastic ball, we’d all chipped in to buy for 8
Rials. That’s all we needed to have fun. Our street was full of players of all ages, starting with little ones
like myself to those with faces blanketed in mustaches and beards. We all shared the same passion.
Playing barefoot on the asphalt created two black soles on my feet.
At the beginning of each game, we had to go through a painful selection process for two teams. We had
too many players, some had to seat out. This squabbling started with a half-hour exchange of the most
shameless words and ended by throwing a few punches and kicks! After this ritual, non-players would
become ticked-off spectators. They sat on the sidewalks, by the two endless parallel gutters filled with
black slime that marked our street like every other one in our southern city and made fun of the players
and laughed.
In summer, we played in God’s oven. The heated asphalt like black chewed gum stuck to our feet and
burned our entire being. Every few minutes we had to dodge a passing car to avoid an untimely death.
To us the screeching sound of an automobile brake meant to run. Obviously a driver hit the brake to
avoid an involuntary murder of one of the players. Why we ran? Because we knew the furious driver
would dart out of his car, curse us at the top of his lungs and chase us relentlessly to retaliate for our
troublesome game on the street. Only God could save the poor kid if the driver caught up with him. I
escaped the wrath of many such angry drivers on those streets. They always ran out of breath before
they could reach me. We literally played with our lives every day.
And when we were not playing football we were either purchasing a wide variety of unsanitary sweets
from the street vendors or we were gambling. We played a simple card game to win candies from each
other. We would never gamble with money.
Summer Vacations
My mother was convinced that the excessive heat (130 degrees Fahrenheit) would kill us if we stayed in
Ahvas during summer. She was probably right. So every summer for a month or two we traveled to
northern cities to escape heat. My father was not with us on those trips. He usually hired a driver who
he knew well and trusted to take us. I remember one of those drivers well as he became our family
friend and visited us frequently when we move to Tehran. Each summer we visited a different city. We
usually leased a few rooms from a family and became friends with the landlord and his family. Some of
those families with whom we stayed became our good friends for so many years. Although I was very
young during these journeys, I learned so much from people we met and their life styles.
One year we traveled to Hamedan. Hamedan is what is left of Ecbatana (Hegmatana), the Medes' capital
before they formed a union with the Persians. Hamadan is believed to be among the oldest Iranian cities
and one of the oldest in the world. The special nature of this old city and its historic sites attract tourists
during the summer to this city, located approximately 400km southwest of Tehran.
In Hamedan we lived with the family of a dentist who had two teenage sons. Their house was adjacent
to an outdoor summer movie theater. The smart dentist had built an elevated wooden platform in his yard
overlooking the movie screen. The elevated porch was large enough to easily seat both families therefore
every night we enjoyed a free movie to compliment our dinner. Occasionally I enjoyed spitting on the
sitting audience down bellow in the darkness. What a memorable summer that was. We watched many
Hollywood movies and heard many more screaming audiences complaining about our excessive talking
and loud laughter. My father also joined us for a week or two that summer.
The two sons of this family were so neat, clean and polite in a stark contrast with myself. Despite our
age difference, they were both fond of me and tried their best to introduce these virtues to me. One day
as I was sitting next to them, they showed me the soles of their feet and said, “Do you see how clean
our feet are? We bet you cannot clean your feet and make them as white as ours.” I was stunned. How
could they keep their feet so clean? I wondered. At age seven, for the first time I realized my feet were
not supposed to be black!
Alireza
Among my five cousins in my age group, I got along with Alireza the most. We were classmates the first
four school years. He was the most quiet and polite cousin of all, a well-mannered student with excellent
grades. And I was exactly the opposite. No wonder I liked him so much.
During the month of Ramadan, Moslems wake up before sun rises and eat before starting a day of
fasting. They don’t eat, drink, smoke or curse until dusk. In Ahvas, especially in the summer this fast is
a daunting task. Alireza always fasted the entire month. I admired his sense of responsibility, dedication,
his endurance for hunger and resistance to temptations yet I was glad I was not in his position. Although
on many occasions, I started the fasting ritual with him, I never managed to finish a day without food.
My love for food always surpassed my religious conviction!
In summer nights and in the absence of air conditioners, everyone slept on the roof under the gaze of
thousands of stars. We kids had our own stars as the clear sky perfectly showcased its shining
diamonds and dazzled our eyes every night.
The roofs of both houses were connected. So we could easily walk around the very long roof covering
all rooms of both homes forming a huge square. And on the way we could chat with cousins who were
getting ready to sleep next to their parents on their roof. Alireza and I spent so many hours chatting on
the roof and under the shinny stars. One of our hobbies during the day was to bet on who could stare
longer into the blazing sun without blinking.
Every once in a while we each pitched in three Rials-our daily allowance- and walked a long way to buy
a half of bologna sandwich from a sandwich shop called the Golden Rooster on the corner of Pahlavi
Avenue? Half of half a sandwich was nothing more than three bites yet it was the most delicious
memories of my life. I never duplicated that taste. We played football together, we walked to school
together everyday and we enjoyed eating steaming hot beets we bought from the street vendor in the
bitter cold of winter.
I never got a chance to ask him how he studied that made him a better student than me?