Her Pride....My Pride

photo by Kamran Jebreili/AP

Stressed about all her final papers, she woke up, checked the news, got dressed and headed to school in the morning. It was the University Student Day in Iran. In Massachusetts, however, it was a simple winter day. The most exciting part of her day was so far the fact that three fire trucks had passed by her student apartment with loud sirens.

During the hours that she had fallen asleep while trying to write a paper about why Mussharraf cut deals with the forces of Taliban, many university students, her age or younger, had protested in Iran. Some of them were injured and detained by governmental forces. In Massachusetts, however, not much was going on. The weather was sunny and cold.

Walking towards school, she kept checking her blackberry for photos from the student protests and the crackdown in Iran. Photo after photo… Tears had covered her eyes. She was proud of her fellow Iranian university students in Iran. But did it even matter how she felt about what the people were doing in Iran? Maybe yes, maybe not! In any case, some of the photos made her smile and some of the other ones that had captured the moments of beatings and blood made her frown. She would only look up when she had to cross the street.

Everything was orderly in Cambridge, Massachusetts. No one looked particularly angry, agitated, scared or ready to protest. The homeless people of Harvard Square looked unhappy, hungry and cold. Just like all other mornings. Everything looked absolutely normal. People were going to work, to class and most of them had a cup of coffee in their hands.

Walking into Starbucks, she kept looking at the New York Times, Washington Post and Boston Globe that were placed next to the cashier to see if Iranian university students had made it to the first page of any of these newspapers. “Grande non-fat Latte”….Yeap, that was her cup of coffee. She got her coffee and started walking towards school once again. She walked into the school building all proud of the university students in Iran who had courageously protested despite all the fear and repression. Her friends said hello to her and she said hello back to them. The rest of the day was full of small talk and studying. No one realized that she was proud of anything particular that day. She, too, did not really ask anyone if they were proud of the people of their country at that very moment. I mean, it is an awkward question to ask! “Excuse me, how proud of the people of your birthplace are you today?”…haha...Maybe no one would respond to such a silly question except for her. She would say, “I am extremely proud. They are amazing. These university students are making history as we speak!” She would talk, talk and talk about how proud, worried, terrified and yet hopeful she is for Iran and its fascinating young generation.

In Cambridge, Massachusetts, everything was absolutely calm and normal. Another fire truck passed by during the day. But that was about as unquiet as it could get in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Different Narratives

My professor of “Modern Diplomacy” class ended the last session of the semester by reminding us of a few factors that, if ignored, could lead to the failure of any kind of negotiations or diplomatic attempt to resolve conflicts. Two of those factors have really made me think: different narratives that each side has of history and the nature of the conflict and whether the parties involved actually wish to have the conflict resolved.

The distinction of narratives is an intriguing phenomenon to tackle. How could one go about finding hidden spaces between the lines of these different narratives and to advocate for a common ground that could keep both parties content enough to compromise?

I find narratives to be the most precious and sensitive aspect of a people’s history. And yet, this same narrative is what could confine a nation in its past, its losses, and its desire to ask for its taken right and even to avenge. This same narrative that could protect the unheard voices of history is what often leads to strong assumptions about the other side, ideologies and grudge. It’s this same narrative that at times justifies the lack of any kind of effort to understand the “enemy”. It’s this narrative that helps us draw seriously defined borders between “us” and “them”. It’s the power of this narrative that produces a generation that is just as confined in the past as the previous generation. At the same time, this narrative is sometimes the only heritage that is left for us. It becomes our legacy and our souvenir from the past that was taken away from us by force. This narrative is the only thing that we could keep from the physical and moral invasion of the other side into our lives. They could take away our homes, photo albums, peace and land from us. They could humiliate and murder us. But, they could never take our narrative away from us. In fact, many of us manage to survive for the sake of passing on that narrative to others.

So, how could a nation or one side of a conflict let go of its narrative or compromise on its historical understanding of a conflict? I wish I knew the answer to this, because if I did I would try to practice it in my own personal life and would do my best to spread this art to the rest of the world… the art of preventing a tragic past from defining us as a people and as individuals, the art of looking ahead, reconciling with the past and letting go of the complexes that this past has planted in each and every one of us.

An Appeal from Siamak Pourzand’s Daughter: ‘My Father Has Given Up on Life, Release Him.’”

By Fereshteh Ghazi, An Interview with Lily Pourzand, Rooz Online, Tuesday December 1, 2009.



Siamak Pourzand's Recent Photo at the Hospital

We have interviewed the daughter of Siamak Pourzand, the 78 year-old Iranian journalist who, in the words of his family, “since last week has given up eating meals and has cut off telephone communication with his friends and family”, about his condition. Pourzand has been confined to the Tus Hospital [in Tehran] for the past 15 days due to his deteriorating physical and mental condition, although he himself has said “I’m not physically ill; they have made me mentally ill.” For this reason, Lily Pourzand implores, “My father is no danger to the Islamic Republic; give him permission to leave the country.”

Siamak Pourzand was also hospitalized at Iran Mehr Hospital on October 22 but was released after several days. At that time Lily told Rooz that “her father was not discharged from the hospital due to an improvement in his health, but rather because there was nothing more that could be done.”

But with Pourzand’s condition becoming serious, Lily tells Rooz: “After the last report that you published about my father about a month ago, my father was released from Iran Mehr hospital and was put on a new treatment, but the medications did not have much effect, because of his absolute loneliness and his deeply damaged mental state, especially as he refuses to take the medicines that he must take on a strict regimen.

Ms. Pourzand, who is a lawyer residing in Canada, adds, “My father expressed deep stress and uncomfortable, scattered agitation on the telephone and we didn’t know what to do, until two weeks ago, with the deterioration of his condition, he was first taken to a clinic and from there transferred to the hospital.”

Having mentioned that Tus Hospital does not have a neurological and psychological department, she says, “My father prefers to stay in this hospital because we have doctors and friends working there and they help greatly; however, unfortunately this help has not had any effect and Father has not eaten at all since last week, and since five days ago, he has cut off his telephone communication with his family and however much we beg, he only says ‘I can’t talk’ and hangs up.”

According to Lily Pourzand, “My father is also refusing to accept or speak to friends and acquaintances and this illustrates how this journalist is giving up on life and has washed his hands of everything that has to do with life.”

Siamak Pourzand’s daughter says, “My father’s doctor is trying and trying to get him transferred to a specialized neurological clinic but unfortunately [my father] still doesn’t have the will to go, and neither we nor his doctor can predict what is going to happen.”

Ms. Pourzand, who is seeking the issuance of a visa for her father to exit the country, says, “With the condition that my father is in, it is extremely urgent that he get permission to fly out immediately, as it is possible that if he is given an exit visa and his passport [which had been confiscated] his mental state may greatly improve, and our wish is that he be allowed to leave the country and be with his children and family for some time.”

Having said that Mr. Pourzand is giving up on everything, Ms. Pourzand adds, “The only chance for renewing any sense of hope in life for him is to get him permission to leave the country and see his family; my father, in his condition, poses absolutely no danger to the Islamic Republic that would cause them to deny him permission.”

According to Lily Pourzand, Mr. Pourzand’s doctors have recommended that anyone who wishes to should go to visit him even if he refuses or doesn’t speak to them, because the presence of people and friends is crucial to the improvement of the journalist’s mental state.

Body or Mind?

On another note, a Rooz reader has written in an email message discussing Siamak Pourzand’s hospitalization in Tus Hospital and his visit with the journalist, “Mr. Pourzand said, ‘I’m not physically ill; they have made me mentally ill.”

In continuation, having mentioned that Siamak Pourzand is under sedation and is consuming nothing besides water, this reader explained the deterioration of Mr. Pourzand’s mental and physical condition by writing, “Mr. Pourzand really has no serious physical problem but due to the depth of his depression he is suffering. In his own words, after the elections his mental health has become far worse, since a great number of friends with whom he had passed great times have either been imprisoned or have left Iran and he has been deeply affected by not having them around. He is truly lonely and in need of attention; in addition he is deeply afraid of everything. I see a strange fear in his existence. Severely, just like in prison! He deeply misses his family and friends.”

Siamak Pourzand since seven years ago has been a prisoner of the security services; he has been sent home at times due to deteriorations of his physical condition and then detained again after a period.

Siamak Pourzand’s wife, Mehrangiz Kar, and two of the journalist’s daughters, Banafsheh and Azadeh, live in America and Lily Pourzand, the other daughter, lives in Canada. They have requested clemency from the officials of the Islamic Republic several times so that they may go to their father’s side but to this date no response has been given to them.

Lily Pourzand had previously spoken of this to Rooz, saying, “Both during the Khatami administration and over the past four years we have several times directly and indirectly written letters to various organs and individuals, even begging, that they provide us with letters of clemency so that we may go see our father and take care of him. My mother has even personally written a letter to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad making this request but to date they have given us no answer; for each of us, returning to Iran is tantamount to risking being detained and put in some secret facility, and we can’t take anything more like that. My mother went to prison and developed cancer, and my father too has been afflicted as you see.”

At the same time she had referred to the trip of Azadeh, the youngest daughter of Mr. Pourzand to Iran and had said, “Azadeh was only 16 years old when she left Iran and hadn’t gotten involved in political matters or human rights and was occupied only with her education. When Father was transferred from jail to the hospital and then home [in 2004], she went to Iran to be at his side, and of course at that time when Mr. Khatami was also the president, we were able via various intermediaries to gain promises of clemency for her to travel to Iran. They said to us that it was only on condition that she leave Iran within ten days and Azadeh still went, but unfortunately, she, who was no older than 19 years, was interrogated and harassed. What is interesting is that living outside of the country, we were not very familiar with the concept of the
[governmental organization] “Children’s and Youths’ Intellectual Development Organization, but Azadeh was interrogated under the auspices of this organization for hours, and she later said that she had lost hope of returning [to America].”

Ms. Pourzand had explained then, “It has been years since my father abandoned his typical social activities and has closed himself off from everything [political] with the goal of hearing his children’s voices again and being at his wife’s side and that of his children, but the judicial and security organs have not given him such permission. We only hope to be able to embrace our father once again and to take care of him.”

For Original in Persian click here.

Friday Night Wonders

My god, I miss writing! It has been a long time that I have not written anything more than a bunch of dry policy memorandums for school. I am almost scared of letting myself write rather freely. Just a few nights ago, when I was feeling emotionally fragile and academically exhausted, I decided to stay in my room and just read a short novel. I started and finished Olivia by Dorothy Strachey. By the time I finished the last line of this well-written story, tears had already covered my face. That night, I realized how much I miss hiding away from this world and its noises once in a while and spending time with fictional characters. Real people and things are sometimes too much to handle. I remember how I was tired of being disconnected from the world and its current events during the years of studying literature in college. And now…I feel exactly the opposite. I just sometimes want to shut my eyes and my ears to this world. I feel we talk too much about ourselves, our allies and adversaries, our objectives, perspectives and goals. Sometimes I feel I have turned into this machine that knows well how to talk and strategize her life in a way that seems very much aligned with the norms of this society. I might just be tired or aching to rebel. All I know is that there must be more to life. I remember having felt that there is more to this life during some of the hardest times of my life in the past. But somehow lately I feel very machine-like with a vision that is perhaps shrinking everyday.

The only time that I realize bits and pieces of the passionate, brave and emotional human being that I used to be are sill left in me is when I remember the past. Remembering the past…such a funny phrase! I remember years ago when I was a happy child in Iran despite all the political insanity that had forced peace out of our life. I remember how happy I was every time I would see my parents smile, talk and discuss their daily plans. I remember how happy I was in high school in the U.S. when I kept thinking of myself as a future leader that I desparately wanted to be. I remember the years that I felt I belonged to a land named Iran and how I used to think I would eventually feel that I also belong to the United States of America. Little I knew how much of a displaced immigrant one becomes every day. It’s like the moment you leave your home—the land to which you belong—, you will always be leaving and departing from one place or another. You will always be walking around with your luggage looking for a home. Sometimes you think you have found a home. But you never will. In fact, you will become displaced everyday a little more than the day before.

Looking around my room, I see a piece of the past hanging from every piece of furniture and my walls are covered with photos and memories. Memories…I miss all the places that I once used to call home: in particular Tehran and Oberlin. I miss loving and feeling loved. I miss feeling safe in the arms of those who meant the world to me. I miss feeling innocently hopeful about people and things. I miss closing my eyes and imagining that someday I will change the lives of many through my hard work and writings.

Nowadays, I simply don’t dream. I go to bed hoping that I don’t wake up to some nightmare about the life that my father miserably lives in Iran. I go to bed hoping to wake up and be able do something so that my mom’s life becomes easier in this exile of hers that is full of cups of coffee and sighs. I go to bed feeling ashamed that young men and women are being humiliated and terrorized in a million ways in Iran while I live my fancy Harvard life. Each one of them deserves to get a Public Policy degree from Harvard more than I do. They are the ones who are courageously changing history; not me. I go to bed thinking about my little friends in Bangladesh who work hard and dream big dreams against all odds. I go to bed hoping that I don’t wake up to a nightmare about how much I miss my best friend and the love of my life. I wake up to the hopeful songs of Darya Dadvar, smile for a few short seconds, try to remember where I am and why I am where I am, wash my face, look in the mirror and decide to be numb throughout the day so that I can successfully take care of my to do list and be a reasonably responsible student and employee. And this has become the story of my life. I never wanted to lead such an elitist and customary life. I wanted to be out with the people who possess little and yet know the value of this life. I am tired of this never-ending journey of working towards a “strong resume” and “the ability to persuade”. It seems the more advanced we get in our career the more we are taught and expected to lie and to design our insincere words and plans with sophisticated ornaments.

Maybe the bottom-line of all of this is that I desire more power in this world in order to, one day, make a difference in the life of a few other human beings. And I somehow unintentionally feel stuck in the part that is about learning how to have more power and how to have a stronger voice. The process of learning about power sometimes feels so unpleasant and artificial to me that makes me miss the times that I had a voice that was insignificant.

Maybe it’s just that I miss writing…I should write more.

A Simple Dream or Maybe Just Wishful Thinking

This past week I traveled across Bangladesh to seven remote villages in order to interview some of the incoming students of the Access Academy of the Asian University for Women in Chittagong. I got a chance to go and see some of these bright young women in their homes which was quite an experience and a very rare opportunity. During my trip I stopped by a few high schools just to get a feel of how they function in small villages.

In one of these high schools, many students gathered around us as soon as they realized a foreigner is visiting their school. At first I was very nervous and did not know what to really say or do. Then I saw a few teachers coming our way and I just stood still in the middle of the school yard and thought they are going to scold us or something. To my surprise, the teachers had come to simply greet me and to welcome me to their school. They showed me around, introduced some of the students to me and allowed me to explore some of the different classrooms.

The English teacher insisted to take me to the Islamic History class. The teachers took me to a classroom where an obviously highly religious teacher was at the blackboard, pointing to some things that he had scribbled on the board that were probably about Islam. As soon as the students saw us they all began to giggle and make noises. I really did not want to interrupt the class and kept asking the English teacher and others that I do not want to interrupt. But the Islamic History teacher came forward and welcomed me to his class. They told him that I am an Iranian-American researcher or something like that.All I could gather from the Bangla that they were speaking was “Irani”, “America” and “Musalman or something like that”…..He said, “Salam Wa Alaikom” to me and asked me to go to the podium and talk about my knowledge of the foundations of Islamic History and the importance of Islamic principles. I got very nervous and tense. I really just wanted to escape at that point. Looking at the teachers and the students, I felt there was no way out of this situation.

Eventually I nervously walked up to the podium and only said my name, thanked them for having let me to their school and having been very hospitable and wished them all best of luck. The students clapped and so did the teachers; although I believe that the Islamic History teacher and the English teacher were not all that content for I did not say anything about the foundations of Islam.I mean what did I really have to say?They already know more than I do!

Very soon after I stepped on the podium I observed something that it was very unique and commendable for me. Having grown up in Iran, I carry a big baggage of judgment and presumptions about things and people who look strictly Muslim or fond of Islamic principles. I have tried to change this about me. But, I believe, the fear, suspicion and the distrust that many of us lived with as children in Iran make it hard for us to free our minds of tensions of this nature. This means, I still feel vulnerable and nervous when I am put in settings that require me to “pretend” the level of my commitment to my own religion and my own god. Immediately, my defense mechanism begins to escalate and I begin to censor myself, my smiles, my thoughts and my words… I stop looking at those around me in the eye as I am afraid that the more religious Muslim men would get offended if I make eye contact with them or that the women would judge me for my liberal ways of socializing. These are all the souvenirs of the life that we lived in my country.


Despite my fear and presumptions, when I stepped on that podium of that humble school of a village in Bangladesh, I saw the snapshot of my dream for Iran in front of my eyes. I saw a snapshot of many girls and boys sitting on their benches and staring at me. Girls were sitting next to boys on one bench. Some girls had covered their hair and face, some others had covered only their hair and some did not have a veil.This, to me, is a dream for Iran. I am not saying that what I saw was perfect. No, poverty rules millions of people’s lives in Bangladesh and also I am sure there is still much work to be done in removing some of the very conservative taboos that exist in this country. However, despite all these imperfections, what I saw in front of my eyes was what I have always dreamed for Iran…the simple idea of having the permission to at least decide whether or not you want to cover your hair or not and to respectfully coexist with others even if they are different from you.Who has ordered us all to be the same, to wear the same things and to have identical beliefs?

The reason I did not have much to say on that podium was not because I was too nervous to talk or to express myself.I was too occupied observing the students as it seemed like a dream that had found a way to crawl into the reality. It was not what they were wearing that seemed like a dream to me. It was the idea that even if you dress differently you could still sit in a classroom with others to learn and to become friends with them.


Here is a photo that I took of what I faced as I was looking at the students on the podium.

What Makes My Life More Significant than Hers?

I dedicate this quick reflection to Samiya who came to my room last night and very sincerely spoke with me about the urge that she feels to do something about the poverty that she witnesses in her country everyday....

It is now close to three weeks that I am here in Chittagong, Bangladesh. At first, every hour felt like three days. I felt someone was stretching my days and nights here. I was anxious to return to the U.S. (or even Iran) and just be in a place where life is more comfortable. Whenever I leave the United States and start to miss “home”, I realize that the U.S. has become home for me after all. My time here has been a very fascinating chapter of my life. I find it hard to verbalize my observations and encounters in Bangladesh. It is either because I am still experiencing it or that life is simply different here and hard to describe with words that are all loaded with presumptions and connotation of all kinds. I feel the best way for me to appreciate my surroundings in Bangladesh has been to shut down any comparative perception or supposition that I might have of this place. It is one of those environments where you are just better off to take things for what they are and be flexible with what you expect and what you think should be expected of you.

Being flexible….The students of the Asian University for Women have often talked with me about “flexibility” and about how at this university they have learned to be flexible and cooperative under tough circumstances. They tell me that now that they have an opportunity to get a good education, they should be appreciative and responsible rather than demanding. I think a country like Bangladesh really does teach you some very important lessons.

The truth is that I have been thinking a lot here about the person that I have become in the United States in the past few years. Looking back, I realize that I have achieved many wonderful things in life and can proudly say that I could live and survive on my own. But, I also have forgotten many things in the past few years. I have forgotten the importance of the environment in which I live and the kinds of freedoms and opportunities that it has given me. I have forgotten the level of unconditional care, love and attention that I have received all throughout my life and that I am still receiving. Even if you are a brilliant author, artist, actress or scientist and you know that you have the potential to grow, the chances of you achieving professional and personal goals are very low if the society and your loved ones do not cooperate with you.

Sadly, I seem to have forgotten many of these wonderful opportunities and individuals who have made the beautiful life that I have possible for me. It is not that I do not remember or appreciate them…I do…It is just that in my private moments, I only seem to admire myself for the person that I am becoming. And this is sad! The truth is that many have faced many challenges and hardships for me to be where I am and that my success and my happiness belong to them, those who could benefit from my knowledge and capabilities and of course, myself.

Many talented individuals in the world have the desire, intelligence and vision to succeed and yet they have no real support to help them flourish. And those of us who do have the opportunity to live prosperous lives sometimes tend to forget that many other human beings in the world could have well been in our place.

Let me speak for myself and not others….I, for instance, sometimes cherish the struggles I have overcome and assure myself that I deserve what I have in life. But, my trip to Bangladesh has reminded me that, in fact, I am one of the most fortunate women in the world to live the life that I live and to be able to make decisions for my life….I mean, seriously, I live the life that many of the people that I have met here could only dream of. Whether or not we think that we live happy lives, many individuals in the world run their imagination wild and dream of the lives that we live, the things that we do, the places to which we travel, the food that we eat, the way we fall in love and the independence that we are allowed to obtain. In their dreams they replace you and I with themselves and enjoy the surreal images that pass through their eyes in disbelief.

I look around me here and keep thinking and wondering, “Azadeh, what makes you and your life more significant than this child whose bones are deformed due to malnutrition and who is banging against the window of your car and begging for your money? What makes your future more important than hers? Who decided that her life was going to be a million times harder than yours? Who decided that she should wash herself in some of the dirtiest gutters of Bangladesh and that you should shower with clean water? What motivates her to smile at smaller things in life and what makes happiness so damn difficult for you? When exactly did the world decide that you could live the life that she can’t even dream of and that she should live the life that is way worse than your worst nightmare?”

I don’t really know….All I know is that the life that I live is bigger than even the fluffiest dreams of millions in this world. What could I do other than swallowing my tears and looking away so that my eyes do not meet the eyes of that child? She and I both know that somewhere, somehow and for some odd reason someone in the world decided that my life is more significant than hers...that my wellbeing, comfort and future are more "important" than hers and that I am "better" than her….But why? Really why?

Note: Please do not assume that I am implying that poverty only exists in Bangladesh or that everyone in Bangladesh live miserable lives. All I am trying to say is that in a country like Bangladesh where poverty is more widespread and visible, you begin to remember the reality of other people's life that you have conviniently forgotten...that's all!

Sunita Basnet: An Extraordinary Young Woman from Nepal

In the past few days that I have stayed at the Asian University for Women-Access Academy in Chittagong, Bangladesh, I have had the privilege to get to know many amazing young women from various countries in the continent of Asia. One of these uniquely extraordinary young women is Sunita Basnet who demands respect with the way she carries herself, her confidence, intelligence and her determination to make a difference in the world. She is the example of a young woman in the process of becoming a world leader some time in the near future.

Sunita Basnet is standing as a candidate for One Young World, a platform where she can represent my generation and her country, Nepal, on some of the greatest challenges ahead. Help her become a delegate by voting for me now. Please take the time to read a bit about her story, her accomplishments and her dreams for Nepal and the world. I am sure,like, me you will come to really admire and respect this young woman. So, please vote for her by clicking the below link: (You have to have a Facebook account to be able to vote. Once you sign in Facebook, you can open the following link and vote for her).

http://apps.facebook.com/oywcandidates/entry/288/


Sunita Basnet needs your vote in order to represents Nepal at the One Young World and to make a difference in Nepal's future through this venue.

Here is a brief summary of Sunita's life and work. I am quoting her bio from the World Pulse: Global Issues Through the Eyes of Women website for which Sunita writes regularly.


I am Sunita Basnet from Nepal but currently in Bangladesh studying with full scholarship in Asian University for Women (AUW). I grew up in a remote village of about five hundred people in the Terai area in the eastern part of Nepal. Most people in my village especially the girls are poorly educated. I am the eldest daughter of five sisters and a brother. My father supports our family as a farmer. Additionally, I volunteered in human right journalism forum in Biratnager, Morang in Nepal. Furthermore,as an intermediate for the campaign “Constitutional Assembly and People’s Dialogue’ in an NGO named Informal Sector Service Center (INSEC) eastern regional branch in Nepal. In that NGO I had to aware 80 people who are underpriviledged women, Political Leaders, Business Men, Farmers, Teachers and Service holder in two different village development council in Morang, Nepal. On the other hand, in Bangladesh, I am also volunteering as a supervisor in IT lab, financial department, Library in AUW. In future I wanted to work against poverty especially with women for their right, education and improvement. For this I had already started my journey from my country by opening women’s saving club which will help women to save their money and take loan in a low interest in their necessary. I wanted to convert saving club into credit union bank which will be run by only women in the future for women’s improvement.



And here are some more links about Sunita:
1) Youth Action Partners for Development

2)Asian University for Women