To Be or Not To Be -- Week 11

I am not of an underprivileged background. I have never had to worry about money becoming a hindrance to in my life and educational growth. We’ve had enough to maintain a relatively comfortable life. Given that I had the opportunity to immigrate to the U.S even further places me into an exclusively privileged stratum. But I have never lived in an elitist bubble. I was not blind to those who washed cars’ windshields at traffic lights, those who sold candies on the street, and those whose parents were martyrs of war or victims of political activism. I was definitely sympathetic to class disparities, but held no regards for the elitist discourse of behavior which further separated the low class from the rest of society. My father, Ebrahim, was a man loved by people of all walks of life. His funeral was a rare example of pluralism which had brought together engineers and farmers, doctors and clerics, architects and gardeners, and writers and street vendors all under one roof. Every time he entered any house, he’d go directly to the kitchen to greet the cooks and maids. He had no respect and regards for the lines society had drawn between people of different classes. He was bold and genuine, and sadly for us, he lost his life over it.

I see fundamental problems with the world’s economic structure and class disparities and the tangible effects it has had and continues to have on people’s lives. In Iran, I mingled with those who were doomed because their last name was not quite “elitist,” or their background was not filled with college-educated, politically active, and independent business owners. In the U.S, I observed how a certain race has monopoly over social resources and political outlets. And here I am in Mexico working for a school exclusive to the upper class. When I came to Queretaro for my interview, I had such a Marxist irk upon seeing workers opening car doors for students that I didn’t want to return. Now, I work for an “International” school funded by a body of parents that much prefer to see a white, blue-eyed American teach English than an Iranian with an Islamic background. Therefore the administrative staff conveniently forgot to mention where I grew up for 18 years in the letter of introduction that they sent to parents.  

Discrimination is wrong, be it targeted at the poor (as is always) or the rich. I don’t intend to discriminate against the upper class, question their wealth, or call on their money to be distributed amongst the poor. I call on them to practice what they preach. They send their students to an “International” school for them to learn how gorgeous and historical Paris, Madrid and London are. I call on them to equally familiarize themselves with the beauty and history of Herat, Shiraz, and Cairo. They send their kids to a school that teaches their kids to embrace all perspectives and ethnicities. I call on them to be justice-minded, and open their car doors themselves, open doors, many doors, doors to understanding a people that they push farther and farther into a corner, open doors, infinite doors into understanding that every man who has risen to change the world has been of a middle or upper class because philosophizing is the luxury of the privileged; “To be or Not to Be” maybe an intellectual dilemma for the rich, but it’s a question of actual survival for the poor.

I know that the elitist life style of these parents is not the totality of this marvelous country. I know there are people, far more international, living in ghettos and neglected indigenous communities. I know they are people who have global perspectives but dip their dry bread into water for dinner. It’s ironic, but I need the money of the elite to explore the “other” side of Mexico. I will use this experience to get closer to the underprivileged working in the school, hear their story, shake their hands, and open my door to them.

Peace from Queretaro,

Aria

Viva Los Reyes --Week # 10

If we had considered our time in Mexico to have been bereft of any drama so far, last week alone made up for it. Carolyn finally decided to move to Mexico City to be with her boyfriend, the sole purpose of her coming to this country. She faces a new set of challenges, mainly now that she will be living with David for the first time. Claudia got a position in Mexico City, the Montreal girl finally ended up in another huge city. With her passion and unwavering support for Queer and women’s rights, it doesn’t get any better than living in Mexico City. Intellectual communities with a lively sense of political activism await her. And our Rafael, our I-am-gonna-go-with-the-flow-Rafael, got an ideal job in Puebla after he had already decided he was going to follow Claudia and leave Los Reyes. Puebla, its unique cuisine, old history, charming architecture, and beautiful women will definitely satisfy Rafael. I can hear him shout to himself, as he tends to do when he is alone, “dope man, I’m the shit.” And I, the hot-headed, passionate, culture-loving, intellectual-wanna-be, ended up in a charming town quite alike my own Shiraz, called Querétaro. I know Rafael will read this comparison and say, “damn my dude, you gotta tie everything to Eye-ran in your entries.” Yes, I think I ought to for I love that piece of land called Iran.

Overall, teaching and living in Los Reyes was not a good fit for us and keeping in contact with a world filled with opportunities that all involved living in far more interesting places and getting a better salary further unsettled us. I have such little time in this marvelous country and I really intend to make the most of it, but that is not to disregard the invaluable friendships that I’ve formed with students and people of Los Reyes. This decision has not been one without regrets. But I have to content myself that during my little time with my students I genuinely tried to open up new and different avenues of viewing the world while profoundly respecting their current thought patterns and values. I tried hard to be an approachable teacher and friend who was equally open to learn from them, one who valued their stories, their life style.

I take with me, most preciously, the bond I formed with my students: My remarkably intelligent advanced group (Diana, Aldair, Michel, Alee, Luis) and all the laughter, stories and discussion that we shared. My Intermediate class and their obsession with sex and their youthful energy will never leave my memory. My wonderful friendship with Xochilt and Adriana, I’d never forget the way they’d drag the first syllable of “teaaaaacher” whenever they wanted to tease me. My lovely friend Oswaldo who kindly and generously showed me his wonderful village, Tocumbo. Our wonderful Spanish teacher, Mary, who insisted on interacting with us in spite of being under pressure from the institute not to. I received my first formal Spanish education from Mary, and for that, I am always grateful. To lovely Bernardo, the cheese guy, whose passionate and sincere descriptions of how beautiful Mexico is in spite of only having traveled to two states would drag me to the market. To Nikki, a wonderful teacher and friend, whose pieces of advice helped us deal with the unusual behavior of the institute. To the Ice-cream lady whose pina coladas would bring momentary joy to my evening hours. To Los Reyes for receiving and hosting us, to its warm-blooded people, green hills, beautiful plaza, and all its ice cream shops.

Much love and peace to Los Reyes de Salgado,

Aria

The Pedagogy of the Discontent–week # 9 (delayed)

My discontent with the English institute in Los Reyes is not a piece of news to any of my relatives, friends, and co-workers. While it has failed to affect my general happiness the majority of times, its negative influence has grown recently, both at work and outside. Bfore I decided to teach English abroad, I had read numerous blogs; I was well-aware of the business-oriented mind-set of most language institutes. In spite of the growing number of institutes that mistreat their teachers, I came here to form my own judgment:

The pay is extremely low. There are many unpaid hours. There are no incentives, financial or otherwise. Mismanagements run throughout the hierarchical system. Students—the concept of education in general—are nowhere on the list of priorities. We have been given a book, and the objective has been to finish it. Almost no extra supplements or materials are provided, and far worse, are discouraged. Overall this institute gathers a list of ingredients that would make a perfectly discontent teacher, both at his profession and personal life.

My co-workers have reacted differently to this dysfunctional system. Reactions have varied from pure apathy, lack of motivation to bring about change, and a strong-willed desire to push the institute as far as possible on our demands. Upon the grounds of nine weeks, I make the judgment that none has worked: We are all equally discontent, the apathetic, the determined, and the unmotivated. But what happens when one realizes change is nearly impossible...

Complacency has been a large part of my social upbringing in Iran, both religious and spiritual complacency, resulting into social acceptance towards one’s class which indirectly—and ironically—embraces the lack of social mobility and class disparities.  The oppressive policies of the regime promoted social passivity and political apathy. People’s non-participation in Presidential elections (until 2009) had given the government an outlet to exploit the system “legitimately.” Political apathy and hopelessness run deeply into the Iranian society. This is the kind of environment that I grew up in.

I profoundly resent apathy. Apathy prevents one from bringing about change. Apathy often constitutes acceptance. Acceptance under marginalization gives birth to more oppression and exploitation. In my Iran, the pedagogy of the discontent had long been established with the vocabulary of apathy and passivity. The Green movement has had a massive impact on the re-writing of a more dynamic, political conscious and socially active vocabulary. Of course it takes time for the newly written vocabulary to penetrate into every aspect of society and bring about change. One cannot help but to be filled with hope to see that the wall of apathy has been crushed.  

Los Reyes Teachers

My policy has never been apathy, here in Los Reyes or elsewhere. I’ve tried hard to bring as much change as possible to my classroom by being a professional, caring, and approachable teacher, while searching for better opportunities. Not have I only found solid job offers so far, but I have also motivated and assisted my co-workers to search for better opportunities rather than choosing complacency and apathy. I have done what it takes for them to find a job that brings them contentment. We all have stood up and voiced our discontent towards the school’s mistreatments. As I am writing this blog, three out of four of us are preparing for job interviews on Monday! Getting accepted into those positions is genuinely besides the point, having the courage to crush apathy, being aware of one’s worth, and voicing out opposition are what matter the most. It’s invaluable, as a group of teachers, that we have begun writing the pedagogy of discontent by carving the word “hope” in the forehead of our fate. 

Eshq,

Aria

Jesus es verbo, no sustantivo -- Week # 8

Riccardo Arjona is a Guatemalan poet and singer; I admire his polemics, especially in his song, “Jesus es verbo, no sustantivo” (Jesus/Christianity is a verb, not a noun). As is evident in the title, Arjona encourages Catholics to embody Jesus in their actions, rather than follow the rituals set by the Vatican Church, an elitist establishment that has no sense of connection or commonality with the majority of Latin Americans living in poverty than the mere name, Catholic. Arjona criticizes the ostentatious practices of Catholicism, the financial resources invested in building luxurious temples and churches while pointing to class disparities, economic grievances and absolute poverty dominant in Latin America. His polemics remind me of Gustavo Gutiérrez, a Peruvian priest who calls on the Catholic faith to embody a more egalitarian understanding of the Bible in their actions and interpretations. Gutiérrez and Arjona both re-claim Catholicism in their unique ways, their vision is consistent with the narrative of human condition in the 21^st Century. They raise powerful questions that undermine the elitist and monopolized body of authority while their daily lives are still shaped by the language of Catholicism, their rich cultural heritage. They liberate Catholicism from abusive institutes. They claim it as a verb, rather than a fancy noun exploited by numerous establishments.

I experienced Islam as an oppressive ideology that ruthlessly established itself as a grand-narrative that mobilized masses solely for one purpose: exercising power. I was born into an Islam that had been turned into the absolute source for social, judicial, and political morality. For eighteen years, I lived with an Islam that attempted to annihilate any voice of opposition, an exclusive, elitist framework in which polemists and reformists were regarded as the enemies of Allah. I experienced the Islam of Iran in 1990s, a politicized religion.

I now live in a society that—relatively—allows me to formulate my own views. I choose not to affiliate with or practice any religion. Atheism is not a distance between me and the religious but simply a narrative that makes the most sense to me. But I still face a question that is neither religious nor existential: Culturally, what religion do I belong to? And the answer is clear: I am a Muslim. My childhood and teenage years are profoundly tied to the narrative of Islam, common themes and practices that bond 1.5 billion people, remarkably of different ethnic, economic, and social backgrounds.

It took me several years to move past deep frustrations and resentments of Iran’s authoritative Islam and acknowledge and embrace Islam as my cultural background, an Islam whose body of beliefs, values and symbols are reconcilable with my tendency of viewing the world through the prismatic lens of literature. In the United State of America, I have the freedom to re-claim Islam, emphasize its spiritual side, and negotiate its morality with literary elements: view its laws as symbols and metaphors for possibly greater meanings, interpret its verses through the Feminist, Marxist, and Queer thought, and place Islam as a whole in the context of life in 21^st Century.

Dissidents shouting Allah-o Akbar
on their rooftops in Iran

I believe a new Islam is in the making in my Iran. A generation with a silenced political consciousness has now emerged after 1979, hungry to exploit any outlet to observe the world, and dissatisfied with the failure of the Islamic regime to address their economic grievances and permit social liberties, they are searching for alternative avenues of political and social expression. They shout Allah-o Akbar on their rooftops to send a loud and clear message to the oppressive rulers: Your God maybe dead, ours is NOT. In an “Islamic” country, people can send shivers to the body of authority by shouting God’s name. For the martyrs of the Green movement, protesters organized funerals, 3^rd, 7^th, and 40^th day anniversaries (a Shi’a ritual). Funerals became an idiom of public defiance, the ruling regime was intimidated. They feared their own rituals, their own faith. Through their fear, they demonstrated that they do not know their own people. They demonstrated that Islam for them is a noun behind which they hide. Not only were Islamic practices not a hindrance to the way Iranians challenged the authority, but they also became a common language through which they articulated a profoundly contrasting account between the regime's oppressive Islam and their Islam that is in harmony with activism in the defense of social justice.

Gustavo Gutiérrez: "I desire that the hunger for God may remain, that the hunger for bread may be satisfied… Hunger for God, yes; hunger for bread, no."

Love and Peace from Los Reyes,

Aria