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

We are mutually vulnerable– Week # 7

“Los que no han sufrido no saben nada. No conocen ni el bien ni el mal, no conocen a los hombres ni se conocen a si mismos” –Fenelón

“Those who have yet to suffer know nothing. They know neither good nor evil; they know neither men nor themselves” –Fenelón

" آنان که با درد و رنج بیگانه اند از هیچ چیز آگاهی ندارند، نه نیک را از بد تمیز توانند داد و نه از خود یا دیگری آگاهی توانند داشت" – فِنِلون

Those who have worked with me can attest that I am extremely patient. But there is a student that has been pushing the envelope further and further since the beginning of the semester; my bowl of patience has been brimming with frustration. Finally, I asked her to leave the classroom after she referred to an African-American man in the textbook as a “nigger.” Mindful of language and historical barriers, I genuinely tried to explain to her the racist burden contemporary American history has placed on this term, and offered her appropriate terms to use when referring to an American wo/man of African descent, but she further insisted on using the derogatory term. Perhaps she just wanted to defy the authority for all it’s worth. But there are certain questions that I’d still like to contemplate upon before dismissing the incident as such.

In an age where information incessantly pours into our screens, an age where books have their own magic of finding their way around the globe, no place is remote, no town is inaccessible, and no culture is isolated. “That” student must have read/heard about the history of slavery in the U.S. and the world. But what’s the gravity of her knowledge? Did she grow up with racism and racial sensitivities, dynamics of a post-slavery society?  Did she feel the percussions of slavery to the marrow of her bones by observing the systematic injustices African-Americans endure to this day? Has she read first-hand accounts of slavery? I assume she has seen depictions of slavery in films where the identities of slaves are barely negotiated with subjectivity and nuanced embodiment. She is unfamiliar with their history, with their stories, the reality of owning another human being does not sit heavily on her. “Nigger” is just another word for her, and for me it is the lynchings, it is Ku Klux Klan which used to ravage the South not long ago, it’s the ownership of another human, it’s murder and torture. Between the two of us, the gravity of this truth sits heavily on me.

Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Zamora, Michoacán

During the Cristero War in Mexico, many Catholics were
 executed against this wall by the Mexican Army

But “that” student has truths of her own that have little or no gravity for me: foreign invasion and conquest, centuries of feudalism and monarchy, decades of American imperialism, the persecutions of Catholics by the Secular government of Mexico, indigenous marginalization, atrocities caused by drug mafias, etc. I am unfamiliar with her pain, with the history of Mexican struggle. As I face my own unique struggle of establishing myself in Mexican society, learn their language and familiarize myself with their stories and pain, there are hundreds of red lines that I probably have crossed, of course subconsciously. For her, the term “Narco,” which I use so freely and loosely, means abduction, ransom, public shootings, fear, paranoia, in short, a national catastrophe! And there have been many times when I have jokingly used this term, being unaware of how real its threat is, unaware of how deep its damage has been felt throughout Latin America, how many lives it has consumed.

I knew very little about the United States as a nation. After I immigrated to the U.S, I studied American culture and history, I breathed American culture and history, its pains I assumed as my own, its stories I assumed as my own. And still there were many moments when I felt out of place. In Iran, we lightheartedly made jokes about Nazi Germany, Hitler and his gruesome regime. I remember for my 12^th birthday, I asked for a cake with a Nazi symbol on top. A few zestful speeches, handful of movies, and a couple of photos with his typical serious pose were all I knew of Nazi Germany and the atrocities it had caused. I just wanted to be “different,” but that birthday cake symbol for someone else would have been reminiscent of his/her grandparents’ remains. In the U.S, the ground in which the Nazi Germany is seen and analyzed bears no tolerance towards humor, as lighthearted as the one of an uneducated 12 year-old might be. The massive migration of European Jews to the U.S, the staggering number of first-hand accounts of the Holocaust published by the American media and many other factors contribute to the serious and unforgiving manner in which Nazi Germany is (and should be) perceived by Americans.   

As one who sees everything through the lens of literature, I place my absolute faith in the therapeutic effects of story-telling, and the dialogue it generations. I do not expect my student to obtain absolute sensitivity towards American history and society, but I hope she comes to class with an open heart for I am about to tell some stories. “From the suffering of another, there comes a giving that is no longer drawn from the power of acting and giving, but precisely from weakness itself, and the suffering other gives knowledge of shared vulnerability and the experience of the spontaneous benevolence required to bear that knowledge”—Paul Ricoeur.

Peace and resistance from Los Reyes,

Aria

I am an Abstraction! -- Week # 6



Art by: Charlie Uribe
Guadalajara, Mexico



My affiliation with the feminist thought, my philosophy as an atheist, and my passionate social stance as a Gay/Lesbian advocate used to always find a way into my conversation upon meeting new people. Those who have known me for years have come to realize the dear place each cause has in my life and studies. Many perceive these issues differently; nevertheless respect my sense of activism. But those who have known me only for a few weeks or months are often mystified as how to react, how to read this creature who stanchly labels himself as an atheist, feminist, or LGBT advocate. I’d consciously bring up my affiliation with these issues as a means of intellectual resistance and opposition against the systematic injustices that women and Gays/Feminists endure today. In so doing, I intended to be an inspiration, I aimed to break the cycle of apathy, I strove to ignite a sense of activism in my audiences. How effective have my efforts been? Clearly, it’s not my judgment. But that is besides the point of this entry.

Several months ago, a wonderful friend whose observations I highly respect brought up this issue right after we had met a Palestinian film-maker. We were to pick him up from the airport and take him to San Diego State University where his film was set to be screened. The car ride gave us a little time to interact with him. My company noticed that instead of sharing personal information, I brought forth different areas of my interest and activism through these labels. My friend shared that he personally never delves into his beliefs or religious/political affiliations until he knows a person well, especially when he hasn’t even been asked to comment on the status of women’s rights in the Middle East or the social status of Gays/Lesbians in American society. His observations made a lot of sense to me. But my recent experience living in Los Reyes truly put his observations into perspective.

Los Reyes is a small town. Most of its residents are avocado producers and farmers, the majority of whom have not received higher education. They are not familiar with different discourses of social liberties as many are in bigger cities. They are only in dialogue with what is mainstream, socially accepted. Xenophobia is common, and remains unchallenged to a degree. Feminists, Gays, and atheists are perceived to be mentally ill; they are to be cured. And there I was, giving a frank response to my Spanish teacher’s question about my faith. I sensed that her behavior and view towards me radically changed. She was taken aback by my disbelief in God, and I was disappointed and momentarily frustrated. But soon I recalled my friend’s advice. My relationship with my Spanish teacher was yet to be established as personal. The “Atheist” label thus had overshadowed who I am. And it was then that I thought of what Tracy Cummings, my mentor, once told me, “Often times one has to establish his good will before he can say a lot of things.”

After all, what is atheism? Is it a grand-narrative, with an unmistakably identical pattern of thought, mannerism, and beliefs? Does my Spanish teacher know that “my” atheism encompasses going to mass every now and then and enjoying a sense of community gathered in the Church? Does she know my atheism means praying for the Catholics of Haiti, Muslims of Pakistan, and Baha’is of Iran? Does she know my atheism means viewing religion as a progression of human wisdom, a meaningful narrative, a life-style. Does she know my feminism means battling for women to have a choice, be aware of their choice, and be able to choose motherhood and procreation as an alternative that may be embraced, postponed, or rejected altogether? Does she know my advocacy for Gays/Lesbians means respecting and accepting the most fundamental aspect of one’s human identity before establishing his/her political or social rights in society?

No, she doesn’t. And how is she expected to? We have not chatted over a cup of tea. I have not shown her my photography of Mexico yet. I have not gone to mass with her. I have yet to discuss with her my love for the works of American-Mexican writers. I have not established my good will yet. In personal mannerism, ethics, and thought I have not shown her how I interpret atheism, feminisms, and social activism. I have not narrated my story yet. My friend is right, before one really knows another on a personal level all these labels are unnecessary, they’re meaningless until one can see how a person interprets them in his/her life. They’re absolute abstractions. Equally, I am eager to see how my Spanish teacher has interpreted Catholicism in her life, and more importantly, what kind of tea she drinks, what books she reads, what films she watches. I am excited to hear “her” story.   

The Song of "Myself" --Week # 5

Dedicated to the world’s youth who strive to write their own vocabulary of

liberation and hope.

Los Reyes is hardly on any maps. It is a small town. It has waterfalls, volcanoes, and mountains. It has no cinemas, amusement parks, or grand shopping malls. Its youth are all the same; they walk under the same blue sky. A stream of blood runs euphorically through their brain at the sight of a teenage girl/boy. They spend hours before a mirror, a few minutes doing their homework in the hallway, and many more hours day dreaming in class. They are all the same, I repeat these lines to myself sitting in a cozy, smoke-filled cafe attentively observing the mannerisms of Los Reyes’ youth: the way they share a smoke, crack jokes, sip their beer, and the unique way in which each enjoys the live music and friendly environment of the cafe. And there is this guy, not far from where I am sitting, he shares a striking similarity with a close friend who lives in Shiraz; it’s enough to sink me into nostalgia. I cannot pull myself back together, cannot brush off the blues with any color. I walk outside.

My Iran has been on the news for its support of terrorism, threat to world peace, nuclear development, etc. But the daily realities that I experienced for eighteen years and my friends continue to experience today are nowhere on the list, dismissed entirely. In Iran, we are referred to as the “children of the revolution,” products of a repressive, totalitarian ideology that demands unquestioned devotion from its people, viciously injects its morality into Iranian society, and strives to annihilate any voice of opposition. Our story was narrated for us. Before we could form our own opinion, create our own identity, write our own history, all the answers were spoon fed to us. The grand-narrative demanded that we pray to one Direction, believe in one Truth, follow one Path. And somewhere in the midst of this chaos, there we were searching only for a cozy, smoke-filled café to enjoy some music, crack jokes, and feel youthful.

Writing the “song of myself” is not the easiest of tasks in the Islamic Republic of Iran. The official culture has taken over its own people as the enemy. There is no concept of citizenry reflected in the foundation of the regime and the application of its laws. The concept of democracy is reduced to presidential elections that have been rigged for the past eight years. In the Islamic Republic everything is politicized. A cup of coffee is politicized. Music lyrics are politicized. Women’s body is politicized. One’s sex life is politicized. In a culture where the government has no legitimacy, harms its people instead of protecting them, speaks on behalf of other oppressed nations while oppressing its own people in the day light, everything is the subject of politics. And somewhere in the midst of this confusion and turmoil, there we were probing for an entirely social concept of youthfulness. But we were out of line even before taking the first step. Our existence was out of line.

Iran has a long way to be a pluralistic democracy. Economic grievances need to be addressed first, and the concept of human rights and pluralism need to find their way into the law. And there are many more components that I will not bother writing about.  This blog is not about politics. It is about the youth and youthfulness. It’s about establishing the realm of politics distinctly separate from the social realm of youthfulness. My friends are captivated by a fixed, repressive morality. Their youthful years are being politicized. It's about humanizing them.

Peace and resistance from Los Reyes,

Aria