Marzieh Ghiasi

Click to see full view of a panorama of Mellat Park enterance.

I’ve began to go through my pictures and journal entries from the past summer. These pictures were taken this past summer at Pârk-e Mellat (the National Park) in Tehran, Iran. It’s adjacent to Valiasr Street and is the central park of Tehran and one of its largest. I visited the park a couple of days after the initial massive post-election protests that took place passing through the lengthy Valiasr street. In front of the entrance of the park there are many small kiosk shops that sell lovely handicrafts. There I heard the shopkeepers’ recollections about the protests they had witnessed. As with future encounters, in general some people were hesitant, but the majority of the people spoke quite openly which actually surprised me. One lady said “I saw it with my own eyes. There was a sea of people passing, but everyone was silent.”

Kamal-ol-molk - painter.

Nima Yooshij - modern persian poet.

Muhammad ibn Zakariya Razi - alchemist, chemist, physician, philosopher.

Mohtasham Kashani - poet.

Statue of Mother.

Statue of Mother (close-up).

Working hard to keep green.

Lanterns at the park.

Permanent smog in the air.

The park's enclosed zoo.

Swans in the lake.

Deers on the grounds.

A resting kiosk.

Entrance of the park.

Reaching out to the sun.

With the hustle and bustle of classes well underway, it’s become hard to find the time (and energy) to breath, let alone sit down and write something without highlighters in the other hand.

I returned from Iran almost a month and a half ago, after spending two months in the country. Of that time I spent about a month in Tehran; and in the rest I traveled southward and eastward from the capital towards Shiraz and Mashhad. Before, during and after my trip I was asked over and over, why now?… why after all this time?… and I didn’t have a good answer for it. I still don’t. But while there is some debate to be had about fate, there was a wheel was set in motion months before the events in Iran that led me to return to the country after all these years.

I went to Iran, and I came back and the only thing I could write was: “Back from Iran. I witnessed devastating courage and found a part of myself, I witnessed ancient beauty and and left a part of myself behind.” and no more. But today there are still so many images drifting in my mind, desperately seeking to be pinned down, written about, made sense of. Thousands of pictures, thousands of journal entries, thousands of news stories later… I am wondering, what do I tell?

Do I tell you about the changes in country I left ten years ago, or do I tell you I about the changes I witnessed while I was there? Do I talk about the antiquity that permeated every alley, or the immense highways the bridged the edges of the metropolis Tehran? Should I speak of my pilgrimages to the silent mausoleums of dead poets, or of my excursions to the loud streets of chanting heroes? What do I say about incongruities, about contradictions? How do I sum up faithless believers? How do I put beauty and ugliness in a sentence?

While in Tehran, I visited an exhibition in the Sa’adabad Palace Museum complex which showcased the travels of Issa and Abdullah Omidvar. The brothers, whose last name incidentally means “hopeful”, were two Iranian explorers who starting in 1954 traveled all over the globe for more than 7 years on motorcycle. When I was leaving Montréal I wrote that I wanted… hoped to see with eyes unclouded. What I saw was this motto of the hopefuls:

I am currently sitting in the boarding queue in Amsterdam, only a few hours away before landing in Tehran. We arrived in Amsterdam at about 7:30am local time (01.00+ GMT), and our connecting flight to Iran is due to leave at 4:30pm this afternoon.

A tiny bird somehow had found its way inside the airport, feasting on leftover McDonald’s meals. The twitter bird in real life.

Crossing the Atlantic, we lost about 6 hours. These were six hours that we had gained the last time we crossed the other way about ten years ago, a good enough motive to move westwards of course. The Amsterdam Airport Schiphol is quite large and looks promising for exploration. I didn’t have much sleep though, so my desire to explore so is subdued by my need for a nice bed right now. There are very comfy “sleepy” chairs here in the airport across from me (second floor up from the international gates)… oh and the Egyptian Youth handball team heading to Switzerland…

This trip has been on my mind ever since we booked it a few months ago, and now is a good time as any to finally write about it. I left Iran when I was a little girl, and I’m now returning as a young woman. I left at a point where the foundations of my identity had been rooted, to another country where my identity matured.

When I left Iran I was a child enamored with my surroundings, culture and history. So parting from that, at the time, seemed like a departure from everything I knew. Estrangement. But everyone learns to adjust and so did I – I learned a new language; I made friends, and grew up.

But as if the self-consciousness that comes with growing into an adult wasn’t enough. In a post-9/11 world, my beliefs and values, what I looked like and what I wore were being challenged in every headline. I had to traverse through identities and ideologies, trying my best to distinguish who I was from who I was being told I was. And all this time, I anchored myself in memories held in solitude, kept safe in their fragile impermanence.

When I planned this trip months ago it was to be a personal experience, a rekindling with old memories… After all, the last time I crossed the Atlantic, I never envisioned that I would not see Iran again for so many years. I hoped that the country that I left would be a better country when I returned to it. But no one seems to have had anticipated the events that have transpired in the past few weeks in Iran. Like many other Iranians across the world I’ve been glued to the news, trying to understand what is happening. What is evident in the reports and the searing images that have emerged is that there has been a rapid change in the mood of the country.

There is a point in the film Mononoke Hime by the divine Hayao Miyazaki where the character Lady Eboshi asks Prince Ashitaka, the main character “what exactly are you here for?” referring to his journey to the west. He replies “To see with eyes unclouded by hate.” In this journey to the east, back to my home of long ago, I hope that I too will be able to see with eyes unclouded and convey what I see through my words.