Murmurs

​In this week’s Mustard Seed I share my experience settling into my new routine.
Five days a week I taught my students and tended to my domestic chores. I did all the shopping because my house mates – three American men, retired RAF Colonel Ted, and his Moroccan boy Max – spoke no Farsi at all. I didn’t understand how anyone could live in a country for several years and not learn how to even say please or thank you in the native tongue. I chided them for it, but was happy to do their shopping in exchange for them paying my share of the expenses. Bargaining at the market was also a great way to immerse myself in the local culture.
    Each weekend I would venture out in a different direction to see the sights. I visited an ancient village where people had lived in bee-hive like structures which were accessed via a hole in their top. Semi-precious gems were embedded in the sun-baked clay. The view inside resembled a galaxy of multi-coloured stars. I visited Masuleh, built on a mountainside, where the roofs of the houses in front served as yards and walkways for those behind.
    Many towns had traditional local crafts. I watched tinsmiths craft copper pots over wood fires, weavers produce rugs on hand built looms, and embroiderers create tapestries as they sat in a sewing circle – paying more attention to their chatting than their work. In the small towns people cared only about their daily routine and the weekend Shanbeh bazaar(Saturday market).
    In the cities there were murmurs of political unrest. There were many obvious contradictions. Some women wore western attire and heavy makeup, others were clad in chadors. One high fence might conceal a mansion with a lush, green lawn and an ornamental fountain while the next surrounded a cement-block shack with chickens foraging in a dirt yard. I saw a procession of six shiny, new, single-occupant Mercedes cars followed by a motorcycle bearing six people, a chicken, and a sheep.
These anomalies seemed to foment contempt. Several people told me that it is not charitable for a rich person to invite a beggar to dinner. Once the beggar sees what he doesn’t have he won’t be satisfied with what he does have. I got the sense most of them were beggars who had been to the banquet.
    The Shah must also have felt the tension. It was rumoured that one in seven Iranians worked for Savak, the secret police force. I was cautioned several times not to say or do anything which might draw their attention. Apparently, befriending students was one such an activity.
 
     Next week: Consequences.
                                                   God bless.

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