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Moharram

Little boy contemplates coming out in Hamadan's coldest winter in decades. Icicles shine. Be careful my young Hamadani friend! More photos here.

To have lived as long as I have, one comes face to face with his or her own identity more than once. I told you a long time ago how in search of my identity, knowing myself first as a Tehrani born and raised in Tehran, then as an Iranian when I moved to US, and later as an American when I had lived here a long time, sometime in the early 1990's I became a Hamadani, where my parents had originally emigrated from in the 1940's. (Part 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5). Today I want to tell you the story of how I became a Moslem.

I grew up in a home which had not one, but two Haji's as heads of household. Looking back, and remembering thousands of Iranian Moslems I have met in my life, I would say that my parents were probably the happiest Moslems there ever was. They prayed, fasted, paid their khoms-o-zakat and fetrieh, sacrificed not one, but two lambs every Eid-e-Ghorban, celebrated Moslem eids, and mourned the Imams.

Nothing about the way they were Moslems was ever overbearing or imposing to us, the children who were growing up in that happy household. We lacked nothing in religious training if we showed an interest in it, and could participate in all religious ceremonies and requirements. We also could choose not to participate, as some of us chose. There was no pressure and no reprimands. What we learned was completely elective and through observation of those who were loving us unconditionally, providing for us, and raising us as the most loving parents in the world. Whereas a micro mini skirt was not terribly appreciated by my father, no other appearance requirements were ever set for me and my sisters. The way I knew I was a Moslem was to watch the two of them enjoy being Moslems, so comfortable with the rituals and requirements, so generous to others, and so serious and reflective during their prayers.

I remember my father used to work very long days and almost all days of the year, except for our family holidays and twice a year, once during the mourning days of Ramadan and again during Tasooa and Ashoora in Moharram. He wore a black shirt and abstained from shaving, sitting with us in the house, while he reflected. The biggest requirements of those mourning days were for us not to listen to music and not to have parties. That was it. Even religious mourning days, therefore, though quiet, were good days during which our household stayed together, getting busy preparing special foods such as Sholeh Zard, for delivery to our neighbors' homes, celebrating the sense of family and community as Moslems. I remember how my mother poured the hot, delicious smelling Sholeh zard into china gol-e-sorkhi bowls, decorating it lovingly and expertly with cinnamon and pistachio slivers. I remember how neighbors would later return each other's china bowls, leaving a gorgeous flower from their garden inside to thank each other.

I have been through my many stages of belief and spirituality in life. I have read about other faiths and beliefs, and have attended other religions' ceremonies and places of prayer. In the end, if someone asks me today if I believe in God, I would wholeheartedly say "yes." If they asked me what my religion is, I would say "Islam." I know I may not be a very good Moslem, but a long time ago I stopped fighting the urge to pray my Moslem protective prayers for my children and those I love as I see them off, and a fateheh for the deceased every chance I get. I know that to those who make religion a chore, an imposition, a must, with hundreds of requirements and do's and don't's, I am not a very good Moslem at all. But I believe that in the way I live and choose to be, being a moslem has played an integral part of my identity and demeanor. I don't fight it anymore like I used to do during my younger years. Learning from the two best Moslems I have ever known, I couldn't be anything but a Moslem. I celebrate and cherish that piece of my identity in the ways in which I worship my God.

(I will tell you another story on this subject soon.)