Globe Gazette Article

Here's the article that ran in the Mason City Globe Gazette this past Sunday:

http://www.globegazette.com/articles/2007/12/30/local/doc47771d3a4015f471150737.txt

At the IFYC Conference, Chicago

Le Anne Clausen, originally uploaded by Interfaith Youth Core.

My collar's a bit askew, but this is so far my favorite pic of me as a religious leader. Courtesy of Interfaith Youth Core.

The Hope in Harry Potter

There's two good articles I've read about Harry Potter lately, so the topic's been on my mind. (It's amazing I have this kind of time right now to think of things, and also to write them down. I'll miss it when I'm back to the daily grind). One is TIME magazine's 'Person of the Year' profile of J.K. Rowling, a runner-up for the competition, reflecting on her work and its meaning. The other appears in 'The Lutheran' magazine, on why one pastor has no trouble with his grandchildren reading Potter.

I've been writing around the edges of a pit in my stomach that doesn't want to go back to school this coming semester, that doesn't want to do much anything except hide actually--it's a lousy time to be a leader in our student government if you ask me. Our beloved dean is headed on sabbatical, and the other powers that be seem not too interested in the life and wellbeing of students, let alone the neighborhood. In fact, there's a lot of forces that don't seem to be too concerned about the place in which we live and the wellbeing of people. One gets the sense that some would like the students to shut up and go away, in occasionally politer terms. I've been known to say out loud I'd rather take my chances in prison this spring, which is very well likely where I'll be once the SOA trial is over. In the meantime, I've dropped to part-time, and I don't hang out on campus much anymore.

Still, perhaps now is not the time to hide, behind bars or otherwise. And this is where I find great courage in reading and re-reading Potter. (I might also mention the Lord of the Rings, and the Chronicles of Narnia, epics I never thought I'd embrace before recent years). I need to hear, over and over again, that people can go wrong in the pursuit of their perceived good; to recognize it when it's happening in leaders I see, and to take warning it could happen in myself. I need to hear that there is hope in love, and there is hope even when those we love and who love us can't be there to help us. In fact, I might have still remained in seminary up to this point in good part due to reading Potter.

The thing I appreciate most about Rowling's archetypes in Potter is that they do help me to see, bad in good people and good in bad (or, rather, those who are causing harm and fear) people, and to seek to love them however I can. Yes, in my world I can identify Gilderoy Lockharts and Severus Snapes and Lucius Malfoys and any manner of Ministry officials. (I even knew a crooked dean once at another seminary who resembled in face and body and voice and personality and all other things Dolores Umbridge, as portrayed in this summer's fifth movie). I think I might even have encounters with the Dark Lord on occasion. And sometimes I don't know this until I feel the little deaths they've left behind.

But I also know Dumbledores, and Hagrids and Lupins, who love me and seek to help, and whom I love; and I have friends the likes of Hermione and Ron, Luna and house-elves even. Somehow, I am reminded I don't have to face things alone. This is different than being free to abandon the situation altogether. But also, not alone.

I think it could be egotistical to think of myself as Potter, but then, probably every child puts him or herself in Potter's shoes, or at least those children who must face trials in life and survive; those who are not sheltered from most things and are perhaps more vulnerable, but also have a few gifts to recognize and use to help themselves. I need to think of my gifts less as a curse or a source of personal pain, and more as gifts, and to practice them in order to be better and do better. I don't know. There are so many ways to go wrong when trying to use one's gifts well, to function in society, to know the good and work for it.

I hope I can work for the good, and remain good. I hope I will keep the students together, not to dissolve into factions and stir up enmity with each other, because there are so many ways that could happen. I hope not to be alone.

'Mean Girls' in Ministry

I finally got around to watching the movie 'Mean Girls,' which I've been meaning to do for a couple years now since it was made. I had a feeling it would help me come to terms with a few things.

'Mean Girls' chronicles a year in the life of a high school girl who's new and doesn't know how the typical social caste works. She ends up in the circle of the 'mean girls,' who are always cruel, humiliating, and manipulative towards everyone else, but still people look up to them as cool. Once she sees them for what they are, she tries to destroy them, but is herself destroyed in the process. So she has to find a way to seek healing for herself as well as the whole school.

I wanted to watch this because of the things which I've seen in seminary and ministry among women that I simply do not like. No, that's not strong enough. I am totally disillusioned by some of the things I see going on among women in power, in ministry and in seminary education, that only serve to hurt--other women in particular, sometimes to the point of forcing more vulnerable students out of the schools altogether. I have been hurt by these power games, and I've had plenty of friends hurt too. It would be easy to run away. It's harder to know how to work for change. And I don't want to become like that either, to have myself changed for the worse. There's a long list of women in ministry and women teaching in seminaries that I frankly don't want to be like, 'when I grow up.'

I don't do very well in challenging cruel and humiliating words, or manipulation, or any of the 'soft abuses,' such as verbal, emotional, or psychological abuse, or any of the other ways a person can use an institution to crush another person. Maybe it is because the seminary is the place where the institutions of religion and academy combine that it is a place vulnerable to such abuses.

Now, if I haven't said it before, I'm not talking about my female classmates, or even women who are newly colleagues in ministry, regardless of their age. The women in my seminary classes I've known, on the whole, have been wonderful sources of support. I think this is because we are all brought into the same place as students, facing the same challenges--at least in this one part of our lives. I don't know if I could say it of every seminary, but for now, this is what I see.

I've theorized here before, and elsewhere, that women in power, even at the height of their careers, still face the glass ceiling of tradition above them, still desire the esteem of their male colleagues and admiration of their male subordinates, but feel the advance of age and death that claims us all; in the process, female subordinates can only appear to them as threats until they find contentment with their own lives' work, and choose to prepare the next generation to carry on. I try to remember this when I am recovering from the latest blows. It doesn't always help.

I do worry that I will become like this also, that any step I make to lead others will somehow unwittingly cause me to treat 'subordinates' the way I've been treated. It makes me not want to hire anyone or ask volunteers for help. I don't want to give orders, and really, I don't want to lead at all. I'm still less afraid of having someone lead me than of stepping out and causing harm.

But no, there have to be other ways, ways of leading through healing. Or healing through leading. I think it'll be hard work. And as with many things, I don't know that I'll succeed. I do know I want to lash out sometimes, okay, many times, and make life as hard for them as they've made it for me. I also know that will only make things worse. I hope I can resist the temptation.

At least 'Mean Girls' has a happy ending. Relationships are restored, and even transformed. It doesn't have to be the way it was. Sometimes I think that if we let another generation of women pass, things will mellow out, but there's no guarantee of that. Some intervention is probably needed.

I hope happy endings in this situation won't end up only a thing of the movies.

"Congress Shall Make No Law..."

I am embarrassed to say that an Iowa member of Congress introduced this bill. Were there not enough starving children to feed, prisoners to visit, sick people to tend, dead (especially from misguided wars) to bury, or other works of real Christian mercy to perform? Below the legislation, you'll see my classmate Tom's take on how this bill evidences a lack of reading the Bible. Reading the legislation, I think it will be evident that King has forgotten to read his Constitution also:

IV


110TH CONGRESS
1ST SESSION H. RES. 847
Recognizing the importance of Christmas and the Christian faith.
IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES
DECEMBER 6, 2007
Mr. KING of Iowa (for himself, Mr. AKIN, Mrs. BACHMANN, Mr. BAKER, Mr.
BARRETT of South Carolina, Mr. BISHOP of Utah, Mr. BOOZMAN, Mr.
BRADY of Texas, Mr. BROUN of Georgia, Mr. BROWN of South Carolina,
Mr. BURTON of Indiana, Mr. CARTER, Mr. CONAWAY, Mr. DAVID DAVIS
of Tennessee, Mr. DOOLITTLE, Mr. FEENEY, Mr. FORTENBERRY, Ms.
FOXX, Mr. FRANKS of Arizona, Mr. GINGREY, Mr. GOHMERT, Mr.
HAYES, Mr. HERGER, Mr. ISSA, Mr. SAM JOHNSON of Texas, Mr. JONES
of North Carolina, Mr. JORDAN of Ohio, Mr. KINGSTON, Mr. KLINE of
Minnesota, Mr. KUHL of New York, Mr. LAHOOD, Mr. LAMBORN, Mr.
LAMPSON, Mr. DANIEL E. LUNGREN of California, Mr. MCCAUL of
Texas, Mr. MCINTYRE, Mrs. MCMORRIS RODGERS, Mr. MILLER of Florida,
Mrs. MUSGRAVE, Mrs. MYRICK, Mr. NEUGEBAUER, Mr. POE, Mr.
SALI, Mr. SHADEGG, Mr. SMITH of Texas, Mr. STEARNS, Mr. TERRY,
Mr. TIAHRT, Mr. WALBERG, Mr. WELDON of Florida, Mr. WILSON of
South Carolina, Mr. DAVIS of Kentucky, and Mrs. DRAKE) submitted the
following resolution; which was referred to the Committee on Foreign Affairs
RESOLUTION
Recognizing the importance of Christmas and the Christian
faith.
Whereas Christmas, a holiday of great significance to Americans
and many other cultures and nationalities, is celebrated
annually by Christians throughout the United
States and the world;
VerDate Aug 31 2005 21:51 Dec 07, 2007 Jkt 069200 PO 00000 Frm 00001 Fmt 6652 Sfmt 6300 E:BILLSHR847.IH HR847 hsrobinson on PROD1PC76 with BILLS
2
HRES 847 IH1S
Whereas there are approximately 225,000,000 Christians in
the United States, making Christianity the religion of
over three-fourths of the American population;
Whereas there are approximately 2,000,000,000 Christians
throughout the world, making Christianity the largest religion
in the world and the religion of about one-third of
the world population;
Whereas Christians identify themselves as those who believe
in the salvation from sin offered to them through the sacrifice
of their savior, Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and
who, out of gratitude for the gift of salvation, commit
themselves to living their lives in accordance with the
teachings of the Holy Bible;
Whereas Christians and Christianity have contributed greatly
to the development of western civilization;
Whereas the United States, being founded as a constitutional
republic in the traditions of western civilization, finds
much in its history that points observers back to its roots
in Christianity;
Whereas on December 25 of each calendar year, American
Christians observe Christmas, the holiday celebrating the
birth of their savior, Jesus Christ;
Whereas for Christians, Christmas is celebrated as a recognition
of God’s redemption, mercy, and Grace; and
Whereas many Christians and non-Christians throughout the
United States and the rest of the world, celebrate Christmas
as a time to serve others: Now, therefore be it
1 Resolved, That the House of Representatives—
2 (1) recognizes the Christian faith as one of the
3 great religions of the world;
VerDate Aug 31 2005 21:51 Dec 07, 2007 Jkt 069200 PO 00000 Frm 00002 Fmt 6652 Sfmt 6201 E:BILLSHR847.IH HR847 hsrobinson on PROD1PC76 with BILLS
3
HRES 847 IH1S
1 (2) expresses continued support for Christians
2 in the United States and worldwide;
3 (3) acknowledges the international religious and
4 historical importance of Christmas and the Christian
5 faith;
6 (4) acknowledges and supports the role played
7 by Christians and Christianity in the founding of the
8 United States and in the formation of the western
9 civilization;
10 (5) rejects bigotry and persecution directed
11 against Christians, both in the United States and
12 worldwide; and
13 (6) expresses its deepest respect to American
14 Christians and Christians throughout the world.

Now, for Tom's take on the issue (a pretty hip video):

Iran/Iraq: A War Remembered

This morning I was thinking about the Tehran Peace Museum and remembering the words of a few former soldiers in the Iran-Iraq war. They had been wounded and disabled in the fighting. They were angry that Saddam had been executed before he could be tried for his use of chemical weapons against Iran in the war. For these soldiers, and for many other people we met, that war was still quite fresh in their minds. They weren't looking forward to more horror, not from any quarter.

Previously, I'd heard about the war from former Iraqi soldiers. They talked of being sent to the front, when they knew it was more likely they'd return home dead than alive. I remember one of our translators in Iraq recalling graffiti in a trench on the front lines: "Children kill frogs for fun, but the frogs die seriously."

Perhaps there is some hope for healing: in Iraq, I never heard people talk about that war as something to be proud of, either for starting it or for how it ended. To the people I heard from, it was only a tragedy.

Much like now, I imagine--there is no other word besides 'tragedy' to describe it.

I hope for no more war for Iran. I hope for no more war for Iraq, or Afghanistan, or anyone. I hope.

Charlie Wilson's War

I went out to see Charlie Wilson's War at the cineplex this evening in Mason City (incidentally, where the cineplex seemed to be doing a brisk business on Christmas afternoon. This is perhaps how we Iowans survive the holidays).

It was a movie that hit a bit close to home, or one such adopted home of mine as Afghanistan. I trust that those of you reading this will know history and therefore I can't really spoil the ending of this movie about the Americans--Soviets--Mujaheddin in Afghanistan in the 70s. Still, skip the next paragraph if you really need to:

The end of the movie, though victorious in a billion-dollar battle to push back the Soviets, is that once the battle is won, Congress won't even approve a mere million to rebuild the schools in a country where half the population is under 14 years old. The character who knows the situation best says, you mustlisten, the crazies are already coming in and setting up camp. The rest, as we know, is history. Charlie Wilson, though honored for his service to the country, later says, "These things happened and they were glorious. Trouble is, we F***'d up the end game."

We forgot to clean up our mess, and we undid any good we might have done. Human rights plunged to even worse conditions than they had previously. Sound familiar? And so goes Iraq in '91, Afghanistan again in 2001, and Iraq in 2007. What have we done and what misery have we brought on these poor people? And, having abandoned them or neglected them, how can we blame them when they turn to the extremists?

When I was in Afghanistan in 2005, the civil society leaders from all different backgrounds said the same thing--that Americans had abandoned them 25 years ago, and terrible things resulted. We cannot abandon them again, without rebuilding schools and hospitals and roads and the things that make daily life and survival possible. And yet we dashed off to the next war, and perhaps even yet the next.

The movie theater was nearly silent when the film finished. Everyone it seemed took the lesson to heart, at least in that moment. I wonder if it might change hearts for good.

Heeding the Ear Bugs...

I think just about everyone gets 'ear bugs,' those songs which stick to your brain and play themselves over and over again. They can be terribly annoying, and some folks will do just about anything to stop the repetition. (This might include singing it out loud, which often, I understand, has the effect of 'infecting' someone else within earshot.)

I am trying to befriend my ear bugs these days, as an alternative to getting annoyed, and trying to listen for what they might be saying to me. Along the same lines as the wisdom that hymns teach us more (and more memorable) theology than any sermon will, sometimes I think perhaps God might even have a thing or two to say to me, that I haven't been paying attention to any other way. I suppose this is a form of prayer.

So, today, the ear bug is from the 70's rock musical, 'Jesus Christ Superstar,' particularly the song that Mary sings one evening to a frustrated Jesus:

Try not to get worried, try not to turn on to, problems that upset you, no,
Don't you know, everything's alright, yes, everything's fine,
and I want you to sleep well tonight
let the world turn without you tonight.
Close your eyes, close your eyes, and relax, think of nothing tonight...



This is actually something quite helpful for me right now, because for several nights really, I have been turning my mind to those problems that upset me, just before bedtime. And also several times throughout the day when I should be enjoying the life in front of me. Mostly they are problems of religious violence, how I might succeed in creating a peace community of young religious leaders near all of our seminaries in Chicago, how to create the Interfaith Peace Teams, how to stop a war in Iran, how to handle a handful of bitter individuals who try to keep my congregation from being a welcoming place for others, or simply remembering the cruel and humiliating barbs that my seminary president throws out at myself and any other student in leadership on our campus--and trying not to become too bitter about these last cases myself. I wonder if I can succeed, or even have any hope at all, in attempting any of these things.

And yet, it is Christmas night. And while there may be much work for me to do tomorrow morning and all next year, I won't make any progress on any of these tonight, and I won't get far without sleeping well. It's a little like this process of recovering from a concussion--doing myself more harm than good if I refuse to rest well. Taking a week off, the world has not fallen apart (Perhaps a few of my bills have gone awry, but I'll need to check that also tomorrow), and this has been a good lesson for me. The world can turn without me, at least for a little bit. I've been meaning to make myself expendable for the time when I'll be in prison later this spring, but this forces me to practice actually doing so.

So, at least for tonight, I will try to take heed, close my eyes, relax, and hopefully think of nothing more.

Recovery

It's been several days since I could sit at a computer, writing and reading and thinking without pain-- 'brain pain,' I could call it-- left over from the concussion. I didn't mind it so much myself but everyone around me was sternly reminding me not to work right now, and instead focus on recovery from the accident.

It's funny how that left an impression on me--and I don't just mean my skull. Not being able to read or write or work felt like punishment, and I was angry--irrationally so. I could hear myself thinking, "It's not my fault my head bumped the window. I want to write!" Which is silly thinking. I remember Mark saying on our trip that he was an unrepentant workaholic, and I suppose so am I.

Still, writing, and even just reading, are how I make sense of things, and being cut off from the way I make sense of things was nearly unbearable. I didn't mind so much needing to excuse myself from so many social functions--I don't really like crowds, after all, and can't understand more than one conversation going on at once. But any other time I'm sick, I just want to read. Or write.

This time, when I wasn't sleeping things off, I was actually realizing I may as well watch movies. First of all, I don't have to really watch them--I can close my eyes. Or drift in and out. And they are pretty mindless often enough. But I also have some guilt over TV time as being wasted time. I hate to admit that I do now watch several more hours per month than I used to, and don't know if it's made me much better of a person. Even though I now have a reason to do so, the guilt remains.

So, I am a bad patient. It's time to learn this now, another lesson under age 30, all these life lessons I'm trying to teach myself before this upcoming birthday, when I feel like I should somehow be monumentally wiser. I don't know if it's going to happen. I'm still pretty far from the person I'd like to be. Granted, the person I'd like to be looks a lot like St. Francis or Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or perhaps even Harry Potter. I could cut myself some slack.

I guess I'll try to do that. Right now's a good time to try.

Winding Thoughts on Winding Roads

Desert
The desert is a good place to come away to think, to reflect on your own self and all that is happening in life—even when you are driving through. The absences of scenery and the long distances put you into that space to work through what’s on your mind, to let it float freely up. That certainly has guided all I’ve written here, as disorganized and freely flowing as it is.

We have traveled from the big city to the small towns. The buildings are constructed of yellow brick and blue tile. Bright colors everywhere decorate everything, which stands in stark contrast to the muted clothing worn by the older generation and more conservative members of the population.

The mountains around here are clear-cut examples of tectonic activity—jutting up abruptly from the ground; earthquakes have claimed many of the historic sites as well as places of the living. We will not travel to Bam, where they are still recovering slowly.

One other earthquake casualty has been the grand citadel inside Shiraz, which has now a leaning tower which tore away from the rest. However, they have been able to restore it by creating a sort of brick patch to mend the gaps, and it’s not in any danger of falling for the time being. It would be quite a loss if another quake hits.

I haven’t said much about the buses here, which are delightful to watch. The bus system and routes recently became privatized, and each company has a different color—all easeter-egg shades of pink, green ,yellow, orange, and blue. It is true that they are gender-segregated, with bars halfway back separating men from women. However, the number of seats available seems equal. I would love to be able to ride one and visit in the company of all the women, which as a young woman is the company that I always find more fun in travels like these.

As we travel past the fields it appears that one harvest has been completed and the winter planting is about to begin. Rice, corn, barley, and wheat are common crops, although the irrigation systems are needed given the arid climate. There are also groves full of citrus, persimmon, figs and quince—as well as trees growing in people’s front yards, and the row of citrus along the boulevards in downtown Shiraz. Some of these are bitter orange, which have the same use as lemon or lime in cooking. I made the mistake of trying to eat one plain.

Out on the road again, the major truck routes, there are lots of factories, junkyards, mechanic garages, tire shops, and truck stops. The desert is often put to use for ‘industrial zones,’ particularly quarrying and those other trades you don’t want too near to your neighborhood. I remember the north end of Mason City, Iowa and its trouble with limestone dust on the houses, and realize the value of this civil planning. There is quite a bit of limestone though being quarried; some of the fault lines and earthquake-created mountains are becoming tomorrow’s dream homes, sidewalks, and businesses.

When we stop to eat, I notice a lot of bottled Pepsi and 7-up. It’s possible that these are franchises and not really run by parent companies, such as I believe Coca-cola is. This is only found in cans. I’d hoped local versions of soda were available, but by this point in history I think globalization has won out. However, there is a good ‘Islamic beer,’ non-alcoholic, produced locally, which I like far better than any soda. It’s called Delster and comes in lemon, plum, peach and wheat; and it doesn’t have nearly the acid taste or carbonation of soda. It’s common to most restaurants and no other brand seems quite as popular.

Along the highway, there are long walls which are covered in painted advertisements for local businesses. These are done in the beautiful Persian calligraphy, and lend a sign like “Hank’s plumbing, 555-5555” a greater level of formality and dignity.

The businesses and market here are organized into clusters by what you’re looking for: a block of hardware shops, then electrical, then playground equipment( these are the most fun to pass by) and plumbing, women’s clothes, men’s clothes, children’s clothes, toys. This I believe is done to serve as a kind of trade guild and to ensure some fair pricing, but is also less convenient if you have a varied list—you might have to spend a lot of time in a car getting from one market to another. In Tehran, our hotel was clearly in the hardware market.

In the villages and farms we’ve seen shaggy goats seeking shade under the willow trees. We also saw farmers harvesting brilliant salad greens from the seemingly-impossible desert earth, and loading them into pickup trucks. There continue to be dozens of chicken farms and long row-houses to contain them, out in the desert. They are domed buildings with large fans, quite similar to the ones used in Iowa but made of clay and mud brick instead of corrugated tin. I imagine they’re out here because of the smell, and also because it is a product that can survive out here all year.

Now the sun is setting out here, and rose pinks and periwinkles are on cast across the mountains by its rays. I see dust blowing across the mountaintops under that setting sun, and its shadow looks like arms stretching out from a radiant head. Meanwhile the mists are rising up from the ground. I wonder where it comes from. Inside the bus, too dark to read any more—we are busily becoming scholars of Ferdowsi, Saadi, and Hafez—a sample of Iranian cinema is being played on the video system. After about twenty minutes of previews, mostly comedies that need no translation, the main feature is a serious critique of society and how people treat one another. Based on a true story, it follows a teenage girl whose father is paranoid that she is seeing boyfriends and beats her repeatedly. In the meantime, a rival at school is sending fake love letters to her home in order to fuel the father’s rage against the daughter. He nearly kills her one night, and she runs away, then returns to sue him for his unjustified behavior. In the end, he reforms. The moral of the story is that it doesn’t necessarily take a government to oppress people; people are quite good at oppressing each other using any means available, whether a series of laws or mere power relationships over others.

And it seems a fitting story and a moral to remember out here, in an oppressive desert climate, where people still manage to survive; where a little bus of travelers try to do their part in hopes of stopping a war; in hopes we might all survive. It's a long road to justice, and a longer one to understanding, longer than this desert road; that road unfolds when we return home.

Carpets, Flying and Otherwise

This may be a good time to say a word or two about the famous Persian carpets, which we see in the bazaar as well as in the Carpet Museum we saw in Teheran. There are two basic kinds: city carpets and gabbe, the carpets of the koshkoi, which are woven differently and meant for creating a home in rugged conditions. The patterns vary greatly between the two, as well as the contrast of the colors . Both are extremely beautiful. I hope to distribute some pictures shortly. I did not know before that it is actually a good thing to step on the carpets; because the wear and the washing increases their antiquity value. They are designed for this, and people often put them in high-traffic areas so they will be ‘worn-in.’ Still, it’s best not to walk on them with your shoes off the street, as this does grind in too much oil and dirt.

There are hundreds of beautiful carpets, old and new, city and nomadic, in the Tehran museum we visited. My favorites are the ones which tell a story, whether of the Tree of Life, or remembering the war, or other sagas. There are detailed colorful birds, and one which contains an owl that strikes my eye. There are also thousands of carpets out in the bazaar, everything from the traditional patterns to Tweety Bird.

Of Camels and Caravanserai

We visited a site in the desert where four caravanserai had once stood, along with a watchtower overlooking all of them, and an underground irrigation channel. Caravanserai, if I haven't explained them earlier, are ancient hotels along the desert roads and trade routes, where you can find protection at night and stables to feed and care for your caravan of camels and possessions.

We've seen probably hundreds of remains of these caravanserai throughout the desert, in various conditions, probably about a day's camel ride apart from each other as well as at the entrance to any town. Although they are fascinating, and quite old, our guide explains that there's simply not enough resources to keep all of them preserved. Other times, local families have moved in and are putting them to use for their own agriculture or other businesses.

The irrigation channels begin at the base of the mountains, and it is an ancient art to dig the tunnels under the earth to locations miles away. The longest such channel known in Iran is over 350 kilometers. There are access points along the way, which you protect with earth mounds, or in this case a truck tire, so debris doesn’t blow in.

One of the caravanserai is still in quite good condition, and some local farmers have put it and the rest of the complex to use as a fairly busy stockyard. Bales of hay were stacked in the external porticoes, one was fenced in to keep the chickens or goats at bay, and the furthest one from the road held half a dozen camels. Jon caught a ride on one of them out of the gates.

Our travels were lightened a bit today by the sharing of tea and cream puffs, which tasted every bit as good as I imagined when I saw that young couple devouring them. They are best chilled, but even when we had our second and third helpings later in the afternoon, they were still pretty good. Lunch was in a traditional-style travelers’ in at Na’in, with a walled-in garden and rooms opening on to a main court rather than long hallways.

In the afternoon, we stopped at a modern 'truck stop,' which happened to be on the edge of a village, near a mosque and its accompanying cemetery, looking lonely in the desert. Some of the people buried there appeared to be very young men. I wonder what happened to them. The desert can be a hard place to survive, but this is also a country whose memories of the last war are still so close to the surface.

And still life goes on in this place, and in the houses of the village just beyond. And we go on as well, back into the bus and on to the next place where we weary desert travelers will rest our own heads tonight.

Women and Gender III: Women's Work and Safety

We talked a little more again about women, gender and Islam in Iran, and how the university is now over 60% women students, with an increasing number of women in the workforce by choice. Our guide says much has changed even over the past five years. Some women in the cities do elect not to get married, because they are enjoying their careers and lives, and it is becoming more common to rent an apartment on one’s own. Previously, a woman had to be past child-bearing age in order to rent an apartment or a hotel room on her own.

In some places, it’s considered impossible to adapt the laws as they were written originally in the Qur’an, even if times have changed. However, clerics here apparently do try to make modern applications. Here's a story from a different situation, but one which demonstrates the need for change: There was a court case where a man struck a pedestrian with his car and killed him. The Qur’an says that the compensation for an accidental death should be 70 camels. This man happened to keep camels and brought 70 with him to the courthouse on the day of his trial. The court realized then that they couldn’t hold him to further punishment because of the Qur’anic teaching. However, where do you keep 70 camels today? Especially if you’re in an apartment in Tehran? So afterwards, they assessed the monetary value of the camels and set that as the compensation instead.

And so goes the logic with women’s age for marriage and other life prospects here. In the time of the Qur’an, and even into the past century, it was a fact of survival that women needed to marry early, in their teens. Not so in today’s society, and survival if anything now means education.

I know from my work for a year in a grassroots Arab women’s domestic violence program that the rates of domestic and sexual violence are the same for women in the East as in the West; only the language of justification and the kinds of perpetrators change. Overall, for both cultures it is a language of possessiveness, control, and domination. In the East, boyfriends and strangers are less involved, but abuse or molestation by a relative or spousal abuse takes its place. In the West, women don’t live in as close contact with extended male family members, but are more likely to experience acquaintance or ‘date’ rape or abuse from a boyfriend, or teachers, clergy, or doctors, etc.

It occurred to me again, though I don’t think I ever wrote about this, that there are some universal problems and cultures that are trying to address them in their own finite human ways. How do we prevent a child or female relative from being abused? How do we prevent adultery, or teen pregnancy, or broken marriages, or drug addiction? How can as many people as possible be in stable families and housed and employed? And this is where certainly extremists in all religions head off into some solutions that seem worse than the problem. The weight of the ‘punishment’ is often equal to the perceived threat to the society. Societies become more conservative as they perceive themselves to be under threat. I wonder if this isn’t what leads to the rise and fall of local, national, and even global civilizations.

Yazd: Wind Towers, Shrines, and Mud Brick Cities

Yazd
Our visit for the day was to the old city of Yazd, only part of what we hoped to see but had to cancel due to the accident. We have missed the towers of silence and the Zoroastrian fire temple, where they have kept the flame going now for over four hundred years. But we did see a magnificent mosque, simply named ‘the grand mosque,’ Jaame al Kabir, a home built of mud brick, the wind towers, and a school housing a shrine to its beloved teacher.

There we met a young Iranian woman photographer, complete with techno-looking backpack over her manteau, wandering through the old city. She had been grown up largely outside the country but was trying life here for a year, to see if she could stay, which she felt strongly called to do during these times. Another woman we met, in full chador, was an industrial engineering student at the university and had hoped to invite us to her home. She said she always looked for tourists to speak with and enjoyed their company very much. I don’t know if these two girls finally had the chance to meet each other after we left, but I think they would have enjoyed each other immensely.

The school and shrine we visited was closed to men for the day, and the five of us women decided to join the festivities. We left our shoes at the edge of the iwan, or portico, and put on the long white chadors. Some of us had help getting them right-side-up from the local women present. We entered behind the curtain, and a woman greeted us with nuts and raisins to eat during our visit. Inside, the shrine, which was the size of a large classroom and two stories tall, women were sitting wall to wall on the ground, and several women were standing grasping part of the shrine in the middle. This was part marble and part glass with a chrome lattice over it. Inside, it was lit with pictures of the great teacher and his tomb, and many flowers. There were places to slip some money into the shrine, as well as prayer requests or one’s troubles on a slip of paper. Some women are praying, one is chanting beautifully, and others are simply visiting with one another for the morning. Children and grandmothers and young women are all here. The women are glad we came, and are smiling and welcoming. There is a tea urn on the side and some of the women are passing around cups, but we know we only have a moment inside. So we look up to the grand carved ceiling, place our hands on the shrine and peer in, and exchange pleasantries on our way out as we did on the way in.

I mentioned that we saw a traditional mud-brick house. Sayyid actually knocked on the door of one such house, hoping that someone was home and knowing it would be presentable for company. A young man answered and welcomed us through a long tunnel into the main courtyard. It is set a few feet down from street level, which is by design to keep it cooler in summer and warmer in winter. A small pool takes the center of the court, and each room of the house opens onto it. The kitchen, including a small oven for baking bread, is in one corner with many large pots. It’s so nice inside I don’t really want to leave. The mud-brick houses are quite a sustainable way to live, providing natural insulation throughout the year, especially with the wind towers on top to keep the sand out but let the air in. However, people would like to live in more modern areas, with wider streets and space for garages, etc., so many of the homes in the old city are actually simply abandoned. I hope not forever, but I do understand the temptation of ‘suburban’ living as it affects us as well.

--

We are having another beautiful desert sunset, this one muted to the west by a small sandstorm and smoke from nearby small homes and factories. There is still dry corn in the fields here, and the homes are especially small in this village, perhaps no more than a room. In the distance are more modern looking houses and cities and streetlights. We are still an hour from Esfahan, where we will sleep tonight, where we will visit at least a little after our delays, and hope to capture an ounce of the beauty for which it is so famous. Then on to the seminary city of Qom, and it is almost time to return home, to my own city and seminary and then onto my own home among the farms.

Bus Wreck

On our way back from Chek Chek, we had our worst experience of the trip—we were warned the first day that the most dangerous threat to us in Iran is traffic—whether crossing the road as a pedestrian or auto accidents. We were merging lanes after coming through a roundabout when we ‘merged’ too closely with the business end of a dump truck.

Our bus was totaled—the whole front right corner smashed in. Fortunately, most of the people closest to the impact saw it coming and were able to protect themselves. Those of us in the back or sleeping hit the seats in front of us, and had more injuries. I smacked my head pretty good into the window, but the window didn’t break. Here are some of the thoughts I wrote down and remember from the experience:

There is a roaring, almost indescribable, sound made by a bus hitting the back of a heavy truck, of a windshield crumpling and the side windows shattering; there is the sound of coming to a dead halt after brakes are applied and skid across pavement. There is the sound of soft thuds of people hitting the seats in front of them, and the hard smacks of hitting windows, of computers and cameras and eyeglasses going flying.

Then there is the sight of a spray of fine glass showering down across the street beside me, of bits of metal flying, clattering onto the pavement. Where did that dump truck go? It was here and then gone.

There is the sensation of head hitting hard against a surface, and another feeling, which seemed like brain hitting against the inside of one’s skull. I did this though when we hit the brakes, and before the impact. So I saw others hit hard, then the flying glass, and heard the silence in the first moment after the crash.

I remember checking internally to see if everything was alright. Can I still see? Hear? Move? Is anyone dead? Injured? Missing? I remember the first moments after the crash in Iraq, the initial knowing before knowing that someone had died. A spirit demanding that its body be searched for and discovered in a field would not let me alone until I found him. I remember worrying in Iraq, and now in Iran, that news would reach the States of our crash and injuries and would this lead our nations into war?

I remember getting everyone and everything off the bus. By luck we had crashed just in front of a police station, and their response was immediate. We were ushered inside, after getting final pictures of our poor bus, wreckage with curtains hanging out and a rearview mirror twisted upward into a giant yellow question mark. Once I sat down in the chair inside, the adrenaline wore off and I began to realize something was not quite right within. I was foggy still; my head was hurting more; I felt an unnatural rage and wanting to scream at everyone present. This is something like having a splintered mind, with two-thirds beginning to act irrationally and the remainder trying to hold the rest together. It was not unlike having been too long and overindulged at a party and now trying to make it home in one piece. One foot in front of the other, hold yourself together. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t just go to sleep.

Meanwhile, Priscilla has a goose egg on her forehead and several bruises; Judith hit her nose and cut her hand; Dan needs stitches in his eyebrow for a gash; Jane has wrenched her neck. I look fine. I must be fine. Why can’t I go to sleep? I decide to concentrate hard on not sleeping, and my silence is what earns me a trip to the hospital. I remember people telling me I was shivering and maybe going into shock, and hearing this and it not entirely registering. Not panicking either; just passively absorbing. We go to the hospital, receive x-rays, find nothing broken, I am advised to take the usual precautions against exacerbating a concussion; although it could just be a bad headache. As long as I’m up and walking, things are fine. Sitting too still and I get fairly loopy. Our guide is not entirely satisfied with the doctor’s thorough questioning and prognosis and does his own tests, quizzing me on the details on my driver’s license. He actually has plenty of experience in evaluating people with head wounds, due to his time in the war. In the middle of all this, I remember learning to explain in broken Persian that we had a bus crash and I hit my head. An attendant at the hospital brings us tea and sugar cubes while we wait. We sign a postcard as a thank you note for our very thorough hospital staff.

The hospital we visited was really what you would expect from the 50s or 60s. We saw mostly the emergency room, which is set up similar to my hometown hospital, though it has the old-fashioned white porcelain tiles and that medicine-green paint and curtains between beds. I had to get x-rays of my skull and right shoulder, and for this I changed into the hospital garb, which for women here is a knee-length pink smock and a lilac kerchief-hijab. I would have appreciated a pair of pants as well, but it was only for twenty minutes or so. It was an old-fashioned x-ray machine also, at least as old as the first x-ray I had when I was in third grade, but the usual precautions for x-rays were observed and it wasn’t a bad experience. I wish I had felt better in order to have been more observant about the experience.

The police station was a compound of sorts with the actual office surrounded by a wall, watchtowers, and main gate. The walls also served as sheltered parking for the police cars. But people could come and go freely, and we took up most of the chairs in the waiting area for the better part of the afternoon. Perhaps they weren't quite as hospitable there--after all, the police didn't drop everything to serve us tea--but still they were patient and kind in the midst of a bizarre situation.

We joke later that we’ve gotten a first-hand look at two places we most wanted to see but otherwise couldn’t—the inside of a typical hospital, and being up close with the police. In two or three hours we got a good view of both.

Sayyid, our guide, must be exhausted by now. He was sitting up front, realized the driver didn’t see the truck and yelled to warn him; and held out his arm to prevent anyone from flying forward. He himself was thrown and hit the windshield, but fortunately didn't go through it. There is a large bump on the back of his hand, but he won't let us worry about him. He also guided us through the police paperwork; we decided we didn’t need to sue anyone, so the driver was not put in jail though he has traffic fines to pay. He walked us through the hospital and into new cars and back to the hotel where we had food waiting for us with a sympathetic staff. And he made sure we could all borrow his phone to call home and let people know we were okay. He is a good guide as well as a good friend and we are fortunate to have him.

A day after the crash, it’s a little unnerving to be back on the bus and especially to be typing again on the bus, which is what I was doing when we crashed. But the company sent a full-size bus along, which is built not unlike a tank, so I really shouldn’t worry. And it is also a far more stable, less bouncy ride. Although, I really did like our smaller bus and the sense of closer community it provided as we traveled these long roads through the desert.

Women and Gender II: Divorce and Family Law

Inside the bus, too dark to read any more—we are busily becoming scholars of Ferdowsi, Saadi, and Hafez—a sample of Iranian cinema is being played on the video system. After about twenty minutes of previews, mostly comedies that need no translation, the main feature is a serious critique of society and how people treat one another. Based on a true story, it follows a teenage girl whose father is paranoid that she is seeing boyfriends and beats her repeatedly. In the meantime, a rival at school is sending fake love letters to her home in order to fuel the father’s rage against the daughter. He nearly kills her one night, and she runs away, then returns to sue him for his unjustified behavior. In the end, he reforms. The moral of the story is that it doesn’t necessarily take a government to oppress people; people are quite good at oppressing each other using any means available, whether a series of laws or mere power relationships over others.

We had quite a lengthy conversation about women and divorce, after hearing a variety of perspectives from Iranians during the week on the topic. In past years, men have been able to get a divorce immediately, without consent of the wife and for any reason. However, apparently laws have improved the situation for women. There are a few reasons for which a woman can get an immediate divorce, such as a husband’s addiction, failure to provide for the family, or for adultery. Domestic violence charges can be brought to court, but these take longer to adjudicate. Other reasons that take longer to adjudicate include the presence of children or if the divorce is disputed by one of the spouses. Generally, the judges try to keep families together if there are children. There is also the possibility of unjust judges or lawyers or bribery or other complicating behaviors that can tie up cases for years. I guess that is not so unlike our system either, unfortunately for all.

Sanctions, Politics, Media and Home

We have been learning and seeing for ourselves that the sanctions, which were placed on Iran in 2005, again do more harm to ordinary people and have little consequence for the rulers. Iran has oil, but it doesn’t have refining plants, so it has to import and ration gas. Other building materials are in short supply, and half-built but stalled-looking construction projects are everywhere. According to UN officials, the people are deficient in iron and vitamin B12. Quality medicine and study materials for many professions are hard to get. These have pretty immediate consequences for young people, families, and seniors.

--

I have come to realize more deeply also that people simply do not gravitate towards democracy when under threat. Just look at us and how we responded after 9/11, how early we gave up on having dialogue and how freely most of us gave up many civil liberties. No, being under threat of attack or harm does not encourage people to sit around and talk through the options; rather, people too quickly line up behind the person who seems most capable of launching an effective defense, even if they’re a yahoo. Shoot first and ask questions later. We can discuss during the aftermath. So, after this experience and the many experiences which have preceded it, I believe that we cannot criticize Iran any more than our own selves. They’re thinking, “we need to protect ourselves. There’s this crazy country out there with a huge weapons stash and military and they like to bomb other people.” But it is crazy for us to consider bombing and shortchange diplomacy. As we’ve seen with Iraq—everyone loses.

--

It’s amazing that sitting in the middle of the desert, in the oasis of Yazd, I can be typing this and watching scenes from Iowa in advance of the primaries and caucuses and seeing CNN speculate on how the people of my homeland will respond. And then in the next moment, there are pictures of Ahmedinijad and questions again of how people here will act. And I really don’t know. I know that I believe people in Iowa are less right-wing fundamentalist than they are made to appear. And I believe the same of the people we have met in all the places here.

--

It is hard not to have affection for a place, even if it’s not an uncritical affection. To love my own country, after all, is not to agree completely with all its policies or practices or feign ignorance to the problems these decisions cause. I find Iranians are much the same. They express their differences of opinion fairly freely, but still love their country and don’t wish to be attacked.

Churches of Tehran

Perhaps in starkest contrast to the buzz of big-city Tehran are the peaceful gardens surrounding the Protestant church we visited in Baghdad, known as St. Peter’s Evangelical (the European missionary term for churches of the Lutheran/ Presbyterian/ Reformed persuasion).

Inside the simple but beautiful church were memorial inscriptions to several British telegraph officers who had been active in the congregation over a century and a half ago. Still, the churches here are very much alive, and varied. We happened to visit on the day of an ecumenical advent fair and craft bazaar, meeting several young women. Inside the churchyard, women do not wear the hijab or other formal coverings. Many of the churches do cooperate on events such as this. We also had a good visit with the head of the synod office and Protestant churches of Persia.

Here we learned that as individuals, Christians enjoy success in business, although they do not hold high positions in the government other than their Minister of Parliament. Evangelism is difficult, and numbers dwindle as families are smaller or people emigrate. Concern for a healthy spiritual life for families and all members and the renewal of a tiny clergy is perhaps most important to them, as well as doing positive outreach in the community. Towards this end, they have recruited library science students from Tehran University to catalog their collection and are planning to open it to the public. Unfortunately, they have few books newer than thirty years old, the age of the revolution in Iran. Our group was able to collect a few good books which we'd brought along as trip reading, and return the next day to make a gift to the church. We hope to be able to send back more in the future.

Food!

I tried a little bit of everything offered to me in the first week, and after a few days my clothes already began to feel a bit snug. So I’ve been cutting back a bit realizing the holidays are still coming back home. Still, Persian food has been a delightful learning experience:

For breakfast, yogurt, tea or Nescafe, bread, honey, and butter are most common, along with cucumbers and tomatoes. There is also hot milk, which I have missed since my time in Honduras, but would rather drink out of a mug than the more typically-used juice glass. There is also cream and pudding to eat with your bread, including chocolate; there are omelets and hard boiled eggs, and local cheeses made from goat milk.

We have saffron rice, topped with burberries, which are a little like eating rubies, and so sweet. Other rice is mixed with fresh dill and eaten with yogurt. Generally, the meat is chicken or lamb, rarely beef; and a lot of the time it’s served as kebabs. There is an egg-rice cake that is popular too, and the crust of the bottom of the rice pan is a delicacy. Soup before the main meal is common and is tomato, spinach, or milk-based. Barley and lentil are common. A Shiraz salad is cucumber, tomato, and onion doused in vinegar. About half our group likes it well.

Perhaps the most interesting thing we’ve had so far is a ‘mashed’ stew—it takes all day to prepare, and was served to us in individual crocks in a traditional restaurant. You skim off and drink the tomato broth, then use a pestle to mash the rest. You then use this as a sandwich filling with pieces torn from a few loaves of naan. I’ve been able to pick up a book called ‘The Art of Persian Cooking,’ which includes a good discussion of the culture surrounding Persian food preparation and social life in the time prior to the revolution, under the Shah. The author clearly comes from a wealthy social class and felt favorably towards the Shah. By the time she wrote the book, however, she was living in the U.S. I haven’t figured out yet what might have happened.

There are lots of wonderful things to eat and drink in the shops along the street, but usually we are too full from our previous meal. Some meals I’ve skipped just because I was still full six hours later, or the next day. Persian food sticks with you. A juice seller displays blenders full of kiwi, pomegranate, orange, and pineapple; there are honey balls and nougat with pistachios and baqlava and chocolate donuts and crème puffs. I saw a married couple (somehow you can tell them just by looking) emerge from a bakery with a clear plastic bag full of these puffs. They took a few steps to the bus stop, sheepishly looked around, and then crammed one or two into their mouths, crème dripping from their lips, and seemingly overjoyed at the experience.

Hmmm...maybe I still have room for dessert...

Reinhold Neibuhr at a Persepolis Caf'e

There is plenty of ice cream to be had in Iran—local brands, and the kind I always wanted most as a kid—the ones shaped to look like Mickey Mouse, or pandas, or smiley faces on a popsicle stick; there’s also drumsticks and sandwiches and the more upscale versions (like a Dove bar) for adults. I had the opportunity the other day to try a vanilla-and-saffron flavored ice cream sandwich, and while the wafers were a little soggy the saffron ice cream was incredible.

It was between this discovery and an animated conversation with two Islamic scholars about Reinhold Neibuhr and Ali al-Sharabiati that I managed to miss a step in the pavement and fell flat on my face. My knees and palms are a bit skinned and the past two days were rather sore and stiff, but otherwise I am fine except for perhaps a bit of my pride.

The talk about Niebuhr and Sharabiati began like this: in the coffee shop at Persepolis, where we were waiting for our bus, I noticed a poem near the cash register. The bottom of it was the familiar ‘Serenity Prayer,’ penned by Niebuhr for Alcoholics Anonymous. The top was written in beautiful Persian. I definitely hadn’t expected to see this in such a place and wondered if it was being sold in the souvenir shops or was simply popular for a people that like poetry so well. The shopkeeper brought a young man who explained that this poem on the bottom was a mystery to them, but the top was written by the poet Ali al-Sharabiati, who is a favored poet and writes verse to help motivate those who are struggling to overcome addictions. He then asked if I knew anything about a group called Narcotics Anonymous. We then talked about studying for the ministry, and working with people with addictions, and how Niebuhr came to write the poem at the bottom. That’s when they brought the young Islamic scholars to join us and discuss seminary life in Chicago and the museum of the Oriental Institute, and I was gifted with the ice cream and in the midst of a good chat fell off the curb.

Still, the opportunity for this and other conversations among young religious leaders are invaluable. I am continuing to think about how to make delegations like these feasible for seminary students. The major barriers are cost, timing, and the logistics of possibly organizing these travels for course credit. I’ve managed to develop independent study credit for my previous trips to Afghanistan, Syria, and Lebanon, though I didn’t need it for this one. We’ve talked a little though here about organizing a return trip to Iran, specifically for seminarians, within the next twelve months, and advertising it nation-wide. This might find us the critical mass or numbers necessary to make it happen for such a group.

Just What the Doctor Ordered: Iran's Health System Part I

Yesterday as we were leaving our hotel we noticed a seniors’ queue for milk. Men lined up to the left and women to the right, and each were served alternately and relatively calmly from the small general store. We've also seen queues for bread and other necessities, which are dispersed at local stores much the way our own WIC programs do in the States.

We also visited a pharmacy, partly to fill a prescription for one traveller’s stomach upset, and also out of curiosity. This led to an extended discussion of the health care system. Iran’s is actually not unlike the U.S., in that you get quality health care if you are wealthy, and many often go without. There are free government hospitals, but these are often plagued by long lines and inexperienced doctors. There are also limits on the amount of subsidized prescription medicine which is available. It adds to the strain of people who are too ill to travel and deal with all the bureaucracy, as it does in our own country.

Otherwise, in the pharmacy we found that it’s not unlike a small Walgreens, though independent of one another; you might buy toothpaste or infant formula; fill your prescriptions, or also pick up one of several homeopathic or traditional remedies. Rosemary oil is a hair tonic, and almond oil is good for psoriasis and other skin issues. I tried both, first because I like the smell and the second because parts of me are beginning to look like a sheet of sandpaper in the winter weather. While doing this, a young woman in chador approached me and asked, “Is it true? Is rosemary really good for the hair?” I replied I didn’t know since this was the first I’d heard of it myself, but I’d soon find out. She was buying two cherry-red lip balms, “for me and my husband,” she smiled shyly, and after a few more pleasantries, slipped out the door into the evening.

On the way back to our hotel was a herbalist--with a shop window delightful to see. There were rose petals for making rosewater, dried lemons for tea, all sorts of ground spices and seeds and roots and nuts for making infusions. When you can't get what you want from the pharmacy, you come here. And apparently they do come--the shop was quite popular. I only wish I knew better how to use these things myself.

Women and Gender Part I: Clothes

Shiraz, as in many rural places in the Midwest (where I am from), is also somewhat more conservative than in the city. There are more women wearing chador, and more women wearing the full black stockings and garb I was more used to seeing in the conservative neighborhoods and villages of Iraq. Still the young people dress more like those in the cities.

Most women in the city, and particularly younger women, wear a manteau, which is an approximately knee-length coat. These have varying degrees of hip-ness, depending on the wearer’s personal style. The hijab, or headscarves, are worn more loosely and are more shawl-like here, and might even look like a winter scarf tied over the ears and under the chin—-young women here particularly are pushing the boundaries of what defines a headscarf. The chador is a Persian word for tent, and that is the long flowing black cape that covers all but the wearer’s face and hands—and probably is designed after the man’s cape but worn on the head rather than on the shoulders. A face covering defines the burqa—which has more of a local tribal origin than a Muslim one and I haven’t seen any here. Only one woman had her face covered with her chador, and since she was pacing along a well-trafficked road, I think she might have been begging and was embarrassed to be seen.

I do not like wearing the chador myself, (or abaya as it’s called in Iraqi Arabic), since when I put it on I usually quickly fainted in the heat and I also have no skill in keeping it on my head. However, in the winter and in the elements it does have some practical value. Again, chador means tent, and with a tent comes some privacy. For example, if you need to use the bathroom and there’s no rock or tree anywhere around, you can create a private space within which to manage this task. You can carry packages underneath the cloak, safe from thieves. You can also change clothes and sit more comfortably underneath it, without threatening your modesty. For what that’s worth.

There are also the koshkoi here, the nomadic people, and I have seen more of them here in Shiraz than in Teheran. Partly this is because of the more rural surroundings. You notice the women in particular by their long flowing and brightly colored, often floral skirts underneath their chador. Most other women don’t wear skirts, just knee-length coats and slacks by themselves, or under the chador.

Perhaps the only other thing I ought to mention for this post is that all of these outer coverings come off the second a woman goes inside, into the privacy of her home or exclusively into the company of other women. Then, the women are dressed just as you or I might be, depending on where we live. The outer coverings as mandated by the authorities get more or less conservative, but underneath the women still express their individuality.

The main difference I might suggest about clothing between the West and the East is that in the West, we women predominantly are taught to dress attractively to please men in general--either those we know well or a passing stranger on the street. Our looks are emphasized as our highest worth to others, and this has its accompanying social problems (anorexia, low self-esteem, the 'she was asking for it' rape debate, etc). There, the only people who see your clothing and body are those you know well--your women friends and your male relatives; people with whom you already have a deeper relationship. The original intent of the covers is to emphasize the character and personality of the person, rather than the body. While this has many social problems too, I can't help but wonder if there isn't some value in this that we in the West have lost.

I don't believe in mandating any particular form of clothing for women, whether to prevent men's stares or to attract them. I think the answer lies somewhere between the extremes, and truly liberating clothing is that which is comfortable, flattering, suited to the climate, and most important, that it allows a woman to function freely in her daily life, whatever her chosen vocation.

Shiraz: Land of Wine and Poets

Upon arriving at Shiraz, I loved it instantly. It's our first real trip out of Tehran into the countryside, and we traveled here by plane--we'll trek back across the desert by bus over the rest of our stay. The surrounding terrain is more rugged, drier, with short scrub vegetation, lots of ruins out in the desert. We passed farms and military bases, though the latter seemed fairly sleepy. Pines and willows line the roadways. Although it appears to be desert, it is still fertile agricultural area with small scale irrigation projects. Farmers and children wave to us in our bus as we pass.

Shiraz is also the name of a popular wine, though you won’t find it here these days. Many older adults will remember the time before the revolution when it was still available locally, according to our guide. A wealthy businessman exported some of the vines to California; other vines went to places such as Tokyo and South America. In the meantime, the vineyards still exist here; now instead of producing sweet wines, they produce sweet table grapes and grape juice.
I was reminded about this previous paragraph because of our visit to Qur’an Gate just outside Shiraz. It’s a beautiful wooded and mountainous area with several built-up porticoes and pools. There is a Persian poet buried in one of the parks, and little tea houses along the stairs to the top. We observed many couples sitting among the trees or talking softly to each other. It is one of the many ‘couples-friendly’ areas, such as the tombs of other poets, Hafez and Saadi, in their lush public gardens. 'Shiraz is for lovers' would be just as apt a tourism slogan here.

Also during our stay, we found the road to Saadi's tomb blocked due to a major celebration. The grand carved doors and the tomb from one of the Shi’a shrines which was destroyed in Iraq have been brought here, to be housed and protected as part of a new shrine. One of our group was invited to see it up close and has good pictures, but we still wish we could get more details.

Visiting the bazaar here is a happy sensory overload, with brightly colored silks and sequins piled in among the stacks of Persian carpets and the booths of aromatic spices and bottles of perfume. We were able to visit twice in Shiraz, first walking through early in the morning while the shopkeepers were just arriving and opening their doors; the second late in the evening while the last transactions were being carried out. I remember best a little boy, perhaps kindergarten age, helping his father at a shop selling scarves. We asked him how much a reversible one cost, and he held up his fingers to say five thousand toman, or five dollars U.S. ‘Now negotiate with them and make the sale,’ his father told him. So we haggled, and settled on three dollars, and then took pictures with him and gave him a gift of crayons. His father was pleased, and he seemed pretty happy with himself also.

Death to America?

We attended Friday prayers at Tehran University shortly after I wrote last. It was a challenging trip, particularly for us women travelers, as we are not accustomed to wearing the chador with any gracefulness at all. This was additionally difficult as we were advised not to bring any purses or bags with us because of the lengthy security checks and we were also trying to hold on to our cameras and wallets alone (keep in mind that western women’s dress clothing usually fails to have any useful pockets). Add to this that it was raining steadily and we had to keep the chador up out of the puddles. A third or fourth hand would have helped us, but the local women were much better practiced. Along the way we had help from two local women who could guide us through the security checks and into the women’s part of the assembly.

A large green curtain about standing height sectioned us off from the men and granted some privacy. I wish I had pictures, but our cameras didn’t make it past security and were kept for us by an attendant. In the meantime, hundreds of women filled the space, open air but covered by a high roof, and lined up on the carpets provided to soften the plaza as well as offer a seating arrangement for those gathered. Each woman who arrived took off her wet black chador, changed into a white chador, usually with some floral pattern printed on it, rolled out her own prayer mat, opened a handkerchief with a small clay tablet made from the soil of Holy Kerbala in Iraq and placed it where her forehead would later touch the ground in prayer, and usually also brought out a set of prayer beads. She then made her initial prayers, and sat to listen to the sermon. If a woman was cold, she would put her black chador on over the white one. The clothing varied slightly according to the women’s village backgrounds.

Occasionally, as we’d been cautioned by our guide, the speaker would prompt the assembly to shout, ‘Down with the USA!’ or ‘Death to America!’ I think there might have been a few enthusiastic men on the other side of the curtain, but for the most part the women took no notice. A few halfheartedly raised their arms in the air and muttered along. Others talked to their neighbors. Some were a little embarrassed, because they could see us from where they were sitting, and others didn’t seem to notice. One woman said to us, “We mean your administration, but not you. Don’t panic.”

Friday prayers are a political assembly as much as a religious one in Tehran, and only a fraction of the city populace turns out for them. Many prefer to avoid the rhetoric and worship at home. This is particularly true for the women. Others accompany their husbands or sons, and still others come on their own.

We departed just as the final prayers were ending, to avoid the rush of everyone leaving, and went out into the rainy streets to find our bus. One woman in our group unfortunately dropped her camera on the pavement with all she had to carry, and it doesn’t look good. Somewhere though is a group picture of us, awkward and inexperienced in our chador, and glad to take them off once we got back into our bus. As a group, we much prefer the tailored black robes which are both comfortable and functional. For example, I can wear a t-shirt and sweatpants underneath and no one is the wiser. That is precisely what I am doing right now, but it's time for me to get a manteau. More on that later...

Greetings from Teheran!

Greetngs everyone,

It is already the end of our first week in Iran, which we have spent primarily in Teheran; the internet connection is back on at the hotel, and there's a little time to send a letter home.

The first impression I've had since settling in here is that Iran is so....normal. Comparisons aren't always the best way to describe things, but looking around, it's pretty relaxed compared to several other places I've been. I am reminded of Geneva more than a war zone; or even Minneapolis more than the movie set for Not Without My Daughter. There are mountains covered in snow, maple trees and evergreens, traffic circles and traffic jams, hardware stores and fashion districts. There's several churches, and also movie theaters. There aren't very many pictures of government officials or clerics all over the place. In fact, you don't really see a lot of soldiers or police monitoring the populace, at least to the extent of other countries (including Geneva, or Chicago!) There are an incredible amount of gardens and public parks and fountains and multiple world-class museums.

I could speak a little to the role of women here--again, it's more relaxed than you or I might imagine. There are a few women here and there who wear the full black shroud, or chador; however, most women wear knee-length coats of varying styles and colors, and wear their headscarves lightly--usually with beautifully-styled hair showing in front. I should also mention here that women don't really wear skirts, but designer jeans and slacks are the norm under the garb. Most wear far more makeup than I ever have. Overall, most look like hip urban women might in the West, especially so now that it's winter.

Women drive, and work, and go to university; we've actually been politely inundated with female students who are on field trips to most of the places we've visited. We met a class of third and fourth graders along with their English teacher at one stop; and we also visited with art students and engineering students along the way. My farsi is limping along, but is definitely helped by these frequent encounters with the curious students. I keep trying to use my Arabic, but it's useless here except for a few cognates. My few words of Turkish and some French are far more helpful.

A highlight so far has been visiting the Teheran Peace Museum, which is part of the international network of peace museums, including those in Hiroshima and Chicago. Much of it is dedicated to the Iran-Iraq war, especially the victims of chemical warfare--several of whom we met while visiting there. These memories still loom large in the national consciousness, and Iranians are sensitive to talk of life in Iraq, so I don't mention this often. Many do feel a common cause with the victims of Halabja and are angry that Saddam was not tried for the chemical attacks against Iranians. They feel forgotten.

Iran is primarily a Shi'a Muslim country, however, it gets expressed differently here than it does in Iraq or Lebanon or Syria. You don't see the pictures of the Shi'a patriarchs that cover all the buses and houses and walls of observers in the other countries. Many of the customs that are followed in Arab Shi'a populations are not observed here. Iranian Shi'a pray three times a day here rather than five; and there is a Friday mosque, similar to a cathedral, that is different than the small neighborhood mosque that you might go to the rest of the week. You don't hear the call to prayer here in central Teheran as clearly as you might in cities of the Middle East. Some locals have remakred that they consider Sunni Islam far more conservative.

But perhaps the most noticeable thing to mention is how much pride Iranians take in being Persian. We hear constant reminders that Persians are not Arabs; that Persians have had their own beautiful culture for centuries and also before Islam; that they consider themselves a Persian country before a Muslim one; and I believe this has much to do with the quality of museums and public works and art and architecture. Iranians are quick to point out also that they are not part of the Middle East, but of Central Asia, and their language and customs and histories are different. And this is true; the landscape is for the most part quite different from the Middle East, as noted above.

Otherwise, we've had several long days and I get back to my hotel room completely exhausted. The food is for the most part wonderful and I've eaten more here than I probably have all semester. Fortunately, I'm also walking a lot. Some days I wear my black abaya (a long, narrower robe), but Iast night I also bought a manteau (the knee length coat), which either makes me look chic with its pattern, or also perhaps like a couch, but the price was right. The weather has been mostly cool, but sunny except for today's chilly rains. Tonight we fly to Shiraz, then work our way back north over the next week to Esfahan, Qom, and finally back here to fly home. I'll try to write if I can, but expect that most of my stories will have to be saved for my return.

peace to you all, and hope to see you soon!

Le Anne

Worshipping Jesus as Phallic Symbol

Have I really written this much all at once? I guess my mind-talk is going full speed and I need somewhere to disperse it.

I am up late on a Saturday night, which comes before Sunday morning, which I am beginning to dread. I am the young pastor who is less than excited to see my church, the source of many good jokes. I may have written about this before. But it's about this time of night I recognize how frustrated I am and that I'm in for a long ride between now and May. I also know it's dangerous to write about one's parish in public, but I'm also not saying anything here I wouldn't say to them directly. Perhaps this is a rehearsal for what I know I need to say.

Basically, when newcomers visit our church, they leave more depressed than they came in. When I introduce myself before the service and invite folks to social hour afterwards, they're interested. After service, they shift their feet and claim to have things they forgot they needed to do. Our congregation has a wonderful history of progressive social action, but this is not reflected in our worship service. Instead, our worship service emphasizes male-dominant language for God. We also use lots of thees and thous and thys and sitteths, even when modern-day translations are printed right next to these, and we're not a particularly high church. Most of our music and language pre-dates both the Civil Rights Amendment and the Equal Rights Amendment. Never mind that in our denomination there's a mandate to use language that is welcoming to all and a blend of music that is welcoming to all as well. Yes, in the PCUSA, you are required to be welcoming in worship to people who are three months old to three hundred, regardless of race or nationality or gender. That's one of the things that made me choose it. But that is lost on our church. No, upon first visit, even though our church is equally racially and gender-mixed, you would get the sense you have shown up at a stiffly conservative backwater. Worship here is like going to a funeral, even on the sunniest summer day: the tone is somber, the music often slow, lily white, and collapses under its own weight. Week after week after week.

This does not go over well among the student population it hopes to welcome. In my four years of living in Hyde Park, I've been to four years worth of parties where students who have had experience with the congregation proclaim that it should die because it is so unwelcoming and depressing. The congregation has many good reasons to be depressed, having survived white flight and gang wars and the devastation of a neighborhood and the loss of most of its members over the past generation. It faces many of the same realities of other urban churches. I had thought though for a while this fall it was beginning to come out of its depression, committing itself to an evangelism and outreach campaign. But, I think my hopes were premature.

What worries me is some of the nasty comments I receive from certain members when I suggest expanding our repertoire of music or using more inclusive language. "Anyone who doesn't like the way we worship here can find themselves another church." Yes ma'am, and I see that they have already done so, in droves. In a city of six million people and within one mile of a large university, only 25 people find our worship worth attending on a regular basis. "You're throwing the baby out with the bathwater." Hmmm...looks to me like the baby done drowned. Anyway, a few of these folks have gotten downright hostile. And you would normally otherwise call them progressives.

Now, before I go on, I need to say that not all people in the congregation favor this way of worship. In fact, I've been noticing the demographics of who is open to new material and who isn't. My congregation has no active members under fifty, and as I said is equally mixed in race and gender. It is the folks under 75 who are most vehement that we keep everything exactly as it is. The folks 80 and up are the most encouraging on the whole, and go out of their way to say so. The men are more willing to accept gender-inclusive language than the women. The women of the choir are up in front, ignoring the words printed in the bulletin, and enunciating every 'He,' "Him" and 'Father' and 'Son.'

This leads me to ask what happened to these women, who are clearly college-educated and lived through modern feminism. Why do they so insist that God is exclusively male? Really, are they only worshipping God for a phallus? Is that all God is to them? Are they really so lonely and unfulfilled?

And how do you ask them that? But, it might be that the absurdity of the question is what may finally break through the walls. Better to do so before we lose anyone else out the door. Including myself.

peace,

Le Anne

Spiritual Disciplines

My spiritual task for these days, as it ought always to be, is to try not to feel guilty about all the things I've failed to accomplish or just get done. For example, it's already 4pm on a Saturday and I still haven't saved the world. What was I thinking?

But, seriously, I do have a habit of beating myself up for being less efficient or task-oriented in my work, and it does me no good. It's what they say about workaholics, that eventually you're no longer more productive than anyone else, probably even less so. I gotta watch myself on that. It's hard to find a good balance, especially in the social justice organizing fields. Or in any field where you're doing what you love--because it will sneak up on you.

So, I will not feel so bad about only looking out the window at the pretty day, but electing to stay inside and do a sewing project, or read, or watch YouTube. I will appreciate those quieter moments even if they weren't spent enjoying nature or maximizing my health benefits through walking. I will not get grumpy because I let that mailing project slide "all day." I slept in. I listened to the radio. I read the Funny Times, and I drank coffee. Next, I'll be re-heating leftovers. Life is actually not too bad.

peace,

Le Anne

Winehouse, and other entertaining mischief

I have to confess that I have developed an affection for the music of Amy Winehouse. I think it's partly the torch singer voice, partly the anti-star schtik, and partly the lyrics. Favorite line: "They tried to make me go to rehab, and I said no, no, no."

Curiously at the same time I've become a fan of Sarah Silverman. Her stuff is absolutely sacriligious, and perhaps that's why I've doubled over laughing. My favorite is her encounters with anti-abortion activists and fundamentalists, and her guise of pure innocence.

Otherwise, I've expended my viewing hours for the month on '30 Rock,' and realize I am now no longer not watching television. In some ways this makes me feel like I'm having more fun; in other ways, I miss all the extra time I seemed to have on my hands. Netflix. Dangerous consumer of time, and yet oh so good.

But I finished sewing a dinosaur hat I started last Christmas, and I even embroidered a little bit and also sewed a cover for a bulletin board today. I am so proud of these small domestic accomplishments I need to boast in a public forum. If you know me at all, you understand how rare this is.

Ayyyy....back to work. I need to produce the final edition of the newspaper for this semester, and get a mailing ready for the monastery, and try not to forget the conference call about Iran tonight.

peace,

Le Anne

In the Dark

[Editorial for this week's Chicago Seminarian]

I’m kind of bummed, moping around lately like I don’t want to do anything. In fact, I will proclaim at random intervals, “I don’t wanna do ANYTHING!” So there.

I actually do want to do some stuff, it’s just not necessarily seminary stuff. This could be senioritis. This could be feeling like four years in seminary has been long enough. This could be feeling like there’s a whole world out there and I wanna be in it, only, I’m in here.

That feeling hasn’t abated much since I dropped to part-time to devote more time to my activism. However, I do think my activism has kept me sane. It gives me a space in which I get to meet lots of new people, see new places, and do something that feels real. I’m learning the practical skills that one can only begin to learn through a field site. So, even when it wears me out, it feels otherwise kind of right.

However, lately, I’ve found myself even procrastinating on my organizing tasks, those things which I say I do truly love. Because of this, I started wondering if I was truly called to do these things. I wondered if I’d gone wrong somehow, or hadn’t listened to God well enough. I wondered if I was a little crazy, or crazier than usual. It seems like the clear vision and the drive to get there that I’d felt even a few weeks earlier was missing.

The upcoming conference about the recently-published letters of Mother The-resa helped me to understand this and stay calm. Here is a woman who really had no idea for decades of her life if she was doing what God wanted her to do, and yet she found the faith to do remarkable things in our world. Some people have since ridiculed her as a fool. Rather, I think she is a help to all of us in ministry, when the light seems to go out and we are unsure of the way.

For me these days, the path is not as clear as I’d like, but I still believe it is a good one. And I had a few glimpses of what it could be, that were quite clear actually, earlier in the year--and they are helping me to get by now. And where these aren’t enough, I have a circle of friends and mentors who can reflect to me that it is a good vision, a good path, and to keep trying and not give up.

So I prepare for School of the Americas, I keep editing the Seminarian, I pack my bags for Iran, and I keep trying to fundraise for a monastery that would make a wonderful home for the Center for Faith and Peacemaking. Perhaps it is all possible.

Even in the darkness or the fog, may you find enough glimpses to carry you through; may you have enough mirrors to push the shadows aside.

Peace,

Le Anne

On Seminary, Identity, and Going to Jail

[For the seminary newspapers]

I'm Le Anne. I'm a 29-year-old, female, white, spiky-haired, loud-laughing, trouble-making, fun-loving, seminary student. I grew up Lutheran, am a Presbyterian candidate for ordination, attend a UCC seminary, take human rights classes at CTU, have a degree in Christian-Muslim relations, dine at the Divinity School, and party with the Unitarians.

I'm a final-year ministry student at Chicago Theological Seminary, and co-chair of the Student Senate. I am student pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Woodlawn. I am also coordinator of SeminaryAction and the new Center for Faith and Peacemaking here in Hyde Park, which organizes new religious leaders as well as young global activists (our current website is www.seminaryaction.org).

And I'm planning on spending part of spring term in prison.

I'm preparing for civil disobedience, or 'crossing the line,' at this year's public witness to shut down the SOA in Columbus, GA ( www.soaw.org).

And, I'd like you to come and bear witness as a seminarian also--there are plenty of things to do there even without getting arrested.

I went to SOA rallies in college and again in seminary, and decided last year that I would attempt civil disobedience this year. Oddly enough, it is a sluggish year for seminarians--I don't know that many others are going. I served three years with the Christian Peacemaker Teams in Israel/Palestine, Iraq, and the US/Mexico border. I have also been involved with Voices for Creative Nonviolence and the Occupation Project here in Chicago. The first part of December, I hope to join the Fellowship of Reconciliation interfaith peacemaker delegation to Iran. I have constantly been looking for ways to blend my life as a human rights activist with my life as a seminarian. I am grateful for friends who continue to encourage me along the way.

I am going now, in seminary, because it is a cause I have believed in for so long and an action I feel I have put off long enough.
I am going now, in seminary, because I believe that nonviolent direct action and civil disobedience is an important part of my formation in ministry.
I am going now, in seminary, because I have fewer responsibilities to others now than I will once I graduate, financial and otherwise; and my faculty has been willing to walk with me in this process.
I am going now, in seminary, because my church and my candidacy committee are also willing to walk with me in this process.
I am going now, in seminary, because I was a human rights worker in Iraq before I came to seminary, and I worked with the families of prisoners in Abu Ghraib.
I am going now, in seminary, because I have friends who have come to seminary, who were once tortured, and are now refugees, and our country is responsible. The SOA is one big way in which our country is responsible for torture.
I am going now, in seminary, because religious leaders have been tortured and killed by the SOA.
I am going now, in seminary, because last year we were only 6 Congress votes away from shutting down this terrible place, and I believe my arrest will inspire others to 'inspire' those remaining Congresspersons to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with their God.
I am going now, in seminary, because the American Academy of Religion conference is in Chicago next year and I can't go to SOA then.
I am going now, in seminary, to witness to other seminarians that it can be done.

There are a few things I'm worried about before going. My greatest concern right now for civil disobedience is raising the money for bail, which is now $1,000. I am trying to ask my communities for support. I am also nervous that I might end up with more than a month or two in prison, but I have found friends who will help me with my work at the Center if I do go into prison for a longer time.

I'm looking forward to joining the 8th Day Center for Justice bus, and I'm looking forward to getting to know as many folks as possible who are working for peace in Chicago. I am excited by the De Paul University students who have organized busloads to attend. I am excited by the monastic orders, religious communities, and other religious leaders who attend every year.

If you, as a seminarian, or as a person preparing for ministry, feel called also to attend this year, let me know at info@seminaryaction.org. If you need transportation, contact 8th Day Center or DePaul at the details below. It's doesn't cost too much for the hotel and bus. It doesn't take that much time away from your classes, and it's at the beginning of Thanksgiving Break. You don't have to get arrested: you could join the die-in, the drum circles, the puppet crew, or just told a cross with the name of someone who was killed by an SOA graduate and say, 'Presente!' Be present, and remember their presence. Be present with tens of thousands of other people who will come from all over the country to protest our government-sponsored torture school. Be present with people from all walks of life. Be present for those who can't be present.

It's not too late to sign up. If you haven't gone before, it will change the way you look at ministry.

DePaul bus contact: Sarah Gelsomino sarahgelsomino@gmail.com
8th Day bus contact: Stephanie Dernek stephid2@gmail.com

peace,
Le Anne