Marg bar Amrikâ!

Marg bar Amrikâ!

Death to America!
Death to America!
The crowd chanted all around me: men on the right, chador-clad women on the left
:
Marg bar Amrikâ!
Marg bar Amrikâ!
Their fists punched the air in unison.
It was the 13 of Aban by the Persian solar calendar, November 2002 back home, an
d the sun was unseasonably searing. I found myself in a fire of patriotic fervor
, standing in the middle of about 500 people in the center of Isfahan, one of Ir
an’s most devout cities. The traffic circle outside the Isfahan bazaar was overflo
wing. I could barely see through the raised fists to make my way up to the front
near the podium. My head was covered by the requisite black scarf and the long
black coat, but I felt as though the crowd could see right through me.
I tucked a stray strand of my blond hair back into my scarf. It was wet with sw
eat, sticking to my forehead. I wanted to hide—to be as inconspicuous as the other
women clad in their black chadors—but that was impossible. Even with the sunglas
ses disguising my blue eyes, my features were inherently foreign, khâreji. Starin
g at the stern yet paternal images of Ayatollah Kohmeini and Ayatollah Khamene’i t
hat hovered above the crowd, I felt like a small child in trouble.
Beyond the heads of the crowd was a stream of vacant buses that lined the perime
ter, puffing out exhaust where oxygen was already in short supply. At first I i
magined that they were placed there to contain us. I soon realized they were the
re to bring fuel to the flame: as each bus came to a halt, the crowd continued t
o swell.
I gradually zoomed back in to the people around me. Some women were wearing gree
n bands around their black-cloaked heads, showing allegiance to the revolution.
The men on the other side of the swarm were listening to the speaker, occasional
ly raising their fists on cue. I was surrounded, compressed by the mass of bodi
es, finding it harder to move or breathe.
In order to distract myself from the growing fear that it was the fists that wer
e causing the rapid thumping in my chest, I looked around for what might make a
good photograph. I took a deep breath, held it, and conspicuously lifted my cam
era to take a shot:
Snap. The women with the green headbands and glaring eyes, holding signs in Pers
ian and English stating: “America Can’t do a Damned Thing!” and “Down with the U.S. and
Israeli Oppressors.”
I held my breath again.
Snap. The speaker on the podium, a cleric, speaking out against U.S. activities
in the Middle East and the ‘Zionist Occupation.’ He was commending the moral superio
rity and fortitude of the Iranian people at keeping out the immorality of the we
st, and the brotherhood of all Muslims.
And again.
Snap. The men raising their fists in unison with the speaker on the podium, chan
ting: “Marg bar Amrikâ! Marg bar Amrikâ!”
I had seen many scenes like this on television back home. I never imagined I’d be
in the throng of such a demonstration, commemorating an event that in my own co
untry was heartrending. Here I was, at the 22nd anniversary of the taking of the
American hostages.
I thought back to 1979 and the streets of my adolescence, lined with yellow-ribb
oned trees, and to the images I had in my head when I first heard about Iran. Ho
w strange it was to now witness this event through the opposite end of the same
lens.
A black-cloaked figure touched the hand clutching my old, second-hand 35mm Minol
ta, and interrupted my thoughts with a start. She asked me in English:
“Where are you from?”
I hesitated. Would she get the mob to descend upon me? Would someone take my cam
era, or accuse me of being a spy? I thought of my two small sons, Hunter and Tu
cker. They must be home from school by now, waiting at our apartment inside Isf
ahan University, for me to come have lunch with them. I wanted to hear about the
ir days hoping that, as blond-haired American children, they were spared an even
t like this in their school. What would become of them if something happened to
me?
“I’m American, Amrikâyi-am,” I said.
“American? You’re kidding? An American in Iran?…Well, don’t worry… We don’t believ
this stuff,” she laughed, gesturing toward the signs looming above our heads, and
continued in a heavily accented style of school-taught English: “We’re bussed in f
rom school so they have many people here. I hope I can get visa to study in Ame
rica. I have cousin in Los Angeles and he, ummm, tries to help me.”
“Oh, Tehrangeles,” I joked, “there are a lot of Iranians there.”
“Yes, too many Iranians want to go to America,” she replied. “But why would an
American woman come to Iran? She looked around, grabbed the sleeve of my mante
au, and then whispered in my ear as if sharing a good piece of gossip:
“Are you a spy?”

Chapter One: A Path Unfolding

"Those who leave home in search of knowledge walk the path of God."
The Hadith of Prophet Mohammad
November 1980
Twenty-two years before I found myself in that contrived anti-American demonstra
tion and was ‘discovered’ a spy, I was living in the mountain town of Ashland, Orego
n, known for its annual theatrical celebration of William Shakespeare. At this t
ime, it was the one-year anniversary of a very real American drama: the taking o
f the American hostages.
Unlike that hot, crowded day in Iran, the Oregon air was crisp and clean and soo
n the first snow would blanket the quiet tree-lined streets. On every television
set were reminders of our missing people. It evoked a solemn and angry mood in
our normally upbeat and laidback town.
All the neighborhood trees were wrapped in yellow ribbons, a silent wish for the
hostages’ safe return. The ribbons, though, made me think of the Christmas presen
ts that would soon adorn the spaces beneath fresh-scented pines in family homes.
I had plans to go home to San Jose for Christmas. The hostages would be spendin
g Christmas in Iran.
I was enrolled at Southern Oregon State College, trying to figure out what I wan
ted to do with my life. And although I did not realize it at the time, I was on
my way to becoming an anthropologist.
As a child, I didn’t have much exposure to other cultures. I was born in Ohio and
raised in San Jose, California. My family never went on any exotic vacations. M
y father worked full-time, as all good providers do, and my mother stayed at hom
e to raise the children. We were the typical American family of the early 60s;
I was indoctrinated into a sheltered, homogeneous suburban lifestyle.
#
It was in Ashland, where I first made friends from other cultures, including a f
ellow student, Massoud, and his family. Massoud and his family had moved to the
United States in 1979 during the revolution that overthrew the Pahlavi regime. O
n January 16, 1979, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, abdicated and fled
to Egypt in fear for his life. Not long after, all of the Leftists, University
students, and Islamic fundamentalist groups who had initially been unified in th
eir goal to overthrow the Shah, now possessed completely different visions for t
he new government. Chaos and violence swept the streets of Iran for weeks.
The fate of the leaderless country was sealed when Ayatollah Khomeini returned f
rom Paris, having spent most of his 14 years of exile in Iraq.
Khomeini’s return to power produced a mass exodus of Iranians to Europe and the Un
ited States. Supporters of the Shah fled their country, not knowing when they co
uld safely return. Others left because they opposed the religious and political
changes that were beginning to sweep their country. Ironically, many of the le
ftists who had initially participated in the revolution were now in danger of be
ing exiled or executed themselves. Their political views were seen as a potenti
al threat to the stability of the new Islamic Republic. Of those who stayed in I
ran, thousands were imprisoned and executed.
Massoud’s family, like many of the other affluent and educated families in Iran,
packed their belongings and left.
In the United States, Massoud, his mother Roya, his 16-year old sister Pari, and
his exquisite cook of a grandmother, Aziz, lived in a small two-bedroom apartme
nt down the walkway from my own. Massoud had a twin brother, Nader, who lived do
wn the road with his American wife. Aziz’s other daughters, Maryam and Hasti, and
their children shared another apartment in the same complex.
The older men of the family, the husbands, had all remained in Iran and were wor
king to send money to their relatives in the US. Sending that money, however, wa
s becoming nearly impossible with the inception of economic sanctions. The women
and their children were all trying to adapt to a new language and a new culture
and, for the first time in their lives, were suffering financially.
My first image of Massoud’s family is of a plump, grey-haired woman, with strong,
thick and gold-bangled arms, hunched over a green Formica counter. Her old woode
n-handled knife gracefully, with rapid speed, gliding across a worn cutting bloc
k. She effortlessly diced onion while humming an old Persian tune. The rich, war
m smell of cinnamon permeated the walls. When we entered their small apartment,
I was besieged by what seemed like a small army of women and girls: Mozhgan (aro
und 13), Pari (15), Roya (in her 30’s?), Mariam (late 20’s), Hasti (30’s), Aziz, the f
amily matriarch, and several others—seven in total—plus Massoud and his brother. Roy
a, Mariam, and Hasti were all sisters, Aziz’s daughters, and they had fled Iran to
gether with their children, to sit out the revolution and start fresh in America
.
The older women and I sat around the small, round, white Formica kitchen table,
eating a meal of cinnamon spiced rice with lentils and lamb, cucumber-tomato sal
ad, and yoghurt. The kids took their plates to the living room floor, and sat an
d watched the television while they ate. When the meal was done, the kids cleane
d up the plates and we all headed for the living room. It was an everyday routin
e, of which I was soon a part.
Aziz rocked back and forth in her chair as she habitually thumbed her tasbih, or
prayer beads, whispering to herself. Everyone else grabbed a pillow and found
a comfortable spot on the emerald-green shag carpet. The two households had poo
led their money to buy a used, 16-inch, color Sony television. It rested on the
divide between the family’s kitchen and living room.
Massoud turned up the volume on the t.v. and adjusted the antenna to focus the s
kewed image. The evening news was beginning. Everyone was hungry for reports on
their country—preferably something good. Something that said their loved ones wer
e okay, and that, one day, they would be able to return home.
But for them and for the rest of the world, the news was the same: the same shot
s of men and chador-clad women toting rifles, the same rabid-sounding speeches b
y Ayatollah Khomeini, and the same images of bound, blind-folded, and beleaguere
d hostages under constant surveillance and interrogation.
Aziz shook her head, bewildered, and clicked her tongue in disapproval. The ent
ire family concurred.
Mozhgan, Hasti’s 13-year old daughter, spoke for everyone, murmuring, “I can’t believe
what has happened to my country…”
#
The hostage crisis had become a fixture in all our lives. For American citizens,
it was a like a deep cut that was reopened every single day as hope for a quick
 resolution to the crisis became more distant. For Iranians who had fled to the
United States, like Massoud and his family, fear for their relatives and friend
s who remained in their former home also became concern for themselves as unease
grew between Americans and anyone in the US presumed to be Iranian.
Scenes of revolution, the storming of the American Embassy, and video clips of A
merican captives played over and over again in the news. These images forged a
permanent link between the words “Iran” and “terrorism.” It was not a good time to be an
American in Iran—nor an Iranian in America.
One day after class, I was at Massoud’s, as I often was, helping Aziz and Roya wit
h their English homework. Massoud rushed in the house out of breath, red-faced,
and drenched with sweat.
“Some guys were chasing me from school,” he panted, “They were shouting ‘Camel jockey go
home,’ and other things.”
“Are you alright?” I asked. “How did you get away?”
Aziz began interrogating him in Persian.
“I think they grabbed someone else — an Arab or an Indian.” Seeing everyone’s distress,
he tried to make a joke of it. “They don’t know to run or hide like Iranians,”
We weren’t laughing. From that day on, Massoud and his younger sister, Pari, claim
ed Italian origin.
Soon, many other Iranians I knew, struggled to redefine identities to avoid disc
rimination, to blend in to their new country, and most importantly, to avoid ser
ious injury. They came up with various strategies to conceal their ethnicity. So
me changed their Persian names to an American equivalent: Mehdi became Mike, Beh
rouz became Bruce, Parisa became Patricia, and so on. Others declared themselve
s to be "Persian," correctly assuming that most Americans had no idea that Iran
and Persia were one and the same.
#
Tensions in the world and in the community intensified arguments at home. Quarre
ls cropped up on a daily basis in the two households that made up Aziz’s family. T
he cause may have been that there were people of so many different ages, but und
oubtedly, the difficulties everyone was having in adapting to their new lives ha
d a major impact.
One time, Hasti and her daughter Mozhgan were yelling at each other, standing in
the carport outside their apartment. The shouting was in Persian, but I got the
sense that Mozhgan must have said something very insulting, to cause Hasti to g
et so upset. Hasti was typically anxious, stressed, and quick to react, but I ha
d never seen her this animated and upset.
Roya’s daughter, Pari, began laughing and explained to me that Hasti was saying so
mething along the lines of, "How can I have such a disrespectful daughter that s
he insults me like this. You have stabbed my liver. I might as well throw myself
off a cliff…" Hasti held both hands to her side, just below her ribs, as if she h
ad just literally been stabbed.
Roya was standing next to her sister and took hold of Hasti’s arms, in part to soo
the her, I think, but it appeared she might also be keeping Hasti from doing som
ething rash. The look on Roya’s face betrayed that she was holding back laughter,
not wanting to further upset her sister, but still finding the whole scene some
what ridiculous.
Pari, still standing by me, clearly found all this high drama was quite funny. “Ou
r mothers are just old,” she said. “They don’t understand what it is like to be a teen
ager in America.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes, “In the Persian language they don’t even have a wo
rd for ‘teenager.’ Iranian kids always just do as they’re told, until they become ad
ults, and then they still do what their parents tell them. They even live with t
heir parents when they have their own families. Everyone is always making your l
ife their business—you don’t have your own life in Iran.” Another shrug. “Here, everythi
ng is different.”
#
Despite their family squabbles, and the strain of adapting to a new lifestyle, a
new culture, and an angry country, the kitchen always brought everyone together
. They all crowded within the narrow confines of the green Formica counters, wit
h the olive green refigerator and matching stove. The oven was always warm, and
filled with the makings of the next meal. Aziz would smile as she cooked, and sh
ake her head as her grown daughters argued about the best way to cook rice. Wrea
thing the laughter were the aromas of cinnamon, saffron, rice, or fresh baked br
ead. I only understood a minimum of what was being said, but debates around food
seemed almost a universal language.
Remembering the kitchen of my childhood, I couldn’t help but think how often my mo
ther relied on that red box of Minute Rice. Here, in Aziz’s kitchen, I would watc
h amazed. Preparing authentic rice, for Aziz, Roya, and the rest of the women, w
as a ritual.
They would take generous scoops of rice from the huge 50 lb bag that sat in the
corner. It could only be Basmati or Jasmine. Nothing else. Even then, every time
the topic of rice came up — which was often— they always complained: it wasn’t like t
he rice in Iran.
I once went with them to the local discount bulk food store where they bought th
e rice. They would insist on opening the bags, sticking their noses in to smell
the rice, inspecting the texture of the grains, and then they would have lengthy
debates over which was the best quality. It wasn’t long before I could distinguis
h the words “polo” for rice and “kheili khūb-eh”, very good.
I think their favorite brand was from India. It sometimes came with a small cont
ainer of saffron thrown in for free. This was definitely a selling point—for this
they might even choose it over what they determined to be better quality rice.
Saffron was a necessity that was too expensive for their budget.
I stood in that kitchen as often as I could, leaning against that green countert
op, trying to follow the conversation. There I learned that just about anything
could be mixed in rice, from raisins, cinnamon, lentils and lamb, to beans and h
erbs, to—my personal favorite—small sour barberries (zereshk) that they somehow got
from Iran.
The ritual would begin with Aziz or Roya briefly boiling the rice, until it was
al dente, to use the Italian standard for pasta. Aziz then lifted the bulky stea
ming pot with her large hands and sizeable forearms, strained out the water, and
began mixing in the other ingredients. One of them would then put the entire po
t back on the stove —on low — and cover it with a towel to absorb the steam. Roya a
nd Aziz always took the rice out of the pot, and added a little oil and butter t
o the bottom before placing it back on the stove to continue to cook. Hasti, oft
en anxious to speed up the process, would just dribble in a little oil and butte
r over the rice, cover it, and let it sit.
When Roya and Aziz made the rice, the end result was the presentation of an enor
mous aromatic rice dish, speckled yellow with saffron, and accented by a wonderf
ul golden, crispy rice treat from the bottom of the pot, the tahdig. Making goo
d tahdig requires finesse and patience. Hasti’s rice, however, didn’t come out quite
as fluffy as her mother’s or older sister’s rice; her tahdig usually came out black
ened.
The more time I spent with Massoud’s relatives, the more time I wanted to spend wi
th them. Their closeness to each other was infectious and their willingness to a
ccept me into their lives was special. And—of course—I also enjoyed their home-cooke
d meals.
This was the first time I had been away from my own family. Aziz’s family became m
y new away-from-home family; they were someone to prepare and share meals with a
nd to laugh with—even if I didn’t always understand the joke. I couldn’t help but love
people who were so warm and welcoming to me, as if I were their daughter or sis
ter. And to find family in people who had such different ways of thinking and d
oing things—differences in things as simple as preparing rice — was as exhilarating
as it was comforting.
#
One day I came over and found Aziz and her daughters busy preparing all kinds of
special dishes that I had never seen before. As usual, I set about to help, but
this time they shooed me out of the kitchen. More unusual, Massoud and Nader w
eren’t even allowed in the house; when they tried to come in, Aziz chased them out
. I thought perhaps the women were cooking a surprise for them, but they never c
ame back.
The women got out their white chadors with flowery designs that they typically w
ore for prayer. The chador resembles a large sheet that is draped over the top o
f the head and reaches to the ground. The ones they had on today, however, were
nothing like the long black versions I had seen on television.
I decided to leave too as I realized something private was about to happen that
didn’t include me. As I stood to go, Mozhgan grabbed my hand and led me to the roo
m they had prepared. She handed me a white chador, with little blue flowers prin
ted on it. I stood still a moment, feeling special and astonished to be include
d. Then I rushed to put on the chador, clumsily trying to figure out how to drap
e it over my head and completely tuck in my hair, as the others had done. Mozhga
n smiled at my helplessness and came to my rescue, settling the chador about me
with a practiced hand.
A table cloth was spread on the floor and was decorated with flowers and laden w
ith fresh dates, a large bowl of thick noodle soup garnished with something like
yogurt and chopped grilled onions (âsh-e reshteh), cucumber-yogurt (mâst-o-khiar),
nuts, sweet bread, little cake-like squares of saffron-colored rice mixed with c
hicken (tahchin), a variety of small, sweet rose-scented cookies, and a yellow s
affron rice pudding (sholeh zard) sprinkled with a Persian word written in cinna
mon and accented with slivers of pistachio.
“What’s that say?” I asked Mozhgan.
“Ali,” she said, “He is very important in our religion.”
Aziz, tried to explain to me in Persian that they were having a special gatherin
g just for women—a sofreh (a ceremony named after the table cloth upon which all t
he food is set)—and motioned me to sit down.
“Sit, sit,” she said, uttering one of the few English words she knew. So I sat. Ot
her than that, I didn’t quite comprehend what she was telling me. We both laughed
at our strained attempts to communicate and then, with spontaneous emotion, she
took my face in both her hands and kissed my forhead.
Seeing my confusion, Mozhgan again came to my aid and explained the custom. “When
we have an important wish,” she said, “or want to make a bargain with God for some r
eason, we have a sofreh. We pray and we ask God for something and we eat.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s like bargaining with God,” she replied. “If God grants us our wish, we promise to
do something in return, like give food to the poor. Sometimes we may even have a
nother sofreh when our wish comes true, and provide food for all our guests. In
Iran, we have different kinds of sofrehs for different things.”
“Why did the men have to leave? Do they have sofrehs too?” I asked.
“This is something that only girls and women do. Men aren’t allowed, unless they’re t
here as servants.” Nostalgia shone in her eyes.
Mozhgan was patient with my child-like questioning throughout. She motioned me
to sit down next to her and told me to just do what she did. The women said a fe
w prayers together to themselves, and each of them made a wish: perhaps to see t
heir husbands again; perhaps for health and safety for their family; perhaps for
wealth; perhaps to one day be able to return to their country.
It was at that moment—surrounded by these women who had taken me in and who were s
haring with me this special ceremony—that I first wished to visit Iran.
#
In 1982 I left Oregon, and Massoud and his family, to return to San Jose to cont
inue my studies there. Though I was never to see Aziz and her family again, part
of me wanted to keep my link with them, so I enrolled in my first Persian class
. I remember being so frustrated that my Persian handwriting looked like that of
a pre-schooler’s— then I thought of Aziz and Roya painstakingly filling in their En
glish worksheets.
At San Jose State I also took a course in medical anthropology, which completely
fascinated me. It was in that class where I experienced an epiphany: I decided
to become an anthropologist and specialize in Iran. My courses in anthropology
made sense of the world I had been exposed to. I had been an anthropologist—before
I even knew what an anthropologist was—when I was spending so much time with Aziz
 and her family. Like most people, I assumed anthropologists went off to foreign
locations looking for ancient civilizations and artifacts. But now I knew I cou
ld actually study culture, and people’s beliefs and practices and different ways o
f seeing the world….fascinating! Although back in 1982, I had no idea how I would
actually, logically, ever be able to go to Iran to do fieldwork, I set out to st
udy anthropology with that very goal.

I ultimately transferred to UC Santa Barbara, graduated, and went on to Graduate

School at UC Berkeley. There, I received my Ph.D. in anthropology in 2001. I wa
nted to do my dissertation on and in Iran, and the entire time thought about it
and wished for it, but I didn’t have the connections to secure an Iranian visa. In
stead, I did my research on donor insemination in the United States. And for a w
hile I let my aspirations lie dormant. I also married, had two sons (in 1994 and
1995) and divorced, all while in graduate school.
While working on my doctorate, I took courses related to the Middle East, and ot
her topics related to anthropology, and continued studying Persian. One course b
y professor Laura Nader on “Occidentalism/Orientalism” sticks out in my mind, for it
addressed how East and West view one another—and define themselves in relation to
the “other,” drawing on the work of Edward Said and other scholars. This resonated
with me as I thought back to those early images I saw of Iran with Aziz and her
family in their cozy living room, when news of the Islamic Revolution permeated
their airwaves. From my earlier experiences, coupled with materials I was now re
ading, I also began to think critically about how the media portrays people from
other cultures and societies, and how those images feed stereotypes and conflic
t. Now, taken to the extreme, people from other places are defined as “terrorists,” “p
otential terrorists,” or “terrorist sponsoring nations”; suspicion and fear of the “othe
r” permeate individual and collective thought…We have our images in the US but, I wo
ndered, what were their’s? With these thoughts in mind I repeatedly asked myself:
How will I ever get to Iran for fieldwork?
The answer came several years later, in 2000, when I was working on a Post-docto
ral Fellowship at Berkeley, for my research on reproductive technologies and Ame
rican families. I was sitting in my office in the Foster Room (named after medic
al anthropologist, George Foster) on the third floor of Kroeber Hall, gazing out
on the San Francisco Bay. I was supposed to be revising an article for publicat
ion, but instead found myself staring out the window at the San Francisco Bay, d
aydreaming about the sailboats being carried by the wind. My trance broke when m
y computer pinged its signal that an email had just arrived.
The subject heading: “Iranian Health Tour.”
I clicked immediately.
The message was from a UCSF medical student, Nassrin, who was organizing a trip
to her country to explore the health care system. It read:
Subject: Iranian Health Tour
University medical student seeking other students and scholars interested in par
ticipating in a two-week tour of the public health system of the Islamic Republi
c of Iran. If you would like more information, please contact me.
Sincerely,
Nassrin
My immediate reply:
Dear Nassrin,
I am a medical anthropologist and post-doctoral scholar at University of
California, Berkeley. I specialized in Iran throughout my graduate training an
d studied Persian for several years. I am definitely very interested in joining
your group to explore the health system in Iran...I look forward to hearing fro
m you soon.
Sincerely,
Diane Tober
I have no idea where Massoud and his family are today. But it is because of them
, and because of my determination, that twenty-one years after the taking of the
 American hostages, and the first scenes of revolution that filled—and continue to
fill—American living rooms and minds, that I would soon be going to Iran. I joine
d the medical group, and in April 2001, boarded the plane for my first excursion
to explore Iran’s public health system. This story is part personal, part profes
sional: as a single mother of two young sons, I explore our experiences and how
we adapt and negotiate through the different cultural expectations and parameter
s. At the same time, I travel to Iran as an anthropologist conducting research,
not as a regular tourist traveler, and my observations and work are embedded in
years of training and exposure to Iranian culture on a variety of levels. In any
case, my first trip to Iran with the public health tour opened the door to futu
re exchanges and visits, and ultimately led me on a path to Isfahan, to live and
work in Iran with my two sons.