Friday, September 26, 2003

No to Nukes for Iran! An oppressive regime such as one in the present Iran is a threat to the Iranians as well as to other nations.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003


Tonight hubby is frustrated with everything including his favorite TV host Chris Matthews who literally turned his show Hardball into Arnold Schwarzenegger's campaign headquarters. He is fed up with iran-emrooz and similar sites that are full of irrelevant articles about Republic versus Monarchy written by people who apparently lack the slightest understanding about the extent of the tragedy that religious tyranny has brought upon Iran.
a few nights ago... We (P, the baby and I) were driving to Barnes & Noble to check some books and I heard Salam Pax on the NPR. P's hand goes to change the station. Sheema: No, let us hear. It's Salam Pax's interview. P: Who is Salam Pax? Sheema: The Baghdad Bloger P: That guy! Okay, sure let us hear what he says. ...after a while... P: Why these radios don't interview Iranian bloggers? What was the name of that Journalist bloger? Wasn't it Sina? Why don't they interview Sina Mottalebi? Or you? Between the baby's constant request to sing her Barney's song and P talking about the Iranian students in the prisions of the regime, I only heard something like: I will not leave Iraq. It is a historic time and I don't want to miss it (...You can hear his interview on the Fresh Air and here is G's blog. Last May, I let my readers know that Salam Pax was back on line...so he already is part of the zaneirani-readers-family...) Last night I put the little girl in her bed and went to open the window...and as hours passed, the images waltzed their way into the "Good Night Baby Girl" and so I gave birth to a new poem.

"Good Night Baby Girl" 

 I open the window so that 
she can hear the sound of the night,
so that she can smell the fresh scent, 
and when the rain starts she will hear 
her mama again walking quietly 
as a breeze of air to cover her 
from the cool of the storm. 

Watch her gently as she stirs slightly, 
amazed by the face, so small and innocent, 
that reflects the generations back 
through untold time, that moves 
toward a future shaped and molded 
by who we are, by from where we came, 
by the question mark of where we are today. 

Notice the little hand that clutches the blanket, 
so perfectly formed, sculpted by love 
and the grace of God, the hand which 
someday perhaps will cover 
with a blanket her own baby girl 
and remember the moments 
when she was young and knew 
even in her sleep that mama was there. 

Reach down and the fingers so tiny, 
so fragile yet so strong in their quiet 
slumbered love unconsciously 
wrap around mine and transmit pulse 
through my body, circling, snaking, dancing 
through me with a warmth that runs 
from my heart to my womb, and reminds me
of the bond that will connect us as long as she lives. 

Tip-toe from her room and return to mine, 
slip between the blankets lest I rouse him 
from his rest, although I wouldn't mind, 
for at this moment it would be wonderful 
to disappear into a small nested universe 
where twined beneath the lullaby of the rain 
we would remember the miracle 
 from which she came.

Thursday, September 18, 2003

Iran: An Unfit Mother

Iranian Children do not have rights. The 9-year-old Narges is the latest victim I know of. She is been physically abused and injured by a family member. If you know of/are an attorneyNarges may be a/the case for you. She is one of many abused children in Iran.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

My little girl has learned a) to clean up after eating and b) hand me her dishes & cups.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003



Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.

Rumi

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Sad things are happening around the world.
P: Is this the type of wisdom you want our child to have/learn from?

Sheema: Is it really what I want her to remember me by? Is it how I want her to treat her surrounding? Is there a right way to live?
What is it to you if I am a Jew, a Muslim, a Shinto, a Christian, or a Hindu! What is it to you if I am an Iranian, an Arab or a Mongol, a homosexual, a transsexual or a hetero! What is to you where I am from or what faith do I have! I am a Human first and last.

Monday, September 08, 2003

I am on the phone with my mom and I tell her I am tired because I have been painting the baby's room over the past three days.
Mom: Take care of yourself first. Make sure you don't exhaust yourself over painting a room. 
My husband checks the room: It looks great but maybe you should have had read a guidebook to how to be a skilled painter.
Mother-in-law who is visiting us from another state: The room looks good even when the lights aren't on. The baby walks in and looks around and wants to touch and taste the new lemon color. 

Thursday, September 04, 2003

Duet

Move through the past,
through the legends, beyond the history,
through the poetry, through the old stories,
beyond the gates of Sheba, beyond
Solomon and the fabled talking bird
to where I hear your voice,
distant, far across the Sea of Despair,
pleading with the Gods and the Fates:

I am searching and searching to find
constant reminders of-to where do I belong . . .


I listen quietly although I can never truly know
the depths of these passions that drive you
along the paths of quiet desperation.
My exiles are those of my own choosing.

Why do I not understand the language they speak,
the ideology they believe, and the life they live?

Their belief is covered with thick black ice
and I'm a tiny little one, melting away . . .


There is a distant stream that flows from the mountains,
through the uncharted wilderness, and grows in strength
and power as it moves homeward to the sea. Along the way
it encounters the stone cruelty of the rocks that in the end
ebb in defeat over generations to the inevitability of the water.

They have enslaved me
with the direct connection to their God/s,
with the enslavement of my dreams,
with the exile of my hope.

And they make me feel ugly to my bones . . .


The rose stands alone cold in the garden before
the withering frost. It must be patient and await
the gentle fingers of spring where true beauty lies
when it blossoms burst forth in a splendor that cannot be denied.

To them I am a whore
walking on the streets of my life,
condemned to the Babylon of their wrath . . .


Within you lies the true strength of woman,
the ability to create, the ability to nurture,
the ability to withstand the torrents of oppression,
for you think in generations and not in moments.

Within your words are the sky and the wind
and the mountains and the trees and the dreams
where others will realize that such hatred
can only consume if one allows it to do so.

That is why they fear you.

They have their Iran,
I have mine . . .


Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes