Those Persians

A professor of Iranian origin now working in the Netherlands introduced Persian culture as 'the place where Asia kissed the Middle East.' I'm sure he said 'kissed.' He may also have said 'embraced' in the next sentence or two. It's possible that he also referred to China kissing Turkey. What's absolutely certain is that he referred to a mutual acquaintance of South Asian origin with significant disdain, more or less attributing this person's abrasive - as he saw it - personality to ethnicity. It struck me at the time as ironic that while pressing the point of a multicultural or pluralist tradition in his homeland, where there had been a unique and extended period of ecstatic cultural exchange and expression, he also illustrated some of the residual irritations that can remain visible, like scar tissue, when personalities clash.

Kavir is (was?? has the global crisis closed it down??) a pluralist Persian culinary zone in Glasgow, offering Carrot & Persian Ice Cream Milkshakes, Persian herbal tea and all variety of smoothies. I found their sign rather alluring, and I hope they've not had to fold. My Persian connections are scattered, but detailed, and luckily for me, publicity around an exhibition at the British Museum on 17th-century Iran draws another epic description of Silk Route dramas in centuries past in the days of glory in Isfahan, where, as it happened, the going currency was a silver coin mined by slaves of Spanish conquistadores, but manufactured by the mercantile Dutch. Who's kissing who, I mean, really?

My first Iranian connection was probably during my grade school years in New Jersey, when I played with the daughter of a carpet importer. After that, on my first flight from West to East, the standard pre-landing announcement from the cockpit was slightly amended to Ladies and Gentlemen, we will land shortly at Teheran Airport, where the local time is 1500 years in the past.

In contrast: I received a congratulatory card on International Women's Day once and only once - from a forward-thinking Iranian exile in Holland. And in the new Millenium, I was witness to the bizarre application of a dynamic, modern survey of the pro-active and largely successful Iranian minority in the Netherlands. In academics and many other fields, (Dutch-) Iranians are forging ahead.

Nevertheless, it was a bit of surprise when a Canadian friend was drawn into this survey as being one of them. Amsterdam city records showed his mother's place of birth as being Teheran, where she indeed first appeared on this earth as the daughter of English oil company employees temporarily residing in Iran. He was thereby classified as an Iranian in Holland, and when the survey of his lifestyle and habits was done, there was no way to clarify his true background. I know, because I sat in as a witness.

It was quite a shock to see that the barrier to providing accurate information was built into the software on the laptop provided to the interviewer by the marketing company being paid by government and/or city funds (taxpayers) to generate useful data on Holland's new demographics. The Canadian interviewee repeatedly explained the circumstances of his mother's birth in Teheran, but there was no way of recording this history. Another strange question concerned the subject's social life: do you spend more time with your own group (Iranians) or with Dutch people?? He asked: what about everyone else? But there was no way to file accurate details.

Te gek voor woorden - too crazy for words - an expression which I now can hope to learn in Farsi, thanks (to end on a high note) to the recent publication of a Compilation of Idioms in Dutch & Persian. The book's author is a Teheran-born long-time resident of the Netherlands and a certified interpreter and translator. Farsi, as it happens, is Iran's official language - but there many dozens of others.

Salt Lake City Again

I made some notes while watching the unbelievably fast, balanced and cool-headed speed skaters from around the world who are competing in Salt Lake City, USA this weekend. Luckily for me, they're on TV in the Netherlands.

Please click to enlarge the photograph and read.

For previous reference to Salt Lake City, please see June 16, 2007.

The Secrets of Thialf

The Medicine Wheel is central to the culture of the Plains Indians in North America. It is a sacred symbol for all knowledge. The eye-shaped Medicine Wheel shown here was printed in the TIPI Newsletter.

The Thialf Hall in the Netherlands is a state-of-the-art skating rink where major international competitions are held.

[Please see also post March 3, 2008, 'A Win-Win Situation', where I hinted at the imminent demise of a certain right-wing politician in the Netherlands, only now, a year later, to be proven quite inaccurate in my forecast, as a new poll suggests that his right-wing party would WIN elections in the Kingdom of the Netherlands if they were held today; this same personality has just enjoyed publicity on right-wing talk shows and with conservative groups in the United States, after being refused entrance to the United Kingdom, where he had been invited to screen his anti-Islam movie in the House of Lords - so let's keep an eye, so to speak, on these new alliances!]

The Thialf covered oval arena was named after Thialfi, servant to the Nordic God Thor ("the chief defender of the gods and of humans against the evil forces of the giants and chaos" Encyclopedia Britannica Vol 5 p.215). Thor is more commonly known today as the God of Thunder. The climate control system applied in the Thialf Hall is depicted below.

The smaller photo showing the Medicine Wheel again also carries a computer view of one of my eyes (an image I recalled while studying the technical information about the ice-skating arena) the results of an examination carried out to assess the potential benefits of 'night lenses': contact lenses to be worn while sleeping. These relatively large inserts alter the surface of your eye during the night, allowing something close to normal vision during the day. I did try them for a spell, but abandoned the night lenses after I discovered that, after dark, the lights of oncoming cars were refracted into blinding displays, like lightning.

One Small Victory in the Bailout Era

I have two months to study this brochure and determine whether or not I qualify for the $35,000,000 (thirty-five million dollars) class action settlement from Bank of America. As it stands, I think I have to send them a letter either way: I can include myself or exclude myself. I think. 35-mln, peanuts these days, especially for what will in all likelihood turn out to be a pretty big class, but the tiny trickle of funds into my account has produced a balance modest enough to encourage an accommodating attitude towards any additions which may arrive, so I'll reread the brochure. It arrived unrequested in the mail. I didn't ask for it.

Having skimmed through once or twice, it doesn't look good, in fact, because I don't have a Bank of America debit card, but like I said, there's time to comb the fine print. I do have other credit cards occasionally in use, and recently I had an interesting experience related to personal finance and customer relations.

A letter from the credit card (CC) company arrived informing me that unfortunate transactions had occurred involving their lists of CC numbers and illegitimate participants in global markets, who might be planning to incur costs on others' accounts. Mine. For this reason, I would be receiving a new CC from them and could cut up the old one.

I called them to ask for more information. Specifically, I thought it opportune to inquire about the way in which my CC number might have been targetted. Where had this occurred?

That's confidential. We are not going to tell you that, as it could lead you to avoid doing business with the enterprise in question in the future. The fraud was no fault of their own, and these businesses are our clients. They must be able to rely on confidentiality at all times!

Oh, even as a small CC-holder, I'm a client, too. Aren't I? Don't I have a right to know what's happening with my miniscule account, especially if something goes wrong? It's my card, after all.

It's not your card. WE own it.

Actually, your company earns quite a reasonable rate of interest on anything that transpires involving the card which bears my name. If you wish to keep me as a client, you might want to respond to my request for transparency in a more civilized tone. But you sound quite angry and upset, so I think I'll just thank you so much for your time and get off the phone now and send a letter to your office.

You DO that. The letter will arrive on my desk and I'll answer you with the EXACT same information.

I sustained this tranquil mode while composing a short letter which now included both my original message and my disappointment at having heard that CC-holders were viewed as second-class clients. I never did receive an answer on paper, but the letter evidently landed on someone else’s desk, because within a few days, the phone rang, and a different voice from the CC-company greeted me in the most cordial of tones.

It is most regrettable that you were left with the impression that certain clients are more valuable than others. We are really in a bind here. I hope you can understand.

I do understand. If I were investigating this subject, I guess I would somehow gain access to the information about potential dangers to CC-accounts. Now of course I am not conducting an investigation - even though I am experienced in the field of journalism; I could forward you some of my work if you'd like - but I must stand by the principle of having a right to know what goes wrong when it goes wrong out in world of retail and apparently I’m involved.

I don't think anyone mentioned retail.

Well, you mean it wasn't retail?

And so forth. This quite pleasant conversation continued with the utmost respect from and towards both parties. At a certain point, disclosure of both the geographical and retail locations became inevitable, as we agreed that principled action and accurate exchange of knowledge was the most fulfilling premise for all business relations. I truly believe that this second young man from the CC-company had a new professional experience on the phone that day, disclosing the information which his company was not supposed to provide. In doing so, we sealed a deal based on trust. I vowed that I would never report having found out the name and location of the store where my CC-details were fed into a crime ring.

Name as Noun

I've been called many names in my time [Please see 'Name as Gerund, ' January 21, 2008] but this was a real surprise, breaking what had felt like a long, tedious stretch during which my name was spelled correctly on all envelopes arriving in the mail. And I've never been addressed as the familiar term for a handkerchief. That, of course, is actually written as 'hanky' or 'hankie.' Now I know: Hankey is also a surname.

Inside the envelope for Martha Hankey were promotion materials for Turkish cultural events. One of the cards, partially displayed above, bore a photograph of a Sufi whirling dervish, which, when laid on its side so that the dancer's garment flails nicely under 'Hankey,' allowed me to emphasize the aspects of textile shared by image and text. Neither the image nor the first line in the address on the envelope carrying the cards had been intended that way. In fact, the truth is that I have intentionally blocked out a significant part of the photograph, the part featuring a Flamenco dancer who stands observing the dervish, this representative of mystical Islam. They perform together; that's what this announcement is all about. If I wanted to I could be in the audience sometime this Spring.

I don’t think that would be a good idea, now that I have traded in the Flamenco dancer dimension for the concept of being an elegant fold of cloth; silk, if possible, beautifully folded, easily accessible. But that might be too passive for the dervish aims at stake - why not take the sophisticated softness along as an ally? Spraying the handkerchief with an elusive scent, or wrapping it around a potent substance before tucking it into my evening bag could be an option. Anything to enhance the audience experience.

The 'whirling dervishes' enhance their spiritual poise by whirling in devotion to God. Another order of dervishes worships in a mode which can cause alarm among onlookers: they used to link arms, then violently move head and torso back and forth, moaning and crying out, until they threw themselves forward onto snakes or swords. Nowadays, they might sit in the presence of a Master, stabbing or burning themselves, to prove their devotion. This was their ritual prayer; these people are called ‘howling dervishes’ [Please do now see 'Name as Gerund, ' January 21, 2008, if you haven’t already].

By the way, alarmed onlookers have been there in great numbers for centuries, as both the whirlers and the howlers have always ‘performed’ their ritual prayer in public.

I Promise You

Some good news in the final weeks of 2008: this Polish-language sign was removed from the window of a store in my Amsterdam neighbourhood. I do not read Polish (please see http://lifebeforenews.blogspot.com/2007/06/no-vocabulary.html) but upon inquiring inside was told that it warned potential shop-lifters of the presence of security camera’s. Theft had become a major problem for retailers in 2008; a majority of those caught came from Eastern Europe. Polish was selected as the most effective language of deterrence. I will eventually ask why the sign was removed. For the moment, I’m banking on a cheerful explanation: robberies were down/the shop-owners decided not to stigmatize Poles/the sign did not enhance the Holiday mood.

The Holiday Season began to gather steam for me in the post-Thanksgiving and Sint Maarten period, as Dutch Muslims were gathering for the Eid al-Adha and others had just celebrated Sinterklaas, which I acknowledged at a weekend dinner party held mostly in anticipation of Chanukah at the home of a non-observant Jewish friend who grew up celebrating Christmas in Pennsylvania in the USA. There are those who would launch the winter celebrations in October with Halloween, running straight on past Chinese New Year (I have been advised to muster up lots of patience for the Year of the Ox) beyond the Ides of March and, why not, into Easter.

At the dinner party, we had a heated discussion about whether the City of Amsterdam is acting wisely in reducing soft-drug trade and red-light areas for prostitution. Arguments were made for protection of and health care for prostitutes to prevent their disappearance into illegal brothels where trafficked women (most are women, majority trafficked) and men from all over the world are held against their will. The economy of Amsterdam is fed not just by museum-goers and lovers of Indonesian food, but also significantly by soft-drug visitors from neighboring countries, Brits on wild weekends, and by hooker-gawkers from around the globe, including families who link hands with grandparents and kids, stroll by the windows and stare at the women as though studying an amusement park theme. Visitors also have a chance to stroll around sex-shops, such as the one just visible in the photo above, across from the store that had displayed the warning sign in Polish.

Still at the dinner party, a gay man, a long-time resident of Amsterdam, said he fears that a conservative crackdown on prostitution would damage the local economy and eventually result in correspondingly conservative anti-gay backlash-legislation. So!..If you plan to visit Amsterdam in the New Year, even as a one-day cruise ship visitor or a transit passenger at Schiphol Airport, do enjoy the architecture, museums, music, harbour ferries and good coffee! The city is already transitioning into a revised self – which would include less exploitation of women from far-off lands – it just hasn’t yet decided how to pay for it, what with so much money being allocated to over-budget transportation projects and the like. Give a call if you pass through town. I promise to show you a good time! Happy 2009!

It all comes together - even now

Interludes with friends aside, there were only two moments on that long day of travel and conversation in and around Havana when I felt that everything came together: during the regular broadcast of the nation’s favorite soap opera, and later on, at the police station. Apart from those two interludes, it was disjointed - in a normal way, like any series of encounters where people wonder if the other was really who he or she claimed to be, if the stated reason for being present was the guiding or subordinate thought and if the apparent pleasure in the other’s company was feigned or genuine. At the time, I was concerned that further disclosure of the police encounter could lead to problems for various parties. Enough time has passed, and now we could, in theory, all rub shoulders as we struggle to read a barely legible document.

The better part of the day had been devoted to a visit outside of the capital, where I saw medical facilities for foreigners and a small museum on the coast honoring local heroes. Conversations and background sound were recorded along the entire route. We made it back to the hotel in time for me to trot over to a street in the old part of the city where I was able to slowly walk along, microphone in hand, passing all of the windows open to private homes where, without exception, televisions were turned onto the favorite telenovela (soap opera) of the moment. Everyone had turned up the volume full blast and the dialogues resonated beautifully against the old walls. It was a very satisfying few minutes, and I now expect that this was the walk that triggered my interest in the acoustic properties of clay.

Later on that evening, I sat on the Malecon, the boulevard at the water’s rocky edge, talking with a friend, doing what everyone else was doing: enjoying conversation and a bit of a breeze after another day of intense heat. My bag with all notes and recording gear was at my side on the wall, and then suddenly it wasn’t, having been snatched by a large boy or small man who ran away and jumped onto the back of a waiting bicycle which wobbled off towards the old city center.

My friend ran after them in pursuit, but they were fast. They vanished into blocks of unlit streets, but not without dropping a shoe, and when the police arrived, the shoe was handed over to the sniffer dog unit. The healthiest-looking dog in Havana, a German Shepherd, picked up the scent and rushed to the entrance of one of the side streets. He then raised his head in confusion at the spot where the perp had lost contact with the ground by leaping onto the bicycle.

Several more attempts were made before the operation was called off. I was offered the opportunity of registering the event with the police. Down at the station at 2 a.m., we were received by a very tired policewoman who inserted paper into an ancient typewriter and began asking questions about the incident and pounding the keys. As the sheet of paper came to resemble an embossed monograph more than an official report, I understood why her efforts were so fierce: the typewriter ribbon was worn out and almost no ink was being hammered onto the paper by the keys. The veteran policewoman whipped the report out of the machine and laid it on the desk to acquire all needed signatures, telling me not to worry, that everything would be legible once a photocopy had been made of this original. This was the last passport theft I would report before becoming a dual national.