There’s a lot of anxiety, fear, and just ugliness on Iran surrounding us right now. To help break up the barrage of news debating the fate of Iran, I, too, am sharing some short anecdotes — beautiful little memories — of Iran. This is my third vignette.
“Do o chehar, gol ast o behar.” Two and four, it’s flowers and spring. (Any toss of the die that would yield a 4 would elicit this rhyme.)
“Shesh o besh.” Six and five. Turkish though, not Farsi.
“Joft sheesh.” Double sixes. “Ya Allah. Bah bah.”
“Joft sheesh.” Again. “Ajab.”
“Yek o… do.”…
There’s a lot of anxiety, fear, and just ugliness around Iran inundating us right now. I’ve been grateful for folks sharing their photos and stories of Iran — the Iran that rarely makes headlines. To help break up the barrage of news debating the fate of Iran, I, too, will be sharing some short anecdotes — beautiful little memories — of Iran. This is my second vignette.
It was either the multigenerational pasheh (mosquito) family, the blaring of the car horns from the street below Bababozorg’s apartment, or my unyielding jet lag that would jolt me awake at precisely 5:30…
There’s a lot of anxiety, fear, and just ugliness around Iran inundating us right now. I’ve been grateful for folks sharing their photos and stories of Iran — the Iran that rarely makes headlines. To help break up the barrage of news debating the fate of Iran, I, too, will be sharing some short anecdotes — beautiful little memories — of Iran. I haven’t been able to go back since 2015, and that brings me indescribable pain. But for now, Iran lives on through the food I make, and words I write.
It had become somewhat of a ritual for…
cw, tw: police violence
We preface this open letter by saying that the Black Lives Matter movement and Black voices in particular have been rightfully centered across global struggles for justice these past few weeks. In issuing this statement, we hope to hold ourselves accountable to Black communities, organizers, and individuals, being mindful of potentially detracting from advocacy against anti-Blackness, co-opting the work of this or any other movement, or otherwise taking any space that should be given up instead.
I’ve been sitting here, arms crossed against my chest, smiling — perhaps closer to smirking — for a few minutes now. I’ve been scrolling through Twitter, dumbfounded by the amount of media coverage on a video of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez dancing.
Dancing. It’s not provocative, it’s not scandalous, it’s not offensive. But God forbid a young woman in a college T-shirt dances to a song she likes without it turning into a nationwide scandal — conveniently right after she’s sworn into office.
First off, spell out her name. Just because “ethnic”/foreign names often are longer and involve many names does not…
1 cup whole wheat flour. Actually, 3/4 cup flour. And 3/4 cup ground oats, for good measure. 1 teaspoon baking powder. Scratch that — make it 1 tablespoon. Chia seeds, flaxseed meal. Cinnamon — probably too much, too pungent. A touch of ground ginger, for a little bite. Some cardamom, because why not?
Four brown-to-the-point-of-black bananas, mashed. 1.5 cups vanilla almond milk. Honey. Vanilla, real vanilla, the kind that fills your nostrils and tugs at your heartstrings.
Dark chocolate, from the local Middle-Eastern store. (Better than the kind from “Whole Paycheck,” otherwise known around here as “Whole Foods.”) Walnuts.
perhaps you have never been touched by sexual assault
you have never seen someone you love cope with sexual assault, harassment, or rape
you have never been groped
you have never feared being with someone
you have never felt paralyzed, unable to speak out or up to say, no
you have never felt a sort of crippling anxiety
you have never changed your route to the gym, to class, to the library to avoid someone
you have never altogether stopped going somewhere you previously loved to go
you have never wanted to protect your friends, underclassmen from the ugliness of…
Here are [my] 8 resolutions for the new year for people in the news media (and the “Fake News Media.”)
I cried when I heard of the lives lost in the senseless Istanbul airport attack. I felt sick. I was horrified; I was angry. I was scared; I considered the frequency with which lives were taken in a place I’d visited several times and even had family — lives of people I identified with religiously, racially and even ethnically.
I was horrified when I heard of the senseless police killings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. I was angry; I felt deeply sad.
But I did not cry; I did not suddenly fear for my life. In a way, I…