میلاد

صبح در پیش است

زمانی‌ برای باور تهی بودن باورها

و ایمان به پوچی همهٔ آنچه سالها برای بودنشان جنگیدیم

من از نهایت شبهای بی‌ پایان پاییز

و از ورای پنجرهٔ مه گرفتهٔ اتاقی‌ که از فاصلهٔ دستانمان سخن میگوید

به قلبهای مضطربی میاندیشم

که در امتداد سالهای مبارزهٔ بیهوده مان

به تلخی یخ زدگی خو گرفتند

زمستان امسال
در لحظه‌های خمار سپیدپوشی کوچه‌های خالی شهرمان
به یاد دخترکی خواهم بود که در یک شب پاییزی
در آغوش برگهای زرد درختان باغچه کوچک قلبم
به میلاد رسید
  
و چنین بود که هرگز ایمان نیاورد
به طلوع صبح پوچی باورها

هجرت

سالهایی که گذشت
حس سبزی از بطن درخت
گنگ خاکستری باطن موج
و فرو خفتن خورشید بر بستر آب
که ندا میداد مردان امید:
رزقتان در تور است
خورده زوری بزنید، ماهیان منتظرند

پسرک عاشق بود
دست میشست در رود سپید
پای میکوفت بر نرمی شالی امید
از فراز سبز سبز کوهها
به افق مینگریست
به همان صحنه بیشرم غروب
که خدای خورشید
به همبستری آبی دریا میرفت

آن‌ دوردستها
در افق شهری بود
خانه‌ها از شکلات
بامها آذین شده با مروارید
کوچها فرش شده از گل یاس
و در آن‌ رقص کنان دخترکانی زیبا
حلقه یاس به سر میکردند

پسرک تاب نداشت
حس بینام تکامل به دلش راه گشود
دلش از شوق پریدن سرشار
حس وحشیش به او راه نمود
پسرک کوله کشید

سالها میگذرند
پسرک در خواب است
خانه‌اش از شکلات
بسترش از یاس سپید
دست در دست بتی چشم سیاه
که تنش ساقی آرامش بود
فارغ از ترس تب آلود گناه

پسرک رویا دید
خواب شبهای بلوغ
که دلش عاشق بود
پاک چون پاکی آن‌ رود سپید
بیتاب به بیتابی ماهی‌ در تور
بیکران چون جنگل، دریا، خورشید

مردی از بستر گلپوش به پا میخیزد
کوله میجوید و عصایی از بطن درخت
راه سختی در پیش است

داغ

نگاهت می‌کنم
و به انعکاس نالهٔ کهنهٔ کفشت در مسیر رود گوش می‌کنم
زخمی به دل داری و نشانی‌ از تازیانه بی‌ رحم تعصب بر تنت

نگاهم میکنی‌
از دلبستگیهای کوچک امروزت میگویی
و از مردی که دوستش نداری

نگاهت می‌کنم
روحم در امتداد آب پرواز می‌کند
از ورای روزهایی در گذشته
به دخترکی می‌‌اندیشم که دوستش داشتم
همان که حس لطیف کودکیش در آبهای رود مدفون شد

نگاهم میکنی‌
شبحی گنگ از آن روزها در عمق چشمانت و برقی که فرو میمیرد
با افتخار به داغ تنت اشاره میکنی‌ و به مردانی که دوستش دارند

نگاهت می‌کنم
امیدی نیست
دمی به پیاله میزنم و توقف می‌کنم
در سکوت به ناله‌های کهنهٔ کفشت گوش می‌کنم

به دور شدنت نگاه می‌کنم
به مردی که افسار اسبی را به دستت میدهد
و به تو که با شادی یک کودک سوار میشوی

به قلب رود میتازی
آن دوردستها رفته رفته در آب فرو میروی
میدانم که داغ تنت را آب خواهد شست
با زخم دلت چه میکنی‌؟

اون شب رو یادته؟

اون شب رو یادته؟

یاد شب کریسمس ۲۰۰۹ بخیر. ساعت ۱ صبح بود که از کنار تیمز رد شدم. برف میبارید ولی‌ ما قلبمون گرم گرم بود. از کنار پلازا که رد شدم پشت چراغ قرمز وستمینیستر یکی‌ از ولگردها اومد جلو قبل از اینکه من چیزی بگم شروع کرد به پاک کردن شیشهٔ ماشین.
عصبی شدم و دستمو با خشم به طرفش تکون دادم ولی‌ اون بدون توجه پاک میکرد. و بعد اون لحظه رسید....
به یاد آوردم:
همین ۴ سال پیش بود
روزای سردی که تو سرمای آمستردام بر خلاف جهت با د باید رکاب میزدم
یادم اومد رییس شرکتی که ما کارگرش بودیم. وقتی‌ با سگش رد میشد و شکلاتی که ما برای خریدنش له له میزدیم رو برای سگ پرت میکرد
و مهمونی صاحبان شرکت که ۱۰۰۰۰۰ یورو خرجش شده بود و غذاهای اضافه رو دور ریختن در حالی‌ که من میدونستم همهٔ کارگرا گرسنه هستن و تأ ۱۱ شب هنوز خیلی‌ مونده بود
یادم اومد دزدی که لاستیک دوچرخم رو دزدید و بعد رونالد براش یه نامه رو درخت چسبوند که لطفا برگردونش ما خیلی‌ فقیریم. میدونستیم که فردا شب دزد برمیگرده که بقیهٔ دوچرخه رو ببره. و یادم اومد که روز بعدش دیدیم لاستیک دزدیده شده سر جاش بود، دمش گرم دزد با معرفتی بود.
از ورای بیگ بن میلیونها کارگری رو دیدم که قرنها تو گرمای روزای دهلی‌ و سرمای شبهای کویر جون دادن تا امپراتوری بریتانیا پایدار بمونه
و به خودم نگاه کردم، که گرمای دلچسب سیستم گرمایش ب.م.و زیر پام بود، داشتم به التون جونز گوش می‌کردم و به بستر گرمی‌ که منو صدا میکرد....
چهرهٔ آفتاب سوختهٔ آمریکای جنوبی داشت، معتاد بود، اونم یه بدبختی مثل من بود که سرنوشت به اینجا رسونده بودش،
کارش دیگه تموم شده بود، دست تو کیف کردم و یه ۲۰ پوندی در آوردم. صداش کردم به طرف پنجره و چشمکی بهش زدم؛ نگاهم به نگاهش تلاقی کرد و هر دو مون فهمیدیم که دیگری به چی‌ فکر می‌کنه: رفیق نوبت تو هم می‌شه به اینجا میگن لندن.
گاز رو گرفتم و به طرف واکسال رفتم و مردک توی برف گم شد. شاید الان میرفت مک دونالد یه غذای حسابی‌ میخورد، شاید هم مواد میگرفت و نأشه میشد و شاید گوشهٔ پیکادیلی یه روسپی آواره رو با ۱۰ پوند راضی‌ میکرد.
چه میدونم. اینجا لندن هست و هرچیزی ممکن.

زنده‌باد لندن، پاینده باد بریتانیای کبیر. زنده‌باد خون گرم سرمایه داری

بقا

روزهایی بود که با بودن گذشت، آن روزها را خوب یادم هست. وقتی‌ بشت به پشت هم دادیم و برای بودن و بقا جنگیدیم، درست مثل کربنهای عالی اجدادمان که اولین دیوارهٔ سلولی را بنا کردند تا از تهاجم سیل امان یابند. آن روزها معنی زندگی‌ در بقا خلاصه میشد.

و ما باقی‌ ماندیم، و گریختیم، و به سوی خوشبختی‌ که نمیدانستیم پرواز کردیم. همان پرواز آشنای ایران ایر بود از مهراباد.
امروز سالها از آن روزها می‌گذرد و ما که باقی‌ ماندیم شاهد خیلی‌ چیزها شدیم. اوائل فکر میکردیم که ما ماندیم و آنها که پشت سر گذاشتیم مردند. بعدها کمکم درگیر نبردی شدیم که بقایمان به ما هدیه کرد و ما دوباره جنگیدیم و جنگیدیم.

امروز دیگه نمیدانم کداممان زنده ایم. من که بقا یافتم و یا تو که ماندی و مردی. تا جایی‌ که یادم هست در آخرین برخوردمان با هم یک شات ویسکی به سلامتی بقا بالا رفتیم، دو سه پوک دود هوا کردیم و از وجود هم ارضا شدیم.
و چنین بود که باقی‌ و فانی همبستر شدند

ترانه‌های سوخته ،کاری از نصرت رحمانی

نمیدانی جفا را دوست دارم ------- خیانت در خفا را دوست دارم

وفا کن تا رها گردی زدستم -------- زنان بی وفا را دوست دارم

چراغ کومه ام خاموشه امشب -------- دل دیوانه ام در جوش امشب

صدای پایی از کویی نیومد -------- خدایا در کدام آغوشه امشب

ز جا بار دگر برخیز یارم -------- مرا سیراب تر کن بی قرارم

سپیده میدمد بگریز،بگریز -------- سحر با یار دیگر وعده دارم

My Home

This is my first post in this blog. It was a long time, I wanted to express myself through writing but always managed to find excuses to do so. However, my recent trip to Iran after a few years of absence acted as a catalyst and pushed me here to commence this.

I left my parents' home in Rasht in 1991 when I was only 17. Since then I spent time/lived (short/long term) in following cities:
Tehran, Kermanshah, Khalkhal, Lashtenesha, Amsterdam, Amersfoort (Holland), London, Dubai, Swansea (Wales).

Residing in different areas of the world and facing the life as it unfolds affected me and changed my characters and personality a great deal. However, there was a single fact that was persistent over the years:

I had a HOME. It was the little HAJKOKABI alley in Rasht where I grew up and spent my childhood. It was where I learned to play Chess and became a little champion in adolescence. It was where I met the first girl I ever loved and kissed in a humid summer evening. It was where I said goodbye to my grandma and cried a long night for my cousin who left us in 1359 (1980). My HOME was a 350 sqm land that my mom and dad bought for 16000 Tomans ($2500) in 1358(1979) and built it as they always dreamed in their childhood. Later, more than 10 other families built their dream houses around ours and lived there for the last 25 years (Do you remember TARA?)

It was where the old Mr. Hajkokabi and his big dog lived and died and hence gave his name to the alley. There were little windows where we watched men shouting each other during revolution in 1979 and the spacious parking area where we used to hide when Bombs were pointing our city in 1988, and the little yard where we used to sleep over nights following 50000 killer Gilan earthquake in 1990.

AND I USED TO GO HOME
Whenever there was a problem in life when I couldn't cope with, when all the world seemed to be falling over me, when I was tired of struggling and fighting over and over and when I was tired of a woman and needed to feel the true love and....
I had a home. I could escape and just leave everything behind. I could go back. There was something behind me that I could always rely on. It was my home.
I used to go home, walk across the big guest room, rest on one of the old sofa's for a few hours, listen to the rain playing that traditional music over the roof and talk to my dad who used to watch me and talk to me and give me lessons from the history and his own life.

A history teacher who was born in a little village and managed to educate in Ferdosi Uni in Mashhad where he was proud of attending Dr. Sharitai's classes. He was one of the first people holding a bachelor degree in History in Rasht. In 1979 he became chair of Gilan Teacher Training Uni after revolution. A year later he was swept away by second revolutionary wave.

AND I WENT HOME IN APRIL 2009:

The aircraft landed in Rasht airport, I was amazed to know that it was the same Dutch made Fuker 100 aircraft that took me to Tehran when I left the country. I remembered my tears when It departured in 2001.
My mom and dad were in airport, I saw my dad through the windows surrounding the luggage claim section and I crashed!
I could barely recognise him. He had a hunch and could hardly talk. I remembered him teaching in classes for 8 hours a day and more.
We drove through the lovely streets of Rasht surrounded by trees and flowers as I had it depicted in my mind. I had chosen to go there in Ordibehesht to experience dreamy land of Gilan in the spring.
We arrived in our neighbourhood. I passed through old streets that were barely drivable. Hajkokabi alley was still there (thanks god they didn’t change the name) but a big whole of 2*2 meter at the middle of the alley welcomed me back home. My memorable Hajkokabi alley was almost not recognisable. All the beautiful villas and family houses were replaced by apartments. One could easily calculate that each family has been replaced by more than 5 families.

We arrived in our family house which was one of the last ones remaining among those tall and ugly buildings. I immediately realised that nowhere there could flowers be found. My dad was too old so that he couldn't look after the garden. I never saw those pretty spring flowers again. The story was the same for our neighbouring buildings. The only difference was that they didn't even have any space left for gardening.

I heard stories of some of the people who used to live in the neighbourhood and died in the recent years. They were people I knew for more than 20 years. Families sold their family houses and left to live in apartments.

I soon realised that %99 of people were dressed in black or semi black clothes. So the fight against government legislations for clothing was finally over. I felt that people admitted their faith and didn’t even think of fighting for anything even if it’s related to what they eat or wear.

All my old friends and classmates had left the city like I did. They were all living in Tehran or had immigrated to other countries. I walked across the main streets of the city. I met boys with strange haircuts resembling Turkish actors who seemed to be still famous. Girls had the same sort of Islamic clothing that I could remember being the most important subject of debate among young girls in the past. It seemed to me that they are no longer interested in such a discussions. But the true story was revealed when I walked around where Mr. Hajkokabi's house was. The dark corners of the alley were occupied by girls and guys talking and kissing each other in public. Others were busy using strange drugs and cigarettes. I could see the fear in their face when I walked by them (I seemed to them a very old and traditional religious person because of my age and hair that was not like them).

And finally, I spoke to my dad. The only one who could always fully understand me and the one who gave me best advices of my life. He couldn’t concentrate on subjects of our discussion. I could easily realise this fact since I had a clear picture of his quick thinking and decision making process. Our conversation started with usual things about our everyday lives in the UK and Iran. I was trying to ask him the process of rapid changes in our city which led to the current situation. He was amazed by hearing that I found the situation deteriorated. He believed that everything has improved a lot since I left. I couldn’t argue with him as his view was not based on any statistic or scientific research. I remembered that every other person from my past life thinks and argues in the same way. I remembered that I learned talking and acting based on documented evidences in Europe and after I left Iran. It was enough I realised that I had nothing else to tell him apart from subjects related to our family life.

BACK TO LONDON:

I left the country a few days later. No feelings, emotions or passion to be there again. Nothing was left in my home country, city or even my childhood neighbourhood worth thinking or visiting again. I returned to London thinking about those changes. I arrived in my little flat in Kensington. That was the moment I realised that:

I DO NOT HAVE A HOME ANYMORE

I had never felt at home in Kensington as I can feel huge cultural differences between me and people in this country. Before arriving in the UK I had two dreamy years of my life in Amsterdam. Though I enjoyed a lot living in Holland, I never felt at home.

And now, I realise that I do not belong to my country, city or even to Hajkokabi alley anymore.

The biggest fight of any human being when born is to survive and grow. I succeeded in that fight like any other kid. Later my adolescence religious society forced me to accept answering to my existential questions as the greatest challenge of life. When I moved to Europe I realised that love is the greatest challenge of any animal including human being.

Having lived 35 years of my life I eventually realised that the biggest challenge of my life still lies ahead. Its not a survival issue as we all know (like any other animal knows) how to top up the minimum requirements remain alive. Its not answering to existential issue as answering to those questions doesn’t change anything in the real life. Its not a matter of loving another human being as by 35 we all learned to love and enjoy its beauty. I have recently learned that:

The biggest challenge of life is to find the little piece of the nature where a most evolved animal like me belongs: HOME