What's the Diehl?

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

For the babies who read “What’s the Diehl?,” there was a time when the Republic of Iran was scarier than a gulag in the USSR or a dark neighborhood in Detroit, when just saying the word “Iran” made people shiver, swear or sigh. This is partly because we always need Boogey Men – be they Russians or North Koreans, Cubans or Mexicans – to distract and scare us, and partly because some Iranian students did kidnap more than 60 Americans in November of 1979 and hold them hostage for 444 days. (They were released minutes after Ronald Reagan was sworn in as our 40th POTUS in January of 1981.)

It’s still difficult for some to reconcile images of the frowning, stern-looking Ayatollah Khomeini, Iran’s Supreme Leader and the Osama bin Laden of the late 1970s, with those of smiling Iranian citizens waving American flags and holding their babies. But I can.

I used to have friends in Iran – in Tehran and Shiraz, to be exact – with whom I’d chat online. This was back around 2009 when Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was president and his re-election, which many thought was rigged and invalid, was the impetus for massive riots in the streets of several Iranian cities. I lost touch with these folks, sadly, but not before I learned that contrary to what I was led to believe by my government and media, Iranians aren’t ignorant, savage terrorists. Most are honorable, intelligent, peace-loving individuals who dislike their government as much as many of us disliked ours when Dubya was screwing things up over here in ‘Murika.

It was during the anti-Ahmadinejad protests that Neda Agha-Soltan, a 26-year-old student who was watching the action in Tehran but not participating, was shot in the chest and killed by Basij, the volunteer paramilitary force established by Khomeini in 1979 to police morals, suppress dissident gatherings and back up law enforcement. Neda’s death was captured on video by bystanders and was broadcast over the internet. I saw it and still can’t forget it.

See “Sorry, Iran” from November of 2011.

Courtesy Hamed Saber

I still have the photos I found and saved of the crowds in the streets and the green ribbons they wore and waved to signal their united opposition to Ahmadinejad. But I hadn’t looked at them in years and all but forgot about the place until it was in the news last year for successfully negotiating with the United States about its nuclear ambitions. The Obama Administration used diplomacy, not saber-rattling, to ratchet down tensions and prevent Iran from becoming the next Iraq.

Then I received an e-mail asking me to join in the call for the release of Bahareh Hedayat, a women’s rights defender and activist in her mid-30s who was sentenced in 2010 to years in prison for “insulting the Supreme Leader” and “acting against national security.” When I asked the one Iranian friend I still have – let’s call her “Mandana” – about Bahareh, she responded this way:

“It’s a heart-wrenching story. It’s made the international news and I hope they release her soon, but there are thousands more just like her who may never see the light of day.

“Human rights abuses around the world are beyond the average American’s comprehension,” she added, “and still we want to throw up roadblocks needlessly for folks fleeing these cesspools.”

(This is exactly why I find the carnival freak show that is Donald Trump alarming, not amusing. But more on this in a future blog post.)

“Patrick,” she continued, “you would be hard-pressed to find an Iranian who has not been impacted by the incarceration process. My cousin was arrested as an older teen, around 19 at the time. My aunt used to visit him in prison weekly. One week, she went and they told her, ‘Wait here.’ Then they dragged his tortured, dead body out and laid it at her feet. She never recovered. His crime? Speech. I have several other relatives who faced similar fates. I only mention him because he was so young.”

But Mandana wasn’t finished.

“I have a knit blanket that was made by a 20-something woman who had acid poured on her by the Basij for having hair showing out of her hijab. She was blinded in the attack and learned how to knit just one pattern. She made baby blankets to earn a living. I never had the heart to use it with my babies; there was just too much pain in the thing. I still have it, though.

“The Basiji are assholes. It triggers all kinds of similar fears when I see armed Trump supporters roaming to ‘protect’ their own at rallies. We just never learn.”

Mandana and I agreed that the ignorance of humanity and our collective insistence on repeating the same mistakes are worse than hemorrhoids, snakes and sour milk combined.

The petition for Bahareh Hedayat has been signed by 130,665 supporters; organizers need just 19,335 more to reach their 150,000 goal. As Mandana said, there’s an untold number of others suffering like her but I don’t know their names or if they have petitions. I do know, now, about Bahareh.

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

~ Pastor Martin Niemöller

By the by, my country is not entirely peace-loving and guilt-free. Few Americans are taught that the U.S. shot down a civilian Iranian airplane in the summer of 1988 over Iran’s territorial waters in the Persian Gulf, killing 290 innocent passengers and crew – including 66 children. And I read that America has been at war 222 out of 239 years since 1776. So there’s that.

I love this photo of Iran's Sadegh Saeed Goudarzi

and American Jordan Ernest Burroughs embracing

on the medal podium after a wrestling match

during the 2012 Olympics (Reuters)

Mandana fled Iran during the 1979 Revolution, came to the United States, married and raised two children. (She’s now divorced; her daughter is 19 and her son is 17.) She gave me permission to share what she told me.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Seesawing with Dad

Courtesy Kent Boltz

When I Need You - Leo Sayer

Holding Mom Like Mom Held Him

The above photo is one of the most touching that I’ve ever seen. I was lucky enough to run across it in Facebook this morning.

The photographer – who I don’t know or else I’d credit her or him – did what I imagine is the goal of every person with a camera: (s)he made me think. A lot. This photo make me think of my frail, maternal grandmother, who passed away a few years ago after a long, relatively healthy life (albeit a sad and lonely one toward the end, being a widow and the resident of a senior citizens’ home hundreds of miles from her grandkids and great-grandkids).

It also made me think about my 76-year-old mother, who lives almost 12 hours away and who I haven’t seen in years. As I may have shared before – the memory’s the first to go, they say – we used to be very close but have drifted apart in recent years. This is through no fault of hers; she’s made every effort to stay in touch, even friending me in Facebook and periodically posting “Don’t forget your mother because she won’t be here forever” memes on my wall. I’m almost entirely to blame for what must surely appear to be conscious neglect but is in fact due to two things: 1) I’m not good at juggling the many important people and things in my life, and have gotten worse with depression and the passage of time, and 2) I don’t want to burden or alarm my parents with my problems, my unhappiness and even my shame about certain aspects of my life at 54.

Intellectually I know that my mom would rather be connected and concerned than avoided and ignored, but when it comes to actually dialing her phone number, I almost always dial one or two numbers and then think, “Maybe I should wait until I have some good news to share…” or “I should probably call in a few days.” Even on holidays and after surgeries, I still call late if at all.

I’m not proud of this. And I know that at some point – I hope not any time soon, of course – I will have to face what Anita’s already faced and so many others my age face: the dreaded phone call and resultant feelings of devastation, shock, misery, guilt, loss, sadness, anger and emptiness, the disbelief and the never-ending pain and regret. So why the hell don’t I visit more often, call more often, show love, respect and appreciation while she’s still here rather than in her eulogy?

I really don’t know.

After years of therapy, I learned that I’m holding on to some resentment because my parents decided to move 700 miles away, to abandon me two marriages ago for their own reasons relating to their careers and finances, the weather and the opportunities that come with a significant relocation. They aren’t close enough to loan me money, provide free babysitting, host me for the holidays or fix my house and car like some of my peers enjoy. Their ability to offer advice is limited and I can’t just get in my old, rusty Buick and drive five miles to their home when I need mom and dad. I know this now, and I’m embarrassed to admit it because it’s not like I’m a little boy or even a young, self-absorbed adult anymore. I’m old enough to be a grandparent myself. And I wouldn’t want my parents or my kids to put their own lives on hold to support mine, to pass up opportunities and suppress their goals.

I’m too old to punish people for decades-old decisions and I’m too smart to postpone responsibilities now. I know I have a responsibility to work at being a better son, a better man, a better human being – and to call my parents more than three times a year and visit every three years. If that.

My grandma lived into her 90s so part of me hopes I’ll have time to fix this, to be there for my mom like she was there for me, time and time again, throughout my childhood, challenging teen years, early adulthood and every time, without fail, when I’ve asked for help since then. But of course there are no guarantees and as Ben Franklin or Leonardo DeCaprio or Plato or Aesop or Dr. Seuss suggested, “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

I probably won’t be able to hold my mom in my lap, to wrap a blanket around her and tell her how much I love her and show her that I mean it by caring for her as she cared for me. But maybe I will. And I hope that if and when I do and someone happens to take a snapshot of the two of us, people who look at it will be able to see the same strength, love and devotion that the man above clearly shows.

I’ve got to go call my mom now.