Between burning the Israeli Flag, the down with Isreal slogans, and Jews are all Zionists propaganda in Iran I owned a Betamax video tape of the musical Fiddler on the Roof. A Gift from my English teacher Mr. Dehbod, it was my only emotional bridge to the world of the Jewish people. The characters were the only Jews I’d ever known; and the folk tales were very similar to that of mine. My dilemma was the fact that I loved all these Jews, their tradition, their music, and their dance. Their struggle was like that of a fiddler on a pointy roof: careful not to fall he balanced while playing his tunes. One side of the pointy roof he played his traditions, the other side reforms.
Over the years I have let go of most of my culture’s suppressing traditions, I have been playing on the reform side for a while now. Except that I am still obsessed with my ceremonial rituals, my folk culture, my music, my art, my religious stories, and my myths. I think I might have learned this important from my Jewish friends in the Fiddler on the Roof.
Last night I got very depressed when Mostafa told me no Yalda celebration, he was watching basketball. I had already bought six pomegranates and a watermelon. I went to my room, closed the door, turned on BBC radio2, and waited for someone’s call, anyone’s call. It had to be Behrang of course. It was his birthday, what a night to be born at!
Farnoush lit the candles, seeded out the pomegranates, prepared the watermelon, and we read Hafiz. Just like the olden days at my Aunt's place.