Thursday, 27 September 2007
Ramadan
We are now halfway into the fasting month of Ramadan. For the last two weeks Hossein, I and sometimes the children, have been getting up at around 3.15 a.m. to have some food and water before the call to the morning prayer at true dawn, which this morning is at 4.32 a.m. The fasting lasts until after 6 in the evening, but the hardest part of all is the lack of sleep, especially since last Sunday, when school started: by the time we are back in bed at about a quarter to five there's less than two hours' sleep to be had until the children get up for school at 6.45 at the latest. Some concession is made in terms of school hours: school starts at 8 and finishes at 1.30 during the Ramadan, whereas when Ramadan's over, school reverts to normal (7.30-2.00), along with sleep and meal times.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
House hunt no. 2
The post on 16 September 2007 is actually an older one, but I felt I wanted to post it anyway because it records my pet whinges about accommodation.
By the way, this blog was meant to be kept up regularly, but many issues conspire against me.
For the last eight weeks we have lived out of three suitcases, and it is not over yet. We stayed in Shahrerey (or Shabdolazim), to the south of Tehran, until Friday 7 September, during which time Hossein and I often travelled to Tehran on house-hunting and got back late at night. Thank God for the two sisters-in-law: Mansoureh, in Shahrerey, who cooked for everyone and looked after our children during these absences, and Mahboubeh, who lives in Abbas-abad, to the north of the centre of Tehran, and where Hossein and I pit-stopped for noon prayers, lunch and quick siesta.
Open brackets here, to explain the rental system in Iran. One way is paying monthly rent, as in the rest of the world; but there is another system, which I have only come across in Iran, that of rahn. The word rahn can be translated as mortgage, but it is not mortgage as we know it. This is how it works: the tenant pays the landlord a lump sum of money, roughly one-fifth of the total value of the property and moves in. At the end of the rental term, the landlord returns the same amount to the tenant, who only moves out upon receipt of the money. This is a useful system for landlords who may run a business or may have borrowed from the bank in order to buy the property, or who can live off the interest of this (often considerable) sum. Up until recently, when the interest rates were high, this option was attractive for many landlords.
A third way is a combination of rahn and monthly rental, which is now increasingly popular. Close brackets.
Ten years ago, we took our flat on a rahn of 5 million tumans (£7,100 at 1997 rates, £2,670 at today’s rates), so we thought that even with the meteoric rise in property prices and the rate change of pound to tuman (700 tumans to the pound in 1997, 1870 today), we would be able to find a flat to rent. Around Abbas-abad, our old neighbourhood, we were prepared to pay a rahn of 70 million tumans (£37,000) but no rent. But because interest rates have recently fallen, many landlords prefer a combination of rahn and rent. The nearest we got to renting a flat was for a rahn of 40 million (£22,000) and a monthly rent of 1 million tumans (£535), but we didn’t want to commit to a monthly rent until we were settled and had a regular income. That was back in early August.
After days of fruitless search, an estate agent who knew Hossein since our last time here showed us a flat whose owner wanted to sell quickly. It was at a very good price, £230 million (£123,000), in a quiet residential street in the area we wanted, looking over to a small park, with windows on three sides of the building. To cut a long story short, we signed on it, and had to sell some other property, including the Shabdolazim flat, to pay for it. But we still haven’t moved in yet, because it is being refurbished, so my hope of being settled in by the 23 September, when schools start, was proven vain.
At least we are now nearer the new flat. On 7 September we moved to temporary accommodation no.2, a small flat in the street next to the new one. This is an improvement on the Shabdolazim flat: it’s to the north of the centre of Tehran, with a view of the Alborz, the mountains to the north of Tehran, and within much easier access to the children’s school. And Hossein can pop in to the new flat and check up on the builders.
By the way, this blog was meant to be kept up regularly, but many issues conspire against me.
For the last eight weeks we have lived out of three suitcases, and it is not over yet. We stayed in Shahrerey (or Shabdolazim), to the south of Tehran, until Friday 7 September, during which time Hossein and I often travelled to Tehran on house-hunting and got back late at night. Thank God for the two sisters-in-law: Mansoureh, in Shahrerey, who cooked for everyone and looked after our children during these absences, and Mahboubeh, who lives in Abbas-abad, to the north of the centre of Tehran, and where Hossein and I pit-stopped for noon prayers, lunch and quick siesta.
Open brackets here, to explain the rental system in Iran. One way is paying monthly rent, as in the rest of the world; but there is another system, which I have only come across in Iran, that of rahn. The word rahn can be translated as mortgage, but it is not mortgage as we know it. This is how it works: the tenant pays the landlord a lump sum of money, roughly one-fifth of the total value of the property and moves in. At the end of the rental term, the landlord returns the same amount to the tenant, who only moves out upon receipt of the money. This is a useful system for landlords who may run a business or may have borrowed from the bank in order to buy the property, or who can live off the interest of this (often considerable) sum. Up until recently, when the interest rates were high, this option was attractive for many landlords.
A third way is a combination of rahn and monthly rental, which is now increasingly popular. Close brackets.
Ten years ago, we took our flat on a rahn of 5 million tumans (£7,100 at 1997 rates, £2,670 at today’s rates), so we thought that even with the meteoric rise in property prices and the rate change of pound to tuman (700 tumans to the pound in 1997, 1870 today), we would be able to find a flat to rent. Around Abbas-abad, our old neighbourhood, we were prepared to pay a rahn of 70 million tumans (£37,000) but no rent. But because interest rates have recently fallen, many landlords prefer a combination of rahn and rent. The nearest we got to renting a flat was for a rahn of 40 million (£22,000) and a monthly rent of 1 million tumans (£535), but we didn’t want to commit to a monthly rent until we were settled and had a regular income. That was back in early August.
After days of fruitless search, an estate agent who knew Hossein since our last time here showed us a flat whose owner wanted to sell quickly. It was at a very good price, £230 million (£123,000), in a quiet residential street in the area we wanted, looking over to a small park, with windows on three sides of the building. To cut a long story short, we signed on it, and had to sell some other property, including the Shabdolazim flat, to pay for it. But we still haven’t moved in yet, because it is being refurbished, so my hope of being settled in by the 23 September, when schools start, was proven vain.
At least we are now nearer the new flat. On 7 September we moved to temporary accommodation no.2, a small flat in the street next to the new one. This is an improvement on the Shabdolazim flat: it’s to the north of the centre of Tehran, with a view of the Alborz, the mountains to the north of Tehran, and within much easier access to the children’s school. And Hossein can pop in to the new flat and check up on the builders.
House hunt no.1
We now need to find a flat to rent nearer the centre of Tehran, to be closer to the children’s school. As we are shown various flats, I can’t help comparing the present situation with that of ten years ago, when we rent a flat in Abbas-abad, an upmarket area near the centre of Tehran.
The two-bedroom flat we rented ten years ago had a large entrance hall in the centre taking in light from a large reception room to the right and the two bedrooms to the left. The kitchen, walk-in shower and toilet (only Iranian) had no natural light either and only minimal ventilation through a small window, opening onto a narrow ventilation shaft in the centre of the building. The flat had no central heating, so in the winter months the bedrooms were virtually unusable at night: we all spread our bedrolls in front of a small gas fire in the entrance hall. All in all quite depressing, so I am determined that whatever it takes, this time we will get a decent flat. And thus starts the marathon of looking for a flat to our specifications: three bedrooms, lift, a European toilet and, if we are lucky, a bathtub or at least a shower tray (most flats I have seen have a walk-in shower).
The two-bedroom flat we rented ten years ago had a large entrance hall in the centre taking in light from a large reception room to the right and the two bedrooms to the left. The kitchen, walk-in shower and toilet (only Iranian) had no natural light either and only minimal ventilation through a small window, opening onto a narrow ventilation shaft in the centre of the building. The flat had no central heating, so in the winter months the bedrooms were virtually unusable at night: we all spread our bedrolls in front of a small gas fire in the entrance hall. All in all quite depressing, so I am determined that whatever it takes, this time we will get a decent flat. And thus starts the marathon of looking for a flat to our specifications: three bedrooms, lift, a European toilet and, if we are lucky, a bathtub or at least a shower tray (most flats I have seen have a walk-in shower).
Friday, 31 August 2007
The Bread Queue
Ali, my sister-in-law’s Mansoureh’s son, has sprained his little toe playing football with Yusef in the living room. His household duties of shopping in the nearby corner shop and queuing for bread thus suspended (he can’t even wear a slipper), I have volunteered to deputise.
It's 12 noon. The bakery at the end of our road is a tiny shop, the walls tiled in white. Two long queues stretch out onto the pavement, one of men, one of women. The Afghani woman ahead of me tells me another woman was in the queue behind her, but she’s gone off somewhere.
The long queues are for large orders (over three breads per customer), so those needing fewer than three breads form another two, faster-moving queues between the two long ones. The baker serves one large order, two small ones.
As I was about to give my order, the absent woman arrived and squeezed just ahead of me. I asked her what the rule of re-joining the queue is.
“How come you don’t know?” she asks. I explained that I am a foreigner and that I am collecting material for a book.
As long as the woman ahead of her knows she was behind, she can re-join the queue; she had also told Haj Mahmood, the baker, she would come back.
Addressing no-one in particular, the woman behind me said, “I was here when he was mixing the dough, so I thought I’d go and pick my child up from nursery and come back.” Did she expect me to offer her my place? Or would I appear silly if I did?
“When he isn’t busy,” the woman ahead said, “Haj Mahmood is all jolly and friendly, but at peak hours, like now, he becomes grumpy.”
“That’s natural,” I said, “he’s getting stressed.”
“No, that’s not the reason,” she said. “He does it deliberately so that nobody asks to jump the queue.”
One by one she tosses the flatbreads on to the wire rack to cool.
“Do you have bread like there?” (‘There’ meaning anywhere other than here.)
“Not flat like this, but has more volume and…”
“It’s like our sandwich bread,” the woman behind me volunteers.
Feeling unequal to the task of explaining that there is a world of difference between steaming hot, fragrant Greek bread and what sometimes passes for French baguette in Iran, I let the comment pass.
“Is it nice there?” she asks. Before I have a chance to reply, she continues.
“There is no place like Iran; our country is so rich and beautiful, it’s got four seasons…”
“That was before global warming,” the woman behind says.
“Believe me, we are so ungrateful of what we’ve got, I don’t know why anybody would want to leave Iran for another place…”
Her order of twenty breads is complete, and with it her mini-sermon on the love of her homeland. She folds them individually in a pile, tidy and pat, just like her take on life. I wished I were like her, or Mansoureh, or my own sister Eleni back home, both still living in the same neighbourhood they grew up in, knowing where home is.
It's 12 noon. The bakery at the end of our road is a tiny shop, the walls tiled in white. Two long queues stretch out onto the pavement, one of men, one of women. The Afghani woman ahead of me tells me another woman was in the queue behind her, but she’s gone off somewhere.
The long queues are for large orders (over three breads per customer), so those needing fewer than three breads form another two, faster-moving queues between the two long ones. The baker serves one large order, two small ones.
As I was about to give my order, the absent woman arrived and squeezed just ahead of me. I asked her what the rule of re-joining the queue is.
“How come you don’t know?” she asks. I explained that I am a foreigner and that I am collecting material for a book.
As long as the woman ahead of her knows she was behind, she can re-join the queue; she had also told Haj Mahmood, the baker, she would come back.
Addressing no-one in particular, the woman behind me said, “I was here when he was mixing the dough, so I thought I’d go and pick my child up from nursery and come back.” Did she expect me to offer her my place? Or would I appear silly if I did?
“When he isn’t busy,” the woman ahead said, “Haj Mahmood is all jolly and friendly, but at peak hours, like now, he becomes grumpy.”
“That’s natural,” I said, “he’s getting stressed.”
“No, that’s not the reason,” she said. “He does it deliberately so that nobody asks to jump the queue.”
One by one she tosses the flatbreads on to the wire rack to cool.
“Do you have bread like there?” (‘There’ meaning anywhere other than here.)
“Not flat like this, but has more volume and…”
“It’s like our sandwich bread,” the woman behind me volunteers.
Feeling unequal to the task of explaining that there is a world of difference between steaming hot, fragrant Greek bread and what sometimes passes for French baguette in Iran, I let the comment pass.
“Is it nice there?” she asks. Before I have a chance to reply, she continues.
“There is no place like Iran; our country is so rich and beautiful, it’s got four seasons…”
“That was before global warming,” the woman behind says.
“Believe me, we are so ungrateful of what we’ve got, I don’t know why anybody would want to leave Iran for another place…”
Her order of twenty breads is complete, and with it her mini-sermon on the love of her homeland. She folds them individually in a pile, tidy and pat, just like her take on life. I wished I were like her, or Mansoureh, or my own sister Eleni back home, both still living in the same neighbourhood they grew up in, knowing where home is.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
A Room With A View
We have taken temporary accommodation in a small flat we bought three years ago off-plan so that we could be near Hossein’s father and younger sister, Mansoureh and her family whenever we visited Iran. As luck would have it, Mansoureh bought an identical flat on the second floor of the same block, which is now proving a great help with settling in, especially for our children, Athena, 14, and Yusef,12, who have found companionship and language practice in their cousins, Ali, 16, and Kimia, 12.
It is within walking distance from the holy shrine of Hazrat-e Abdol Azim in Shahrerey, on the south of Tehran; until ten days ago, looking south-west from my bedroom window I could see the golden dome of the shrine, flanked by two minarets illuminated in green. (That was through the steel skeleton of a block of flats under construction; now that the brickwork is complete, the view is blocked.)
Looking down south, a mish-mash of residential buildings, some newly built, their façades clad in granite, others slightly older in white marble, a few much older and dilapidated, squeezed between their newer, elegant neighbours, for the moment still untouched by the building fervour seen all throughout Tehran. And beyond those the herb gardens in patches of different shades of green: parsley, coriander, thyme, fenugreek, tarragon. For now, I can see far out into the distance, something resembling a lit torch by night: the chimney of the oil refinery in Bagherabad.
I have a sense of transience about this view. It will only last until the two-storey building in front resists the pressure to re-invent itself as a five-storey block with a granite façade and reflective plate-glass windows, but no bath tub, or even a shower tray, just like ours.
It is within walking distance from the holy shrine of Hazrat-e Abdol Azim in Shahrerey, on the south of Tehran; until ten days ago, looking south-west from my bedroom window I could see the golden dome of the shrine, flanked by two minarets illuminated in green. (That was through the steel skeleton of a block of flats under construction; now that the brickwork is complete, the view is blocked.)
Looking down south, a mish-mash of residential buildings, some newly built, their façades clad in granite, others slightly older in white marble, a few much older and dilapidated, squeezed between their newer, elegant neighbours, for the moment still untouched by the building fervour seen all throughout Tehran. And beyond those the herb gardens in patches of different shades of green: parsley, coriander, thyme, fenugreek, tarragon. For now, I can see far out into the distance, something resembling a lit torch by night: the chimney of the oil refinery in Bagherabad.
I have a sense of transience about this view. It will only last until the two-storey building in front resists the pressure to re-invent itself as a five-storey block with a granite façade and reflective plate-glass windows, but no bath tub, or even a shower tray, just like ours.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Ministry of Education
On Wednesday 25 July, Hossein and I went to the Ministry of Education, Section of Foreign Schools to apply for the equivalence of our children’s school reports and to enrol them to the Tatbighi school which caters for children coming from abroad. The official, austere and aloof, handed us two forms to fill in. Halfway through one, Hossein realised that he should have been filling the forms in the children’s names; he asked for a new one.
‘Everything for you,’ the official said. ‘You decide to go abroad, you take the children with you, you decide to come back, they’ve got to follow. What choice have they got?’
Hossein smiled nervously.
‘Am I speaking out of turn, madam?’ he turned to me.
‘No, of course you are right.’
He thawed. He looked at the school reports, Athena’s for Year 9 and Yusef’s for Year 7. Because in England children go to school at five, based on the years they have studied, Athena should be placed in the second year of Dabirestan (three years away from university) and Yusef in the third year of Rahnamaei (five years away from university).
Hossein is worried that they’ll find lessons too hard. Could they be placed in a lower class? Not recommended, the official advises. The school they should attend is designed to help them improve their Persian and settle into the educational system. And what direction would Athena follow?
At the age of fourteen students follow one of three ‘directions’: Maths and Physics, Life Sciences and Humanities and Literature.
I said that Athena is good at Humanities and Languages but is also very artistic. Hossein, who is very keen that she become an obstetrician, says that she still doesn’t know herself and that she is good at all subjects. The official asks to speak to the children to find out about their preferences and dislikes.
‘To be honest,’ Hossein says, ‘the children are not yet quite happy with the idea of moving to Tehran.’
‘In that case,’ the official says, ‘I will definitely have to see them, so I will hold on to their file until then. I am at your service,’ he says to signify the end of the session.
On the way out Hossein suggests we go to see the Tatbighi school counsellor. Middle-aged, with fair eyes and a kind smile, he advises us against the idea of getting the children in a lower age group. If Athena is placed in the first year of Dabirestan, she will have to work very hard at all the subjects plus on her Persian in order to go on the second year; if she fails this exam, she will have to repeat the year. If that happens, as many students he has helped in the past, she might blame us for bringing her from abroad and give up on her studies. However, because the second and the third year go together as a unit (much like the English GCSE courses in years 10 and 11), if Athena fails one subject, she can always retake it later without failing the whole year. She can also opt for intensive language work at the same time.
And what about her study ‘direction’? Since students at the Tatbighi school by definition don’t know very good Persian (otherwise they wouldn’t be there), the school only offers the first two directions. That’s all very well for Yusef, who likes Maths and Physics and doesn’t need to choose direction yet anyway. But what about Athena, who is articulate and very good at languages?
She can always take intensive Persian during her year at the Tatbighi and then go to a mainstream school where she can choose any direction she likes, the counsellor advises.
We leave with a rather heavy feeling: Hossein because he still thinks the children should join a lower age group, I because of the mountain ahead of us. And we still need to find a flat nearer the centre of Tehran.
‘Everything for you,’ the official said. ‘You decide to go abroad, you take the children with you, you decide to come back, they’ve got to follow. What choice have they got?’
Hossein smiled nervously.
‘Am I speaking out of turn, madam?’ he turned to me.
‘No, of course you are right.’
He thawed. He looked at the school reports, Athena’s for Year 9 and Yusef’s for Year 7. Because in England children go to school at five, based on the years they have studied, Athena should be placed in the second year of Dabirestan (three years away from university) and Yusef in the third year of Rahnamaei (five years away from university).
Hossein is worried that they’ll find lessons too hard. Could they be placed in a lower class? Not recommended, the official advises. The school they should attend is designed to help them improve their Persian and settle into the educational system. And what direction would Athena follow?
At the age of fourteen students follow one of three ‘directions’: Maths and Physics, Life Sciences and Humanities and Literature.
I said that Athena is good at Humanities and Languages but is also very artistic. Hossein, who is very keen that she become an obstetrician, says that she still doesn’t know herself and that she is good at all subjects. The official asks to speak to the children to find out about their preferences and dislikes.
‘To be honest,’ Hossein says, ‘the children are not yet quite happy with the idea of moving to Tehran.’
‘In that case,’ the official says, ‘I will definitely have to see them, so I will hold on to their file until then. I am at your service,’ he says to signify the end of the session.
On the way out Hossein suggests we go to see the Tatbighi school counsellor. Middle-aged, with fair eyes and a kind smile, he advises us against the idea of getting the children in a lower age group. If Athena is placed in the first year of Dabirestan, she will have to work very hard at all the subjects plus on her Persian in order to go on the second year; if she fails this exam, she will have to repeat the year. If that happens, as many students he has helped in the past, she might blame us for bringing her from abroad and give up on her studies. However, because the second and the third year go together as a unit (much like the English GCSE courses in years 10 and 11), if Athena fails one subject, she can always retake it later without failing the whole year. She can also opt for intensive language work at the same time.
And what about her study ‘direction’? Since students at the Tatbighi school by definition don’t know very good Persian (otherwise they wouldn’t be there), the school only offers the first two directions. That’s all very well for Yusef, who likes Maths and Physics and doesn’t need to choose direction yet anyway. But what about Athena, who is articulate and very good at languages?
She can always take intensive Persian during her year at the Tatbighi and then go to a mainstream school where she can choose any direction she likes, the counsellor advises.
We leave with a rather heavy feeling: Hossein because he still thinks the children should join a lower age group, I because of the mountain ahead of us. And we still need to find a flat nearer the centre of Tehran.
Arrival
Landed in Tehran's Mehrabad Airport on Monday 23 July 2007 at 1.30 am, seven years to the day we returned to London after three years in Tehran. Why do I have the feeling I have already seen this film?
The children, Athena (14) and Yusef (12), had already flown to Tehran two and a half weeks before us. Nobody was waiting for us this time; all the previous times Hossein's father, Haj Nasser (God rest his soul) came to meet us and take us home in his decrepit pick-up truck. All that was left of the doors was the metal body; the interior upholstery of the door had long since fallen off, leaving the springs of the opening mechanism and the window handle exposed. That truck was his trade-mark; he could be traced through the location of the truck. Under the replacement scheme of new-for-old vehicles, this truck was exchanged for a brand new pick-up truck last year. But Haj Nasser doesn't need it any more.
The children, Athena (14) and Yusef (12), had already flown to Tehran two and a half weeks before us. Nobody was waiting for us this time; all the previous times Hossein's father, Haj Nasser (God rest his soul) came to meet us and take us home in his decrepit pick-up truck. All that was left of the doors was the metal body; the interior upholstery of the door had long since fallen off, leaving the springs of the opening mechanism and the window handle exposed. That truck was his trade-mark; he could be traced through the location of the truck. Under the replacement scheme of new-for-old vehicles, this truck was exchanged for a brand new pick-up truck last year. But Haj Nasser doesn't need it any more.
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