If you only knew what I submitted, as my first essay, to Mr. Mousavian, and if you knew the circumstances, you would think that my career as a journalist would have ended during my first meeting with one of the most powerful and well-connected editors in the most important newspaper in the Middle East. But, Mousavian was a kind and forgiving editor.
Time and time again
Respecting one’s time is a value in the Jamshidi family. We don’t compromise time for anything. Baba, my dad, used to run our household the same way Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music ran his giant house. In fact, Zohreh and I nicknamed Baba: Captain Von Trapp. Like the gorgeous captain, Baba was always well-dressed, smart looking, and strict with his rules, especially about time.
It is unusual within the Iranian culture to be on time for parties, appointments, and gatherings. People would show up at least half an hour, or an hour, and sometimes two hours late for almost any gathering, official or unofficial. ‘Not being on time’ is so much ingrained in the Iranian culture, and the Middle East culture for that matter. It is, somehow, to be expected to be late.
I wrote an essay to submit to an important editor about a subject in which he had a notorious deficiency.
Our family was different. We usually, if not always, arrived everywhere a few minutes early. We also left parties and gatherings when we knew it was time to leave. We never crossed boundaries in respecting anyone’s time. We expected others to treat us the same way. Baba ended some of his close relationships due to lack of respecting one’s time.
I wrote my first essay about the Iranian cultural deficiency in respecting time and punctuality to take it to Mousavian on Tuesday. My critique was about the lack of certainty in every aspect of our lives in Iran including respecting one’s time.
Mousavian was three hours late for our meeting
I hand-wrote my final draft of around 600 words on a yellow-pinkish piece of paper, legible, and dense, ready to go. I re-wrote the essay two times before I was satisfied with my draft. I never overworked my writings. I believed, and still do, in authenticity and originality. I don’t like super-polished ‘things.’
The clerical hardliners in power took Karbaschi for a notorious show trial to weaken reformist president Mohammad Khatami’s government.
During those years I wasn’t accustomed asking for people’s feedback on my writing. I was an “A” plus student in composition and essay classes. However, many years later in the U.S., I shook to my core when I had to take my essays to a bunch of “kids” at the University of Washington in Seattle for help with edits my English essays. Sometimes I went back more than eight times to make sure I had an acceptable English-writing draft. Back then, “the kids” edited my essays with red pens. My papers were soaked in blood with every visit. I got less bleeding after each visit. It was damn painful.
One particular time that I got myself into trouble for not seeking feedback, or being mindful about my writing, was when I wrote an essay about Ayatollah Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic. The critique that I was making in that essay felt so harsh to my composition teacher, who was also our religious teacher, that she wanted to hand over my writings to an special Ethics and Morality Office in Tehran province.
“Wow, sometimes people wait five hours to see him. He is notoriously late for all his appointments.”
The minimum punishment for me was to be thrown in jail. I was 14 years old back then. We had a family member who had been gang raped in prison for the same crime. My mom’s tears saved my life. I’ll tell you the story later. But for now, I have to say that first, I wasn’t a journalist to be used to many rounds of comments and feedback, and second, I wasn’t studying English as if my life was dependent on learning a foreign tongue.
My appointment with Mr. Mousavina was at 1 pm. I had to miss one of my classes to get myself to Jordan Ave., the rich people’s neighborhood. In order to go inside the red-brick five-story luxurious building, I had to go through the guards. They were two men sitting at a kiosk outside of the building, between the front yard and the streets.
“Whom are you meeting today Miss,” the younger gentleman asked with a hidden smile. The kind of smiles that young men give to young women when they like them!
“Mr. Mousavina please,” I said.
“But, he is not here,” he said.
“I know. My appointment with him is at 1 pm,” I said.
“Good luck with that,” the older man covered in beard who was sitting at the corner of the kiosk said. “Just call Ms. Ghaderi at 324 extensios and get her permission to issue an entry slip,” he said.
I was in the lobby of Hamshahri Newspaper at 12:45, not knowing that I had to wait for hours to meet with my subject.
Hamshari Newspaper and Karbaschi
The wine-red, large velvet couches in the spacious modern-looking lobby gave the impression of a king sitting on a throne. A large glass wall window allowed Tehran’s noon-time sunshine to lighten up the luxurious space. Everything in the lobby looked chic. “Of course,” I thought to myself. “Karbaschi has the kind of money to spend on this place.”
Gholam-Hossein Karbaschi was Tehran’s charismatic and successful mayor during the 1990s. He was the mastermind of engineering and transforming Tehran into a mega-city of beauty and functionality. After he took office, Tehran got cleaner; Tehran’s notorious traffic improved significantly. Many highways and freeways were built. Visitors compared Tehran to Tokyo and New York.
“Our City is Our Home” became a slogan used by politicians, social workers, the mayor’s office, and people in Tehran. Back then, Karbaschi was viewed as one of the contenders for Iran’s presidency. “He is my competitor if I run for the presidency,” I whispered to myself.
Karbaschi was stopped in his track in 1998 on corruption charges.
The clerical hardliners in power took Karbaschi for a notorious show trial to weaken reformist president Mohammad Khatami’s government. The trial was broadcast live on T.V. for several days.
Back then, in the late 1990s, I was working for Zan Newspaper, the first metropolitan daily paper run by women, for women, and about women. The founder and publisher of Zan Newspaper was Faezeh Hashemi-Rafsanjani another charismatic and brave female leader. Faezeh was compared to Hilary Clinton in Iran.
As for Karbaschi, I have to say that the trial was often a heated debate, and at times a shouting match, between judge Gholam-Hossein Mohseni-Ejei and Karbaschi.
In July 1998, Karbaschi was convicted of corruption and misuse of funds and sentenced for serving a two-year sentence in May 1999. More than 130 members of Parliament – nearly half the chamber, and a large number of his supporters, including my boss Faezeh, signed a petition asking the Supreme leader to pardon Karbaschi.
In case you are interested in reading another difficult Persian/Islamic name, Google Iran’s supreme leader’s name. It is notoriously difficult to pronounce his name, and the spelling is stupidly close to the spelling of Iran’s Islamic Republic founder when it’s written in English.
I met Ms. Ghaderi before meeting Mousavian
It was around 1:40 when I heard a voice calling my name. I was deep in my book-reading when I looked up to see a kind-looking woman in her early 30s, smiling at me. “Ms. Ghaderi?” I said.
“Yes, I am. Very good to see you,” she said. “How long have you been waiting for Mousavian here?” she asked. After hearing my reply, she said “Wow, sometimes people wait five hours to see him. He is notoriously late for all his appointments.”
“Does he have a mobile phone?” I asked.
“No, I do not think so. Do you?” she asked.
“Yes, I was hoping to find him on his mobile,” I said.
“Don’t waste your time,” a guard at the front desk of the lobby at the corner said. “Even if he has a mobile phone, which those things seem a luxury for people like him and me, he won’t answer it anyway!” he said releasing a burst of friendly laughter.
“Have you eaten?” Ghaderi asked.
“No, but that’s OK. Please don’t worry about me.” I said.
“Oh, there is no worries. Here at Hamshahri, we get vulture to invite our guests for lunch, we do not pay a penny, thanks to Mr. Kharbaschi. I can invite you to have lunch with me. We have chicken, rice and sour berry, and salad today. Would you like to join?”
“Oh, no thank you,” I said. I LOVED chicken, rice, and sour berry, but I didn’t want to get too friendly too quickly. I used to keep a guard with people until I knew them a little more.
“OK then, I am going to let you read your book. But please remember, next time you have an appointment with Mousavian, you are allowed to show up two hours after agreed time,” she said kindly while smiling, and left.
Mousavian and my essay about time
I felt a knot in my stomach. I wrote an essay to submit to an important editor about a subject in which he apparently had a notorious deficiency. “I’m doomed,” I thought. “There is no hope for me to work for Hamshahri. Damn it,” I was thinking to leave. At the same time, I am famous for never quitting or giving up!! I went back to my book.
Shaking women’s hands, although a welcoming gesture for a quick greeting, became un-Islamic after the revolution. On most occasions, men waited to see if women extended their hands. Then, they were in the position of authority to accept or deny the handshake.
By 4:15 I was furious and agitated. Later in my profession, I learned never to wait for any politician for more than half an hour. I never waited for anyone for more than ten minutes in my life. Mousavian was the only exception.
It was around 4:40 when I saw the guard hinting at me, He is Mousavian.
Mousavian, finally … and paving my way toward the presidency
“F.. You, the “M..F…, S..of a B…” I was saying the swear words equivalent in Farsi in my mind while getting up, wearing a perfectly fake smile.
“I’m so sorry to make you wait,” he said as he was approaching me. I extended my right hand to shake his while saying, “Not at all. I was reading my book.”
Shaking women’s hands, although a welcoming gesture for a quick greeting, became un-Islamic after the revolution. On most occasions, men waited to see if women extended their hands. Then, they were in the position of authority to accept or deny the handshake. Religious men denied the handshake. Reformist or Western-bending men shook hands. I always ran the risk of being humiliated for a handshake denial. Yet, I “always” tested my domain to see which man to trust with my openness and forwardness and which one to trash.
Mousavian shook my hand.
I was holding my essay in my left hand. As soon as we took one step backward to smile and greet, I offered him my paper. He looked into my eyes.
“Ok then, let us see what you got,” he said while walking toward the wine-colored velvet couch at the front.
After three seconds, he said, “This is good.” He kept saying, “This is good,” as he moved along the passage. And, after less than one minute, he handed the paper back to me.
“This is very good, Ms. Jamshidi. I want to see you back here,” he said. “I mean, not in the lobby, but in the newsroom. We are on the third floor. Right in front of the door, as you walk in. When shall I expect you for our next visit?” he asked.
“I can come back tomorrow,” I said.
“I’m not here tomorrow. How about Thursday? maybe around 4 ish?” he said.
“You mean 7 pm?” I teased.
“Sort of! I meant 5:30 or 6,” he said with a smile.
Mousavian was my passive editor who opened the door of journalism to me. I learned a great deal from him while working at Hamshahri Newspaper. As for my presidency, things didn’t come onto the surface until a few years later when Faezeh, my boss, tested the water for female presidential candidacy.
To be continued …
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