A little bit of an obscure and tangential pun in the title. Camels are not true ruminants, although they have frequently been classified as such, but they are pseudoruminants (I’m told). They chew their cud, but only have three stomachs rather than four. I only have one stomach (visual evidence to the contrary), but I am going to spend a few minutes ruminating on Iran. You may have heard of Iran — it’s been in all the papers (if any papers still exist).
(BTW: the natives pronounce it “ee-rahn”. Not “I-ran”. Just sayin’.)
Until 1976, I had not heard of Iran. But then, I was only eight years old at the time, so I might not have heard of Canada. I was the son of an Air Force officer (Lt. Col. at the time), and Dad had been tasked with advising the Iranian Air Force for a couple of years. So my family (Dad, Mom, Kathy and Cindy and I) loaded up everything we owned and moved to Tehran in February/March of 1976.
Let me pause here to give a little bit of 60,000 foot historical context. We moved to Iran in 1976. We moved back to “the States” in February of 1978. The mass protests and demonstrations against the Pahlavi (Shah) government began in October of 1977 — about 4 months before we left. But things were very, very tense while we were there, and being an American began to be particularly dangerous. And with my beach-blond hair (yes, I had hair then), I could not be mistaken for a native. In January of 1979, just under a year after we left the country, the Shah was forced into exile. In November of 1979, revolutionaries invaded the U.S. embassy in Tehran and took 52 hostages, which they held for 444 days. Some of you may remember that.
History lesson over. So we moved to 77 Goulestan 4, which is in the northeastern portion of the city of Tehran. For the next two years I had the opportunity to experience and enjoy Iranian life. Our maid and her family (husband and son) lived in quarters in the basement of our house. They were nice quarters — better than many Iranians had, really. The son, Siamac (I remember his parents’ names too, but won’t give them here for their safety — if they are even still alive, which I very much doubt), was roughly the same age as me, and became one of my very best friends, despite the fact that he spoke no English and I spoke no Farsi. The very first day we met, he gave me a pocketknife. I could tell it was a sacrificial gift for him, and I treasured that knife for many, many years. I cannot recall what became of it.
I often think of Siamac. About two years after we left, the Iran-Iraq war started, and lasted about 8 years. I wonder if he was conscripted into the Iranian military as a teenager to fight in the conflict. If so, did he survive? I sure hope so. I also wonder what he would think about me now (if he survived). Both of us in our 50s, but him having grown up under an oppressive theocratic regime that hates the United States. Would we still be friends? I would certainly be his friend, but would he hate me now? I kinda’ don’t think so, but then I’ve never grown up in that sort of environment.
Back to Iranian life, I had the opportunity to go to their movies (I didn’t understand a word, but they were comedies, and I laughed anyway, because it was funny!), their amusement parks, their ski slopes, their markets (I miss the Iranian bazaars so very much), their grocery stores and restaurants. We had a Pakistani houseboy for a short while who took me many places with him.
For my safety, my life (and the lives of my two sisters) was somewhat controlled. I could pretty much play around my house (our house was surrounded by empty lots, each one pretty much filled with junk and debris, so lots of room, but not very pretty, and probably not very safe. I was not allowed to go far without someone with me, usually an adult. Dad had two Iranian bodyguards provided by the military who picked him up and took him to work, and brought him home again. I didn’t know at the time, but Dad had to buy a pistol and carry it with him when he went to work, etc. I found out about this a few years after we returned to the States when I was rummaging around my parents’ bedroom closet and found the pistol. A horrible little 5-shot revolver (can’t remember the make or model) with a 12-pound trigger pull. Several years later I finally convinced Dad to sell that thing and buy a proper handgun (Glock). I’m so glad Dad never had to trust his life to that piece of junk. As far as I know.
I went to an American school: Tehran American School (TAS). It was very, very large, as most of the American kids went there, and only the exceptional Iranian kids (gifted, and could speak English well) were allowed to attend. Pretty much all activities centered on that school campus. T-ball, cub scouts, football, soccer, etc. I learned to play soccer there and got pretty darn good, probably because Siamac and I would play, and back then those Iranians really knew how to play soccer (back when many Americans didn’t know what soccer was!). You wouldn’t know it from the World Cup nowadays, though. The American high school was so large they had four football teams which played each other (understandably . . . there were no Iranian football teams!). Dad had played college football, so he volunteered to coach one of the teams — the Phantoms. Colors were blue and gold. He went undefeated both seasons he coached. He’s an amazing man. And a damn good football coach.
Mom taught at an Iranian elementary school (yes, even though she, too, didn’t speak Farsi — to this day I don’t know how that worked), then taught at TAS. My oldest sister, Kathy (8 years older than me), graduated from high school there. Cindy (3 years older than me) played softball, hung out with friends, did all the things pre-teen and teenagers do. We traveled some around the country — Mashad, Hamadan, Isfahan, Shiraz. Swam in the Caspian Sea. Never made it to the Persian Gulf, though.
One more quick story for temporal perspective. I had a friend in 5th grade — Robert — who’s family had the opportunity to visit the States for a brief vacation (I was never able to do that — I was so jealous). He came back to school raving about this amazing movie he saw when he was in the States, with space ships and light sabres (whatever that was!) and robots and Red 5 and Darth Vader and some sort of death star. That movie didn’t get to the American theater in Tehran, so I immediately ordered the book, as well as the soundtrack, and I read the book about 300 times while wearing out the soundtrack cassette tape. By the time I actually saw the movie, I could quote it and hum along with the music.
I’ve gone on too long. Let’s bring it current. I have always loved Iran and the Iranians. When we moved back to the States, I had lived 20% of my life in Iran. When you think about living memory — say, 3 years old and on — it was more like 25%. I cried when we left, not because of what I was coming home to (I was excited about that!), but because of what I was leaving. For years I have prayed for the people of Iran, that the Lord would rescue them from their oppression. I have dreamed — and prayed — that I would walk the streets and bazaars of Tehran again.
I don’t know what lies in store for Iran now that we have gone to war with them (yes, it’s a war, no matter how certain congressmen and congresswomen are trying to spin it to protect Trump). I have to say here that this war is illegal. It’s a discussion for another time, but if you actually read the War Powers Act, it is clear that Trump acted illegally by attacking Iran without provocation (he calls it a pre-emptive strike, but the War Powers Act does not provide for that, and he has provided exactly zero evidence that Iran was intending to attack us in any event). So it’s an illegal war, but now that we’re in it, I am hopeful God will use it to shower His grace on the Iranian people and rescue them from their misery. Actually, nobody knows what this is going to wind up looking like — even Trump has no idea (nor do I think he cares, as long as it serves his personal agenda). I am hoping — hoping — that this turns out to be a pivotal moment for Iran, that the people get a government they deserve and want. What that could look like is also a discussion for another time. The alternative is chaos, anarchy, civil war, and maybe in the end, a government — perhaps military — that is even more oppressive, if that is possible.
I will continue to hope in God, and trust that none of this is making Him sweat. He’s got this. He’s got the Iranian people.
Somebody please tell them!
