Daily Life

At my school, students start learning English in the 3rd grade.  As I was walking out of the village yesterday, I passed the home of one of my 4th-grade students and his 2nd-grade sister.
"Barev [Hello] Mr. Dolgin." They said.
"Barev Dzez [Hello, plural/formal]" I said
[[How do you say 'Barev' in English]] the little sister asked her brother.
[[ummmmm....'Hello']] he whispered back
"Hello!" They both yelled
"Hello." I said
They both broke down giggling.

On Nowruz, the traditional Persian New Year, Imogen and I find ourselves self banging along in a marshutney towards Garni, a pagan temple built by Greek and Roman immigrants, dramatically located on a Gorge.   A few hundred Iranians and Armenians have gathered around.  A group of Armenian boy scouts have arrived in uniforms with a Zoroastrian eagle badge.  We follow them through a hole in the fence around the complex and pose on a rock outcropping overlooking the gorge. 

When we’re finished taking pictures, we go back to the temple.  The boy scouts are being forming a ring around the steps, linking arms to keep the crowd back.  Three priests step out in ceremonial robes emblazoned with the Caucasian rose, a circular symbol of the sun and the infinite.  I notice the same symbol tattooed on the neck of the Iranian in front of me, just below his right ear.  They have daggers in their belts.  A fire is lit in a brazier, and the names of the gods are called upon.  Vahagan, Anaheit and Anuhei, the Armenian trinity.  At the sound of each name, the crowd gives a stiff armed salute and chants “Hark!”

When I get close to the priests, I notice their clothes are adorned with Swastikas.  I drink homemade wine out of a ceramic mug.  When I drain it, I see the swastika in the bottom.  These are symbols that the Nazis appropriated to form a mix of occultism and orientalism, just as the Masons took Arabic symbols and New England summer camps adopt the themes of Indians who haven’t been in those parts in 200 years.  It’s still disturbing.

After the service, we sit on a portico of the temple eating the pieces of traditional Armenian cake that the boy scouts are handing out.  I twirl a twig with new buds and shoot pictures of the crowd that’s now dancing around the brazier where the priest is sticking a dagger into the coals then pressing it to the forehead of worshippers.  A Persian in a bright purple shirt comes up and asks me where we’re from in passable English.

America, we tell him. 

“You are welcome, I’m very glad you are here, it is good to meet you.”

Imogen and I have been living here for months.  We both speak passable Armenian, work in Armenian institutions, have dozens of friends, acquaintances and contacts in country and know dozens of bars and restaurants in Yerevan.  But neither of us mind being welcomed by an Iranian tourist. 

“Are you pagan?” I ask him.

“No, my family is actually Jewish, but we’re not very religious.  I’m just here for the culture.” He says.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you too.  Have a good day.” And he is gone.