I Am Like You!. Ali PhD Kian
challenged people whose lives are much more difficult than mine. I have all my faculties. I have friends and family who love and support me. Still, I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that anger does rear up on occasion. It could come up over a simple task, like having to bend over for a pencil I’ve dropped. Or someone might pass by with a “perfect” body and the rage and jealousy I feel is enough to curl my toes, if I could curl my toes.
School:
At the age of seven, it was time for me to begin schools. The question was where would I go? My parents weren’t sure I would be accepted in a “normal” school. We lived in a Third World country. No principal in his right mind would accept a child with my disabilities. My parents thought I would be better off in a special school. But I was a stubborn child and I was determined to be just like everyone else because...I WAS.
Some of my parents’ friends were shockingly insensitive. Since we had little money, one friend suggested my condition could be used as an additional source of family revenue. I could be “put on a street corner with a tin cup.” Later in my life, I learned from my mother that one of her friends even privately suggested to her that she smother me with a pillow. Just the kind of friend every family needs.
Unfortunately, the intolerance my family faced because of my disability was not limited to family acquaintances. I am continually amazed at the lack of empathy within many religions. I can only speak of my experience of Islam. Islam has two branches–Shies and Sunnis and each branch claims to be closest to God (or Allah). Sadly, to improve your chances to reach Paradise a Sunnis might be encouraged to kill five Shies. My disability oftentimes made me a target for the disdain of both branches of Islam.
It’s true; I have many questions and doubts about organized religions. Yet I must admit that I was fortunate that the one man who was willing to accept me (as I was) in his elementary school was a religious cleric. His name was Mr. Tabatabei and I was accepted with open arms into the Tabatabei Elementary School. It was a small school in an alley. Mr. Tabatabei was both the Koran teacher and handwriting instructor. Mr. Tabatabei was (and still is) both my hero and savior. It is because of Mr. Tabatabei that I refuse to judge people of faith. At times, I may question religious beliefs and even sound cynical, but the very existence of a cleric with Mr. Tabatabei’s compassion, understanding, and patience makes it impossible for me to dismiss faith as mere human folly.
Tabatabei Elementary School, I am in 3rd grade left one, first row.
One of my first and favorite memories of an early class with Mr. Tabatabei was the day he wrote two lines of a poem from Omar Khayyam on the chalkboard. We were all asked to copy the lines down on our paper. We wrote in black ink with a special wooden pen-like device that was made of sugar cane or a bamboo tree.
“The palace where Jamshid held his cup
The doe and the fox now rest and sup.”
Wow! The doe and fox could coexist in peace. Perhaps there was a place for me in the world. I loved this class.
Everyday my Mom would carry me in her arms or push me in a stroller to Tabatabei’s school. At the beginning of each school year, I would be placed on a bench with three other students and Mr. Tabatabei would announce to my fellow classmates: “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Kian. I want everyone to be nice to him. He is just like you.”
The Arts:
I recall a day when my mother drew a little plant full of flowers and handed me the sketch. “Honey, copy this.” That was the beginning of my interest in and love for the arts. And my passion extended to all forms of art, including music.
My first musical love affair began with a traditional Iranian instrument called Santur. Santur is a quadrilateral shaped wooden box (usually made of walnut wood), which has nine to thirteen rows of guitar like strings attached to it with special screws. The process of playing the Santur involves lifting three to five rows of strings at a time with a small piece of wood called “Kharak” (which means “small donkey.”) Santur is extremely difficult to tune, yet a master Santur player will tune the instrument only by ear. It’s impossible to compare the sound of the Santur to any kind of Western musical instrument, yet it’s safe to say that its ability to sooth the listener and evoke deep emotional responses would be difficult to equal.
At the age of ten, my pleas for a Santur began. My father was unmoved by my begging. His objections were solely based on religious grounds. The Koran forbids the playing of music. Ironically, one of the most musical sounds in the world can be heard in the rise and fall and the rhyme one hears when listening to a reader of the Koran. I simply can’t imagine that God would object to any sound that makes his creatures happy and at peace.
The world of nature serenades us with its music–wind through the trees, the sound of a waterfall or stream, claps of thunder during a storm. What god could possibly object to the creation of music? Indeed, many of the world’s great composers have created music to honor and glorify their god.
Still, objections to the sounds of music abound among many religions of the world. Perhaps something more is afoot. In Iran, for instance, I suspect the government’s true objection to music may lie in the fact that music often evokes happiness. Once people taste happiness, their desire for more could very well be a threat to a totalitarian state. So, in the case of Iran, religion becomes an ally. Keep the people unhappy and you’re more likely to curb their desire to revolt or cause unrest.
As I’ve mentioned previously, I have a streak of stubbornness in me that has been my lifeline to survival, but it has also gotten me into trouble. So, when my dad would not buy me a Santur, I made my own. I had to do everything in secret.
Nailed together pieces of wood from discarded orange crates became the frame for my Santur. I fashioned strings from a bicycle’s brake wire. To play my Santur, I used two pieces of wood the size of pencils. Once I had completed the instrument, my brothers and sisters gathered around to hear me play. Over time (and with practice) my playing improved dramatically and my playing became a source of delight for all of my siblings. My budding musical career was cut short when my dad discovered what I had been up to. He had a fit. My Santur was broken into pieces and thrown in the street. “Just do your school’s work,” he scolded.
To this day, I yearn for my Santur. I wonder what might have happened had my passion for music been encouraged. Perhaps I would have eventually had the opportunity to play with some of the great traditional musicians of Iran. Instead, my dream was squashed not merely by my dad, but by the narrow mindedness of an organized religion. My dad was simply “following the rules” of God, as he understood them. Another reason for my dad’s, and many other people in Third World societies, idea was that there is no financial future in music and even if you made it, the money was not approved as good money in religious eyes. I’m sure, in his heart, my dad behaved as he did so that he might protect me from a repressive belief system that would think nothing of snuffing out the dreams of a “defective” child. A child, who in their eyes, was not an innocent victim but one who was being punished by God for some mysterious reason. After all, “God does work in mysterious ways”–or so many are taught to believe.
Most children are bored by the everyday activities of their lives--getting dressed, pouring themselves a glass of juice, walking to school. As a child, I longed for the normality of the mundane. There were no easy tasks in my life. I vividly recall being taken to school by my Mom on one particular snowy day. Mom was pregnant and I was at an age when walking to school shouldn’t have been a problem. Unfortunately, my condition required that Mom carry me to school. I couldn’t ignore the disapproving stares we encountered from passing strangers as we made our way down the street. I could imagine the thoughts. “Why is that grown boy being carried by his poor, pregnant mother?” Then...it happened. Mom slipped on a patch of ice. Down we went. Mom began to cry. I began to cry, not because I was hurt,