(Via Halle)

The crinkling of the door woke little Leila up. Checking the mattresses squeezed in the small room, she noticed the empty place of her mother next to her father. Cautiously walking over her four sleeping brothers, she made her way to the door step. She waited there for her mother to come back, her hands and face unwashed, her hair a mess.

Leila’s mother arrived after an hour, struggling with her shabby thong. She gave Leila a bite of fresh bread. Instead of pulling Leila’s hair as usual, she petted it. “Leila, we are going to a nice place” She said gently “I’ll also buy you some cheese rings”.

The family soap was never used before except before going to [rare] parties or in the New Year eve. Leila’s mother washed Leila’s hair and body near the small sink at the corner of the yard and dried her up with her old chador. A second hand [flashy] red dress covered the tender but beautiful body of Leila. Leila was eight, but looked twelve. Struggling through Leila’s rarely combed hair, Leila’s mother combed her brown hairs. Leila’s cheek was blushing after the hard rubbing, making her face even more beautiful.

Leila’s mother put on her wet chador and walked out, holding Leila’s hand. Within an hour, they were both in a luxury house surrounded by tall metal fences. Leila was totally charmed by the glamorous surrounding, when her mother asked her to come in. Moments later Leila found herself alone with a well-dressed man of his father’s age. The old man’s wide open eyes and his heavy breathing scared Leila. Before she can follow her mother out, Leila heard the click of the key in the door lock.

Why mom left me with this strange man? Nobody heard the weak voice of little Leila, as her small soul the heavy blows of her needy mother and the lecherous old man smashed her soul.

After that Leila routinely walked through the streets of the various suburbs of the town and stepped in each time a door opened. She was no longer looking back when her mother leaving the room. After each violent rape, she used to think of it as some sort of “dads play”. Leila gave birth to her first child when she was nine and was sentenced to a hundred lashes [for prostitution] around the same time. At the age of twelve, her family sold her to an Afghan man to become his concubine (temporary wife). Her mother-in-law became her new pimp, selling her body without her consent. At the age of fourteen, she received another one hundred lashes sentence and, then was moved to the maternity ward to give birth to her twins. After the end of her first temporary marriage period, her family sold her again. The new pimp was a 55 years old man, married with two children, who hosted Leila’s customers in his own place.

The last episode of the story began in a cold winter day when papers announced the arrest of an eighteen years old prostitution gang leader. After a prompt trial and based on her file and her own confessions, the judge of the court No. 25 found her guilty. She was sentenced to a number of lashes and death. The verdict was sent to the capital [Tehran] to be confirmed [by the Supreme Court]. Leila’s lawyer appealed twice for his repenting client, but it didn’t helped.

It took me a long time to get the permission to visit a girl sentenced to death at the age of eighteen and was under tight security because of her sever offences. When at last I got the permission, I expected to see a smart girl behind the closed doors of the prison. A mastermind who joined the body trade on her own free will. When Leila stepped into the social workers chamber in her black chador, white head scarf, different-coloured pieces of cloths and a sleeve shorter than the other, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe those innocent eyes to belong to a prostitution gang leader. Her innocent narration of the story of her life, her difficult childhood and how she gave birth to her twine daughters renders me wordless. “How much did the customers usually pay you?” I asked “I never got anything” she replied in her childish tone, still wearing a bitter smile “When I was with mum, she usually bought me chewing gums or cheese rings” and added “Maybe mum or my [temporary] husbands were receiving money. I never saw a cent”.

Leila M., 18, was found guilty of prostitution [a sever offence under Iranian laws], fornication and incest and was sentenced to death. The prison’s social worker tested her IQ several times and the result was always the same: she has the IQ of an 8 years old girl. However Leila was never examined by Forensic authorities [during and after the trial] and was sentenced to death just because of her explicit confessions. Leila is the victim of her family greed. As a prostitution gang leader, she gained nothing through all these years, no pleasure, no money, no fat bank account. She was the toy of her callous mother, ruthless brothers, father and temporary husbands, and insatiable lecherous customers. Pain, stress and [finally] the death sentence are her share of others ruthless business. However, all the authorities of the prison and court unanimously believe that she should die. They reckon that Leila is ‘addicted’ to prostitution and if they set her free, she will replicate herself, like a germ.

[It’s a surprise] that after Leila sentenced to a hundred lashes at the age of nine, nobody asked why Leila’s case didn’t attract the attention of legal authorities, police, social welfare organizations or charities? Why didn’t they stop her from climbing her Golgotha? Why they didn’t do anything after she was lashed again at the age of fourteen? Hanging Leila is denying the existence of the problem, not solving it. It’s no proper answers to the [painful] riddle of people like Leila and Attefeh [Sohali].

The social worker keeps looking at her watch. The time is over. “What are you wishes?’ I asked before leaving “I don’t know” answered Leila “Maybe getting a parol, not being hanged, [or even] being free again”. “And what do you want me to bring you next time” of course, if there is a next time! “Cheese rings and chocolates” replies Leila, still wearing her bitter smile.

Leila, 19, has been behind the bars for the last eleven months. I’m her first visitor. She doesn’t ask for parol. She just asks for some cheese rings. She dreams of her lost childhood.

Zohreh Torkamani, Arak

Etemad Newspaper

  

 

ده دسامبر ...
جایی بین گورهای سبز و سنگی و گاه برفی
برادرم با سینی خرما می ایستد
زنی صوفی با گیسوان بلند طلایی و چشمانی سبز-آبی
شعری از دفتر پیر طریقتش را می خواند
جایی بین زمین و آسمان... دور از سنگریزه های مزار
به یاد هستی ات
تنها ایستاده ام...

  

 

Europe's Ritual Dance The Western counterpart of Iran's deception...

"They have huge financial interests tied up with the Iranian regime (billions of dollars worth of oil and gas contracts, plus other trade agreements, some already signed, others in the works); and Iran is the last place in the Middle East where they can play an active diplomatic role. This is particularly acute for France, which knows it will long be a pariah to free Iraqi governments, and views Iran as its last chance to thwart America's dominant role in the region. Sad to say, there is no evidence that the Europeans give a tinker's damn either about the destiny of the Iranian people, or about Iran's leading role in international terrorism, or about the Islamic Republic's joining the nuclear club."

Michael Ledeen, National Review Online

  

 

I signed Sheema Kalbasi... I am number 8870... hoping for Democracy in Iran.


The Poetry of Iranian Women project is growing... if you are an Iranian woman and write poetry... send me your work... I want your voice to be heard...

Larry Jaffe's new book is out... I have read it... and like it very much!

  

 

Yesterday... was my day off from university and the little girl was at her day care (a good thing.) I was cleaning the little girl's mess in the living room when I tripped over one of her toys and almost... almost lost conscious. I called 911. I kind of pulled my body to the door and unlocked it. I placed the phone close and remained motionless (smart)... later... while answering the interrogating questions (by police officers... it is the procedure)... I was band from all movements and a packaged Sheema was lifted by some very handsome men (the attractive part of the day)... and rescued to the back of a very uncomfortable ambulance.

جایی بین چینی های رنگ پریده
و سایه های روی تاقچه
دختری در میان چینهای پیراهنی نقطه چین
...می نالد بین این خطوط

  

 

P passing me in the kitchen kisses my lips... saying... my exhausted-injured wife... the little girl looking at us... says... silly Maaani... and giggles with a mouth full of strawberry yogurt...

  

 

I guess living with/as me is not short any action! I had a fall today and called 911. I just got home from the emergency room... am a little dizzy... Not particularly from the fall or even the pain I have... but the ambulance ride in the bumpy high ways of the rainy New England!

  

 

اگر وقت ایجاب کند... ترجمه کردن شعر های کوتاه را دوست دارم...
شعر شعرایی که گاهی دستهای احساسی ام با... از دل- نوشته هایشان
تلاقی می کند... که چشم- نوشته هایشان...ما بین پلکهای من زلال خیال می شوند
و گاهی اشک-نوشته هایشان... از روی گونه های من به روی انگشتهای تایپنده ام پناه می برند...

  

 

تلفن زنگ زد دیدم روش نوشته خارج از مرکز ( هنوز توی دلم می خواد وقتی تلفن اینو می نویسه ...صدای آرامش بخش مامان توی گوشی پخش بشه) صدای زنگ
دیگه ای اما توی صدا پیچید و دکمه را فشار دادم تا خط عوض بشه. دکتر نرولوژیست بود و گفت عکس سه بعدی (ام.آر.آی) که یکشنبه گرفته بودم چیزی نشون نمی ده
و باید دوباره برم که ببینند درد شدید توی دست چپم و شانه و گردن در اثر چی می تونه باشه. تلفن که تموم شد... صدای مهربون برادرم اونور خط گفت: دختر کجا رفتی؟
بسته رسید؟ میگم نه عزیز دلم... بهشون زنگ زدم گفتن دوباره می فرستن! همزمان ... پشت در چشمم به یک کارتن افتاد. گفتم آمده! بازش که می کنم... توی یه سبد زرشکی پر از
لذتهای کوچک زندگی
به تعداد زیاد نشستن و چشمک می زنند. کارت رو می خونم...
می بینم... اسم زنی اما جا مانده میان
اسم- نوشته ها... دلم برایت چه تنگ است

  

 

Arabian Gulf (Via Halle)... Persian Gulf will remain persian is one of the most Active-Top 10 Petitions!

  

 

چند ساعتی هست از بیمارستان برگشتم... وقتی تکنسین تخت رو توی کپسول هل داد... احساس خیلی بدی پیدا کردم. خواستم که بیرونم بیارن... پرسیدم بقیه هم دچار حالتی شبیه به من
می شن؟ گفت نه تنها حالشون بد می شه بلکه باید داروی آرام بخش استفاده کنند. یک لحظه تصویر پ و دختر کوچولو جلوی چشمم آمد که باز باید منتظر توی ماشین بشینن...گفتم نه همین امروز خوبه... زیر پلکهام اما قلبم می لرزید... لبهامو گاز می گرفتم... میخواستم بیام بیرون
... کیف کوله ای رو بندازم روی شونه هام و بدوم به سمت در...

زندگی!

It's been few hours since I am back from hospital. When the Technician got me ready for the neck MRI... I felt a little Claustrophobia running down my thoughts, lungs, nerves... I asked to be pulled out... It felt like a grave with my feet out... after a few minutes I decided to go back in... my heart was shivering under my eyelashes! I kept biting my lips... all I could picture was Sheema running towards the gates...

Life!

Maryam Hooleh and Hooman Azizi (Iranian poets) need their voice to be heard... Their life is in danger.

  

 

You know who you are... if you are a friend you will be happy for me... if your a foe... you will not!

*******************************************************************************************
Thank you to those of you... for the happy birthday well wishes. It means the world to me... I have had a difficult year (still have)... getting such positive e-mails; e-cards and phone calls made my heart melt from happiness. Thank you for caring.

*******************************************************************************************

  

 

With the Poetry of Iranian Women project, I intend to present the works by some of the most invisible yet most interesting groups in the world poetry circle. If you are an Iranian female poet... send me your poems... this project is from all of Us to the World... to hear our voice... our poetry.

  

 

Happy Birthday Sheema

  

 

The good things about life... you get to a) kiss those you love... b) see the smile on their faces... c) your heart bursts into laughter...

The good things about death... a) no loss, b) no heartache, c) no appointments...

  

 

feeling for your beyond...
even if this photo is computer made... the reality doesn't change...

  

 

Each day different aspect of loss is holding me. I will not conceal my feelings... the closer I get to my birthday... the immense pain of not hearing your voice gets stronger. Looking at my reflection in the mirror... seeing in conflict with the incident... are the on and off swelling... the two... moist... sad... inescapable eyes.

  

 

I had to write a research paper on the effect of TV on children and got hooked on these cartoons. I think Connie the Caw has the most delicious colors... If I ever get back to painting ...these colors are going to be what I'll be using...

...sunday I am going to hospital for MRI (neck)...

  

 

I got this e-mail from Sayeh Today. I asked her if it'll be ok to share it with the rest of you...

"Please contact Radio Farda and urge them to arrange an interview with Editor of National Geographic Map of the World Atlas. The Persian gulf and the name of the islands has been changed in their latest edition.

Thanks

Sayeh Sirjani"

  

 

برای تو مامان این لینک را اینجا می گذارم. باشد که دوباره عید فطرت را تبریک بگویم...
This link is for you Maman. Perhaps one day we'll meet again (My mother practiced Sufism.)

  

 

In the course of seductive pleasure of existence,
there was pain or sorrow wherever I emerged.
In the corners and angles of my body vessel,
there was nothing but the blare of cold waves to excel.

from the Anthology of Wish & Hope by Dr. Manouchehr S. Noury

  

 

ايران - اسرائيل - فلسطين، رسانه هاي فارسي زبان - عرفات براي نمونه، نيما راشدان

  

 

بدون شرح
همراه با علامت تعجب...

  

 

مدتی پیش مانا
برام از کتابش گفت و اسم کتاب هر از گاهی منو مشغول کرده. امروز که از دانشگاه بعد سه ساعت و خورده ای درس بر می گشتم (اسم این کلاس مرگ و مردن هست و دلایل شخصی مثل از دست دادن مادرم و نداشتن خواهر و مادر بزرگ و خاله باعث شد که این کلاس یکی از درسهایی باشه که این ترم برداشته ام،) ... در حالیکه مشغول شنیدن موزیک ( بدون شنیدن و چونه زدن پ و دختر کوچولو که همیشه یکی از این دونفر می خواهد اخبار یا بارنی گوش کنه)... و روندن ماشین گرم و نرم بودم (ماشینی که تو دانمارک داشتم از نرسیدن به اش، گهگداری مثل اژدها تنوره می کشید) اونم توی یک جاده آفتاب خورده در حالیکه برف ها ی دیشب و امروزصبح هنوز لابه لای درختها و زمینهای اطراف اتوبان خوابیدند ...باز منو یاد کتاب شاعره انداخت... توی دلم گفتم شاید اگه مرگ بوسه ای مثل این حال شعف من داشته باشه... اگه مرگ لبهاش اینجوری عاشقانه منو موقع بردن ببوسه ... توی دلم گفتم
مرگ اگر لبهای تو را داشت

شاید این

  

 

I am not an "ist"ic or "ism"ic ... but...

Send your e-mails to cbeidel@ngs.org

Dear Sir,

I am writing to object to the inclusion of the name ‘Arabian Gulf’ as an alternative to Persian Gulf on your recently published world map (8th Edition).

This action is causing considerable upset to the Iranian community around the globe. The Persian national identity is already under considerable threat and is eroded every day by the behavior and actions of the current Islamic Regime. We fear that using the proposed alternative of ‘Arabian Gulf’ alongside the correct name of ‘Persian Gulf’ will, in the long run, cause an actual name transition and result in the loss of a major association of our culture with this significant and famous part of the World’s geography.

I request that you amend this in your next edition to preserve our cultural heritage associated with this famous landmark.

Yours faithfully,



(via Halle)

  

 

مهندس سابق اهل پرو با انگلیسی شکسته بسته می گوید فلان روز میاد. در را که باز می کنم دختر خوشگلش همراهی اش کرده تا مترجم پدرش باشه... توی فنجانهای دسته دار چای
می ریزم و با بیسکویت زنجفیلی میارم سر میز. دخترم (توی اون لباس آبی کوتاه که خیلی دوست دارم تنش باشه) مثل برق خودشو می رسونه به میز که ببینه چه فضولی می تونه بکنه (آخ که قربونش می رم فسقلی پدرسوخته رو...) گفتگوی سه نفره پ، مهندس پرویی با مخلوطی از انگلیسی و اسپانیای... همراه با کمک مترجم شروع می شه. دختر راحت و ریلکس از تفاوت اقتصادی، اجتماعی برامون حرف
می زنه... نصفی نظرات خودش هست و باقی نظر پدرش... اینکه چقدر توی آمریکا با وجود امکانات محدود و بی فامیلی، خوشحالتر زندگی می کنن... منم همون وسطها (در حال چرت زدن) یاد دختری می افتم که توی محیط روشنفکر و به ظاهر مترقی اسکاندیناوی هر روز توی مدرسه و خیابان بهش تجاوز می شد. چقدر این دختر پرویی از اون شیمای تین ایجر ایرانی که توی ناف اروپا زندگی می کرد خوشبختره. اینجا تو آمریکا آدم به آدمیتش زنده هست و احترام داره... نه به دین و قیافه و ملیت یا اینکه سنت شده یا نه!

  

 

... yesterday... after picking my girl from her daycare (she goes to a daycare twice a week) we went to a nearby supermarket. I wanted us to bake. Sometimes when I am in a-mood-to-bake... some sort of bread-cake magically is baked in the oven... anyway... the little girl helped me squishy-squashy (the procedure of mixing in her language) and we baked the (whatever you wanna call it) bread/cake!
(some flour One can of pineapple a little salt cheese baking powder two eggs some honey... bake and eat... don't ask me of how much of what. I don't know! I just mix and bake and check on it so that it's not burned!)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I have an appointment with a neurologist in a few days. The physiotherapy hasn't helped so far and the sever pain in my left arm and shoulder is so bad that I can't sit still for long. I know what's up with me... the neck is heavy on the body...
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

tonight...
My little girl I love you. When I sat next to your bed... you put your arms around me (your eyes closed) and told your Maaanie "Dooset Daram" (I love you.)

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

As of last week I am the new poetry editor of The MAG.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


I am kind of withdrawn from people. The loss of my mom is been too heavy on me... so much so that I have gained a lot of weight. A few months ago I was talking to Roger telling him of the chocolate bars I had in just an hour... he wrote back... well at least you'll die happy!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I wouldn't mind writing about Arafat but Maman despised him so badly that I let the case rest on my blog.

  

 

...every time we are at a Starbucks...

Little girl: Maaaani ... showing the woman on the cup...

... other times she stands on a chair and...says: "Ladiz and gentemans girls and boys
I like to present you oranges, grape, Maaaani, fruit and desert."

Bowing... "thank you thank you very much"

  

 

Yesterday my little girl was insisting to be part of the Barney book... I was reading her. I had made a game by placing hats, etc. on the pictures and she was positive by pushing her feet she'd be part of the book! She is not even three and I think of the time she will go off to college and we may become voices on the phone! You see as a mother I enjoy reading other mother-bloggers... and the Iranian blogger Noushi is one of the few I read from time to time. What made me sad (so sad that I want to cry my lungs black) on her recent post... Noushi has let us know about her X taking the kids from her. She is asking for help... I don't know... who can help her? In a mismanaged country where the advocates of human rights and gender justice get arrested... a divorcee trying to have Child Custody in the Islamic Republic of Iran is Fighting an Uphill Battle.

  

 

Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the

  

 

Dr. Mahboubeh Abbasgholizadeh, the Iranian woman journalist and civil society activist, a prominent advocate of human rights and gender justicewas was arrested in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Please Sign the Petition.

  

 

Roger Humes and I won the Harvest International award for Best Poem with "Good Night, Baby Girl".

Roger e-mailed me: Damn we were good!


Good Night Baby Girl

I open the window
so that she can hear the sound of the night,
so that she can smell the fresh scent,
and when the rain starts
she will hear her mama again
walking quietly as a breeze of air
to cover her from the cool of the storm.

Watch her gently as she stirs slightly,
amazed by the face, so small
and innocent, that reflects the generations
back through untold time, that moves
toward a future shaped and molded
by who we are, by from where we came,
by the question mark of where we are today.

Notice the little hand
that clutches the blanket, so perfectly
formed, sculpted by love and
the grace of God, the hand which someday
perhaps will cover with a blanket
her own baby girl and remember the moments
when she was young and knew
even in her sleep that mama was there.

Reach down and the fingers so tiny,
so fragile yet so strong in their quiet slumbered love,
unconsciously wrap around mine
and transmit pulse through my body,
circling, snaking, dancing through me
with a warmth that runs from my heart
to my womb, and reminds me of the bond
that will connect us for as long as she lives.

Tip-toe from her room and return to mine,
slip between the blankets lest I rouse him
from his rest, although I wouldn’t mind,
for at this moment it would be wonderful
to disappear into a small nested universe
where twined beneath the lullaby of the rain

we would remember the miracle

from which she came.

  

 

Identify your problem:

Sheema: What should I ask?
P: Ask for pest control (bees, spiders, other crap) and
FREE termite evaluation.


... now which one is the one we have ... in the basement... ! They all look the same to me!! I should have studied pest...ology!

  

 

Mojtaba Samie-nejad an Iranian blogger was arrested in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Please Sign the Petition.

  

 

Drawings

The little girl's drawing, today
Walking with her father/ hand in hand in a Halloween costume...
And a rabbit, the Sun, a white home.

The mother's drawing but...
Showed her dad, dead behind the prison walls,
The soldiers with guns, the war and the cluster bombs.


Sheema Kalbasi