by Maz Jobrani
Visiting Iran made me realize that I wasn’t as Iranian as I thought I was. In the United States, I didn’t feel American enough, and in Iran I didn’t feel Iranian enough. Somehow when strangers would see me in the streets they would know instantly that I had come from America.
“How’s life in the United States?”
“How do you know I live there?”
“You’re wearing Levi’s five-o-one jeans. We don’t have those here.”
“You don’t have jeans?”
“We have the five-o-twos. The five-o-ones are so 1998.”
Being in Iran after twenty years was bittersweet. On the one hand, it was great to see Tehran and its beauty. It’s a bustling city surrounded by the Alborz Mountains. It could really be a beautiful place were it not for the overpopulation and pollution. Obviously, under the current regime there’s also a lack of basic freedoms. There’s a lot of fear instilled in you, and you feel like you’re being watched even when you’re not. This made me very paranoid and forced me to walk around the streets with my hands up, constantly saying, “I didn’t do it! Whatever you’re thinking, I did not do it!” By the end of the second week I didn’t trust anybody. My dad would come by my room at the end of the night.
“Goodnight, Son.”
“Goodnight? What, exactly, do you mean by ‘goodnight’?”
“Um . . . just goodnight?”
“Or maybe you mean I should go to sleep so you can look in my diary to see if I’ve written anything against the regime.”
“Son, I don’t vork for the regime.”
“Sure you don’t, Dad. Sure you don’t.”
When I went to visit it was the month of Ramadan, so we were supposed to fast during the daytime. None of my siblings or I are religious, so we weren’t fasting. The only problem was that when we were out, we didn’t want to be caught sneaking food. We would wait until we were in the car, and my dad would pass back cookies, which we would hide in our fists and eat surreptitiously, trying to look inconspicuous. I felt like an idiot, a grown man sneaking bites of lemon cookie with a vanilla cream center. They were delicious—delicious and blasphemous at the same time. I wonder what kind of deity cares if you have a cookie during holy daylight. Is there such a god? It’s a shame how people can take a religious message and turn it into something so silly. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty eating a cookie. Cookies are good whether you’re Muslim, Jewish, or Christian. The only people who hate cookies are vegans! And even they have nondairy cookies.
Two weeks in Tehran during Ramadan was like being in junior high all over again. We were nervous eating our cookies during the day. We were nervous walking with our sister in the streets for fear that someone would stop us and ask about our relationship with her. In Iran, men are only supposed to be walking with a woman if they are engaged to her, or she is their mother, wife, or sister. The morality police could stop you and inquire as to your relationship to the girl you’re walking with, and if they don’t like your answer, they could throw you in jail. A lot of people who live in Tehran don’t seem to fear this, but when you’re visiting you’re on high alert and freaked the hell out most of the time. I was constantly telling my sister to stay five steps behind. Then I realized this looked misogynistic, so I told her to stay five steps ahead. Which made it look like I was stalking her. We eventually settled on walking on opposite sides of the street, and I would occasionally shout chauvinistic barbs at her, just to fit in.
Of greater concern, alcohol is not allowed in Iran, although a lot of people drink it. The type that is consumed is either homemade or purchased from the Armenian black market. I did not dare drink in public, but the locals didn’t seem to care. We went to dinner one night with an uncle who snuck in a flask. He told us all to order Cokes and then proceeded to spike our drinks. (They weren’t actually Cokes, since Iran wouldn’t import American products like Coca-Cola because of sanctions. It was a knockoff whose name I forget, but we’ll call it Mullah-Cola.) Anyway, we were freaking out for fear we would get caught, but he was totally blasé. This was another stupid policy in Iran, where everyone knew people were breaking the law, but they did not want to admit it. If it weren’t for the damn law I wouldn’t even want a drink. But since my sixty-year-old uncle had gone to such lengths to sneak it in, I indulged.
Eight Minute Keb-Abs
The last time I was in Iran, my father took me to a gym. When I say gym, I mean sauna. And when I say sauna, I mean a place where men go to relax and pretend they are exercising. You can see the difference in cultures between the Middle East and the West when you go to exercise in these countries. In California, a gym is a place with treadmills and elliptical machines, free weights and dumbbells, men and women and mirrors everywhere. In Iran, a gym has one stationary bike, four dumbbells, an enormous sauna and steam room, and men only—no women allowed. There are gyms for women, too, but I would have had to dress in drag to get into those.
It was amazing how little thought was given to the actual exercise room at the gym and what detail had gone into the sauna area. There was a sauna, a steam room, a cold bath, a hot bath, and even a restaurant to eat rice and kebab after you’ve steamed. “Exercisers” go in, sweat out the pounds, then come out and put them right back on. Thankfully, I was there during Ramadan, so the restaurant was closed. Besides, I had eaten so many contraband cookies, I wouldn’t have been able to stomach a post-workout kebab.
Men go to these places to spend the day together and get away from their families. They talk politics, sports, and finance and leave feeling like they’ve gotten an actual workout when in reality the only reason they sweat is because it’s so hot. I was shocked at how openly these guys were talking politics and criticizing the leadership. People had gotten to a point where they didn’t give a crap. And they knew so much detail about everyone in the regime. I think it’s a cultural thing, but Iranians will know every nuance about a person and his background. Whereas in America you work with a guy for ten years and never know his last name.
“Hey Mike! How’s the wife and kids? You don’t have a wife and kids? Your name is Ted? Are you sure?”
In Iran people know first names, last names, family history, what car you drive, net worth, where you went to school, why you went to school, whom you slept with at school, who wouldn’t sleep with you at school, on and on. I don’t know why Iranians know so many details about each other, but I’m guessing it’s in case they want to set you up to marry their daughter. It’s like buying a new car. They do all the research so they can compare and contrast. Why set your daughter up with a Toyota when she could be with a BMW?
That trip to see my dad was the last time I visited Iran, which is a shame. I’ve done stand-up all over the Middle East, but I have never done it in my birth country. It is a dream of mine to one day be able to perform there. For now, though, I don’t know if the current regime would welcome me because I’ve made fun of them in my stand-up. I’m guessing they would have me begin my show with a confession that I am a puppet for the Great Satan and close by denouncing Jerry Seinfeld. “He is a Jew. And the only thing worse than a Jew is a gay. While we’re at it, Ellen DeGeneres, go to hell!”
As an Iranian-American stand-up comedian, it is almost impossible not to talk about Iran in your act. That’s because Iran is always in the news in the United States. Even when something happens that has nothing to do with Iran, Iran will find a way to work itself into the discussion. There was a revolution in Egypt in 2011, and the first thing Iran did was send ships into the Suez Canal. They weren’t dropping anything off or picking anything up. They just made the trip to indicate that under the new Egyptian leadership, they would be treated as closer allies. Either way, the revolution was about Egypt, but Iran got its name into the papers. The Iranian regime must have the same publicist as the Kardashians.
Being unable to avoid talking about Iran makes it difficult to go back and visit. I do one joke in which I cl
aim that perhaps the leadership in Iran is on drugs. That would explain why they talk so much shit to America—a country with the most powerful military in the world. The fact is that opium usage is high in Iran, so it would make sense that some of these leaders could actually be on drugs. We always assume that leaders of a country have their act together. But anyone who witnessed Muammar Gaddafi’s last days in power in Libya understands that a lot of these guys are out of their minds. Gaddafi was rambling on like a meth head. I’m convinced that some leaders in Iran are just as bad. And the fact that I just wrote that line means I won’t be performing stand-up in Iran anytime soon. I’m not sure if I’m officially banned in Iran, but if I ever do a show out there I plan to call it “Banned in Iran?” and just perform until they arrest me. At that point the tour will change its name to “Banned in Iran!” Exclamation, end of paragraph, end of tour.
The Supreme Newsletter
In 2009, there were protests in the streets of Tehran after the presidential elections. Many accused the regime of rigging the elections and giving President Ahmadinejad a wide victory when it was expected to be a close race. In some provinces, Ahmadinejad got more than 100 percent of the votes. Apparently some people voted in more than one province. The whole thing reeked of voter fraud. The protests became known as the Green Movement. Iranians were proud to see the peaceful protests, and for once it was okay to say you were Iranian in America. Up until then, most Iranians preferred to say they were Persian because it sounded nicer and friendlier. It distanced you from the current regime, and also most Americans didn’t even know what you were talking about. “You’re Parisian? I love french fries!”
I remember being in Chicago for the Just for Laughs comedy festival and a big announcement came from the Supreme Leader of Iran claiming that if people continued to protest, whatever happened to them would be out of his hands. It was basically a threat that the authorities would be allowed to punish the protesters any way they saw fit. That really pissed me off. How dare he make such a declaration against his own people? And what the hell is a Supreme Leader anyway? What is this, Star Wars? I’m willing to accept a supreme burrito, but a Supreme Leader? Give me a break!
After the announcement, the protests went south as the regime cracked down and turned to violence to stop the movement. People were shot and many died in pursuit of democracy. I observed the news daily, like a soap opera I couldn’t take my eyes off—a violent, bloody, real-life Dallas. I would go to bed late at night after reading as much as I could about the movement online, and wake up the next morning to CNN to see if any progress had been made. One clip that kept playing on the news was of a young woman, Neda Agha-Soltan, dying after being shot by the authorities. It was a poignant and sad scene to watch. I decided I would go to Iran and join the protesters in the streets to fight for our freedoms. No, I didn’t really do that. I’m a comedian. Not a lunatic. And I have no experience overthrowing regimes. What I do have, however, is a monthly newsletter, which had until then been intended to inform people about my upcoming shows.
The newsletter went out to thousands of people and usually elicited only a few responses. This time, I dedicated the whole thing to my support of the Green Movement and asked others to please support it any way they could. I hit send and went to sleep, having done my part to support Democracy in the Middle East. The next morning I awoke to hundreds of responses. Most expressed their support. However, I also got some people challenging me. One e-mail came from a woman in Greece. How she got on my e-mail list I have no idea. She basically told me that if the people of Iran had voted for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, then who was I to question it. She said that this was all a ploy by the West to overthrow the regime and that I should mind my own business.
This upset me—not just because she claimed it was none of my business, but that someone had the gall to question the Supreme Word of my newsletter. This led to an e-mail exchange that consumed hours of my life—hours that I could have used to write jokes about Ahmadinejad! After several exchanges I thought, What the hell am I doing? I’m debating some chick in Greece who has no influence over any of this. Why do I care what she thinks? It took a lot for me to stop myself from responding to her last e-mail. What can I say—I’m a man, I need to get in the last word. I finally let it go, but she reached out to me one more time to provoke me back into the debate. I ignored it. I’m not sure what happened to that Greek lady, but if she happens to be reading this book, please know that you were wrong and that I was right. And now it’s in print, with a title and fonts and on a bookshelf and everything, so you can’t do anything about it unless you write your own book. In your face, Greek lady!
Tiburon, California
I’m Iranian, but I grew up white. That’s because I was raised in Tiburon, California, across the bay from San Francisco. Tiburon is a very affluent and gentrified city in Marin County, where the mountain bike was invented—at least that’s what Wikipedia has to say on the matter. Mountain biking is a very white sport. When most Iranians hear “mountain” they think hiking or horseback riding—usually as a means of escaping Iran. When Iranians hear “biking” they think of riding on a flat surface. I’m guessing whoever decided to mix mountains with biking was an open-minded, adventure-seeking, and most likely stoned white dude. “Bro, you know that mountain we can barely walk up without falling off the cliff? Why don’t we try to ride a bike up it?”
Growing up, most of my friends were white with a few Persians sprinkled in here and there. Before I go any further, I know that any Iranians reading this right now are thinking: But Iranians ARE white! That is true. Iranians are ethnically white. The word “Iran” derives from the word “Aryan.” Our ancestors can be traced back to the Caucasus, so that makes us Caucasian—the original white people. Yes, Aryans were originally dark complexioned people with thick, hairy eyebrows. This is a point that many educated Iranians in the West insist on making. It’s for this reason that when the census comes out every ten years, Iranians continue to mark the box that reads “white” and move on with their lives. Based on the last census in 2010, there are about 300,000 Iranians in America. Based on my personal experiences in Westwood, California, there are at least 300,000 Iranians at most Persian weddings. There have been estimates of between 300,000 and 1.5 million Iranians in America. The reason for this wide discrepancy is that Iranians are not into filling out census forms. That’s because they want to lay low and avoid the government.
“If you tell deh government you’re here, den vhen deh next revolution comes dey vill know vhere to find you.”
Many Iranians throw away census forms when they appear at their homes. If they do fill out the form, they try to be as vague as possible:
Age: 0
How many people live in your household? 0 or so
Income: About 0
Ethnic background? Vhite. Or Italian. Or whichever ethnicity is not currently making headlines.
In the West, despite our Caucasian heritage, Iranians are seen as more brown than white. If you don’t believe me, try this test. Get an Iranian with a thick Persian accent and a unibrow and have him run up to the front of an airplane before the doors close for takeoff and tell the stewardess he doesn’t feel well and needs to get off the plane. No matter what, he has to insist that he needs to get off and he needs to make a big scene until they let him off. If the police don’t show up to arrest this man then I will give you your money back for this book.
Recently, I was on a plane and a white American girl did this exact thing. No fuss was made. The crew let her off the plane, thanked her for almost flying that airline, and we took off. The passenger next to me asked, “Shouldn’t they stop the plane and remove any baggage that girl might have checked in? What if she had a bomb in her suitcase?” I smiled and replied, “Nah, she’s white. No bombs, but probably lots of mood stabilizers. We’ll be okay.” So brown equals terrorist and white equals one individual crackpot who just really wants to get off the plane.
Growing up in Tiburon, there were so few Persians that if you ran into one it was an occasion for celebration. One time in high school I cut class with a baseball teammate who had the whitest name ever—good old American Mark—and we went to get a sandwich before the game. We ended up at a deli where the owners turned out to be Iranian. I could tell from the Persian accent that the old man behind the counter was a fellow countryman, but I decided to play it cool. I was trying to blend in and I didn’t want to remind Mark, or myself, that I was Iranian. The old man looked at my dark complexion and tilted his head.
“Vhere are you ferom, young man?” he asked in a thick accent.
Trying to sound as American as possible, I responded, “Tiburon, dude.”
“Yes, but vhere are you ferom ferom?” This meant, “Don’t try to bullshit me, son. I know you’re a foreigner, just like me.”
Still, I tried to be coy. “Oh, from from? Downtown Tiburon.”
“Yes, but vhere are you ferom ferom ferom?”
The guy was relentless.
“From from from? You mean originally? Like where was I born?”
Even White Mark leaned in for my reply. He knew the answer but was confused about why I was acting so evasive.
“Fine, I’m from Iran. There, I said it! You happy, old man?”
Not only was he happy, he was ecstatic. It was as if he’d found a long-lost son. “Iran! I knew it! Me too! Dees eez gereat. Here, have a free cookie!”
“Free cookie?”
