Читать книгу I Am Like You! - Ali PhD Kian - Страница 7

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.

I am playing Santur for grand Ma

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, but because I felt humiliated. A few people gathered around us to offer their help. As people began to recognize that I was disabled, their attitudes changed. Now they “understood”. I wasn’t just a lazy boy being carried by his mother; I was a poor “crippled” child. Disapproval was replaced with pity. Again, I wanted to scream. “Stop, I am just like you!”

Growing up, I lost track of the number of visits we made to doctors. Trips to the hospital became as common as a trip to the park, without the fun. My parents continued to search for some new medical technology or perhaps a miracle that would help me. But there were no breakthroughs and the hospital and doctor bills mounted. Somehow, in spite of the endless distractions my condition caused, I managed to continue my schooling. For a good period of time, I was able to keep up my grades, but eventually the constant shuttling between doctors and hospitals began to affect my schooling. It became more and more difficult for me to keep up with the other children.

Part of childhood involves the occasional bump or bruise. For me, bruises came from the never ending prodding and poking I encountered during whatever new medical procedure the doctors might want to try on me. I became almost immune to the pain and never complained to my parents. I wanted to get better for them. Like any child, I wanted my parents’ love and acceptance. I didn’t want my Mom to have to carry me to school. I wanted to be the little boy who carries his mother’s groceries home for her. And I wanted my father to be able to introduce me to his friends as his son... a son he could be proud of and one that wasn’t looked upon with pity.

Unfortunately, when a country is a theocracy, birth control is often unacceptable. A good deal of the financial strain my parents felt came from the fact that our family kept growing. When my first sister was born, I remember pleading with my Mom not to have any more children. I’m sure she thought I was simply being selfish but, even at the age of ten, I recognized that more children would mean more problems and financial difficulties. So, in spite of my protests, brothers and sisters seemed to arrive on a regular basis. One thing that did change because of what happened to me is that my parents refused to take any of my brothers and sisters for vaccinations of any kind.