UPPER CLASS BUT HOMELESS. NOSTALGIA FOR IRAN

🕌 Nostalgia for Iran | دلتنگی برای ایران

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مقدمه | Introduction

فارسی

امروز، یکشنبه‌ای در ایالات متحده است. صاحب‌خانه به ساحل رفته و من توانستم از سکوت خانه لذت ببرم.

اما این سکوت، پر بود از مهربانی‌هایی که از ایران می‌تراوید.

English

Today, being a Sunday in the United States, and with the owners of the house gone to the beach, I could finally enjoy the silence.

But that silence was filled with tenderness—a tenderness that seemed to pour in from Iran.

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ایران و فرهنگ | Iran and Culture

فارسی

ایران کشوری است دورافتاده از جهان غرب، اما جایی که عاطفه و محبت را در بی‌پیرایه‌ترین شکل می‌توان یافت.

هرگاه سخن از ایران به میان می‌آید، همواره یاد فرهنگ آن می‌افتیم، چه گذشته و چه امروز.

امروز نیز از این قاعده مستثنی نبود. به آهنگ‌های محسن یگانه گوش می‌دادم؛

آهنگی که بیش از آن‌که موسیقی باشد، شعر و فلسفه بود. و البته به یاد فرامرز اصلانی افتادم…

English

Iran is a country so isolated from the Western world, yet one where affections are expressed in the most innocent and genuine way.

When one speaks of Iran, there is always mention of its culture, past and present.

Today was no exception. I found myself listening to Mohsen Yeganeh—his popular song, more poetry and philosophy than music.

And, of course, remembering Faramarz Aslani…

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شعر | Poem

فارسی

سفر کردم که یابم بلکه یارم را

نجستم یار و گم کردم دیارم را

از آن روزی که من بار سفر بستم

به هر جایی که رفتم در به در هستم

فراموشم مکن من یار دیرینه‌ام

بیا، خالیست جای تو به بالینم

تو را در خواب‌های خویش می‌بینم

در آغوشم بگیر، از خود رهایم کن

گرفتار سکوتم، من صدایم کن

میان روزهای خویش جایم کن

English

I traveled, hoping to find my friend.

I found no friend—and lost my homeland.

Since the day I set out on this journey,

Wherever I have gone, I remain homeless.

Do not forget me, I am your old friend.

Come—your place is empty beside me.

I see you in my dreams.

Hold me in your arms, free me from myself.

I am a prisoner of silence—call me.

Give me a place in the days of your life.

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تأمل | Reflection

فارسی

این شاید بهترین توصیف از وضعیت کنونی من باشد:

اشراف‌زاده، اما بی‌خانمان.

English

This, perhaps, summarizes my current situation:

Upper class, yet homeless.

THE MAGNET OF ALLIGATOR ALCATRAZ

The Magnet of Alligator Alcatraz

In Suriname, where the rivers coil like emerald serpents and the rain falls so thick it erases the line between sky and earth, there lived a doctor whose life was no longer his own but a caravan of other people’s illnesses. He traveled with a satchel of remedies through Cambodia, where monks whispered sutras to the fevered; through India, where the sacred cows walked more freely than the poor; through Colombia, where the air itself carried both healing and plague; and through the United States, where his hands were received like miracles but his foreign heart was regarded with suspicion.

Yet no medicine he carried could cure the one affliction that gnawed at his ribs like a hidden animal: the yearning for a girl in Iran who spoke Persian poetry as if her lungs were bellows of fire and roses. She was unnamed in the ledgers of governments but unforgettable in the night registers of his soul. When she recited Hafez, the verses traveled across the telephone wires like caravans of stars, and the doctor, wherever he stood—in the flooded villages of Cambodia, in the clinics of Colombia, or on the highways of America—felt himself transformed into a disciple of syllables older than empire.

It was then that he devised a plan so outrageous that it could only belong to the delirium of history itself: he would send her an intravenous injection of iron, secret and invisible in her veins, and then, from the swamps of Florida, he would purchase a magnet so powerful it could bend not only blood and bone but also borders and bureaucracies. The magnet would call to her like destiny, pulling her across mountains and deserts, through the dust of Anatolia and the waves of the Atlantic, until she arrived weightless, a flying verse, descending over Miami like a prayer answered by physics.

But fate is a scavenger bird that feasts on miracles. The Iranian police, who mistrusted poetry more than they mistrusted arsenals, discovered the plot. They declared it not love but contraband, not yearning but smuggling, and in their declaration the Americans found an echo. Since no Iranian citizen could enter the United States, the courts accused him of trafficking in Muslim souls, as if affection itself were a species of slavery.

He was condemned without trial to the most improbable of prisons: Alligator Alcatraz, a detention fortress raised on a swamp so humid that the walls perspired and so vast that the silence was interrupted only by the laughter of crocodiles who had once been men. It was said that the swamp itself conspired with the prison, that the mangroves twisted their roots into the foundations, and that the alligators, bloated on bureaucratic despair, recited Rumi when the moon was full.

On the night of his arrival, the doctor lifted his voice in anguish, and the inmates swore they heard the cry ricochet across the cypress groves:

“If I go to Iran, it is Evin Prison for me! And here—it is the Alligator Alcatraz!”

The words rose like smoke and clung to the ceilings, and the guards, unable to sweep them away, claimed they dripped from the rafters in the mornings like dew.

Soon, other marvels occurred. The magnet, which had been smuggled into his cell inside a box of medical supplies, began to hum at night, as though trying to remember the girl’s pulse. The air thickened with invisible currents, pulling the nails from the walls and dragging the cutlery across the dining hall. Inmates woke with the sensation that their hearts were leaning eastward, toward Shiraz.

TH

And then came the stories. Some prisoners swore they saw the girl herself hovering over the swamp, her body luminous with iron, suspended in the humid sky like a saint reluctant to descend. Others claimed that the alligators rose from the water, not to devour but to chant verses of Saadi, their jaws moving in solemn cadence. Even the swamp insects seemed to buzz in meter, repeating over and over a single line: “Beyond the prison walls lies the garden of poetry.”

The doctor, however, was never freed. He remained suspended between two prisons—Evin, which awaited him in one country, and Alligator Alcatraz, which swallowed him in another—forever condemned not for his medicine but for believing that a magnet could collapse the distances of exile, bend the bars of nations, and make love fly across the sky like a migrating bird who refuses to recognize the frontiers of men.

And the swamp remembers. On nights when the moon is round and the air trembles with heat, the waters of Alligator Alcatraz ripple as though stirred by an invisible force, and the alligators raise their snouts to the stars and recite, in broken but tender Persian, the verses of a girl who was never permitted to arrive.

THE FIRST CUBAN RESTAURANT IN MIAMI, WITH THE SOUL OF 1960s HAVANA

THE FIRST CUBAN RESTAURANT IN MIAMI, WITH THE SOUL OF 1960s HAVANA

First in Spanish, despues en Español

I am an Australian, but a frequent visitor to both Miami and Havana, involved in both places as a Professor of Medicine and a Lecturer in Anthropology.

I left Havana in 2023, and today was the first time I truly savored the kind of Cuban cuisine I had grown used to in La Habana—a few notches higher in elegance and sophistication than most Cuban-American restaurants in Miami. I was transported back to the many dinners and long conversations in the halls of Havana, and I deeply enjoyed the nostalgia evoked by the cuisine of 1960s Cuba.

This cherished culinary tradition is kept alive at La Rosa Restaurant, founded in 1968 by people from the province of Matanzas.

I don’t think you’ll find malanga soup with such refined taste anywhere else. I had the grilled fish, and my companion enjoyed vaca frita after his salad. And how can a Cuban meal be complete without Caviar Cubano—frijoles negros, the black beans?

I closed my eyes while sipping the black bean soup and could feel the breeze from the Malecón (my apartment was near the Malecón).

The dessert took us both by surprise. I had Cuban natilla, reminiscent of crema catalana or crème brûlée—every morsel was delicious. My companion had arroz con leche, a melt-in-the-mouth kind of delight.

My stomach was satisfied, my mind coated in the warm nostalgia of my recent life in Havana, and I felt spiritually connected to the rich history of that island just south of here.

You will always be in my heart.

EL PRIMER RESTAURANTE CUBANO EN MIAMI, CON EL ALMA DE LA HABANA DE LOS AÑOS 60

Soy australiano, pero visitante frecuente tanto de Miami como de La Habana, involucrado en ambos lugares como Profesor de Medicina y Docente de Antropología.

Salí de La Habana en 2023, y hoy fue la primera vez que pude saborear realmente el tipo de cocina cubana a la que me había acostumbrado en La Habana—con un nivel de elegancia y sofisticación superior al de la mayoría de los restaurantes cubano-americanos en Miami. Me transporté a aquellas muchas cenas con largas conversaciones en los salones de La Habana, y disfruté profundamente la nostalgia que evocaba la cocina de Cuba en los años 60.

Esta querida tradición culinaria se mantiene viva en La Rosa Restaurant, fundado en 1968 por personas de la provincia de Matanzas.

No creo que se pueda encontrar una sopa de malanga con un sabor tan refinado en ningún otro lugar. Pedí el pescado a la parrilla, y mi acompañante disfrutó de una vaca frita después de su ensalada. ¿Y cómo puede estar completa una comida cubana sin el Caviar Cubano—los frijoles negros?

Cerré los ojos mientras tomaba la sopa de frijoles negros y pude sentir la brisa del Malecón (mi apartamento estaba cerca del Malecón).

El postre nos sorprendió a ambos. Pedí una natilla cubana, parecida a la crema catalana o a la crème brûlée—cada bocado fue delicioso. Mi acompañante pidió arroz con leche, un deleite que se derretía en la boca.

Mi estómago quedó satisfecho, mi mente envuelta en la cálida nostalgia de mi vida reciente en La Habana, y me sentí espiritualmente conectado con la rica historia de esa isla justo al sur de aquí.

Siempre estarás en mi corazón.

COCHIN. HARMONY AMONG THE INHABITANTS OF ALL FAITHS

Interdenominational Veneration in Fort Cochin, India

Harmony Among the Inhabitants of All Faiths

For curious reasons, Fort Cochin—a small peninsula that juts into the backwaters and faces the Arabian Sea in Kerala’s southwest—is the only city I regularly visit in India.

During my most recent visit, just a month ago, I was struck by the deep religiosity of the people I encountered. Whether they belonged to Hinduism, Christianity, or Islam—the three major religions in the region—or to smaller communities like the Jains or the handful of Jews in Jew Town, their devotion was unmistakable.

Sacred Space and Mutual Respect

What impressed me most was the reverence the people of Cochin show toward sacred spaces—not only their own, but also those of others. One cannot imagine here the burning of churches as in Pakistan, the prohibition of church-building as in Malaysia, or the desecration of Jewish cemeteries as seen in France. Such acts feel inconceivable in Cochin.

This harmony has deep historical roots. Hinduism is the native faith of Kerala, although archaeological evidence—such as dolmens near Cochin—suggests the presence of pre-Hindu, aboriginal traditions. Christianity and Islam have also had ancient footholds in the region. St. Thomas the Apostle is believed to have traveled along the Malabar Coast. The Portuguese, arriving with Vasco da Gama, were reportedly surprised to find active Christian communities already established. Arab traders brought Islam to these shores long before its violent spread elsewhere.

Notably, India may be the only country where Jews have lived for centuries without experiencing antisemitism.

Observances in Cochin and Abroad

I am writing this from Brussels, Belgium. Outside my window, I see a group of schoolgirls in hijab—an image that feels like an anomaly in this European context. Yet in Cochin, such a sight feels entirely natural.

Every morning in Cochin, you’ll see Hindu children with sandalwood paste on their foreheads, Christian children with crosses around their necks, and Muslim children in hijabs or skullcaps—all in school uniforms, walking together. It is a beautiful, ordinary sight. And it has been this way for centuries.

This harmony has been noted by Jewish, Arab, and European travelers for over a thousand years. Before the Portuguese arrived, even a thriving Chinese Buddhist community existed along the Kalvathy River. The native population of Cochin today carries the physiognomic legacy of Arab, Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch ancestors—more so than the Dravidian features found inland.

Ritual and Spirituality

The people of Cochin are deeply religious. I was surprised to find a church service full of congregants at 7 a.m. on a weekday—a rare sight in the West. The region is dotted with mosques. The older ones are understated and blend in; the newer ones, built with funds from Saudi Arabia, feature minarets and domes that rise incongruously amid palm trees and banana plants.

As someone who works closely with Native peoples of the Americas, I find an interesting contrast. Among them, spirituality is not tied to texts, clergy, or religious buildings. It centers on connection to the natural world—trees, thunder, the moon. In Cochin, religion is expressed through devotion, ritual, and piety.

Yet there is a shared mythic consciousness. A Christian woman in Cochin once apologized to me for missing Sunday church—despite the fact that she attends church twice daily. Her sincerity reminded me of my Native American friends who describe the sacredness of a river or the blooming of a flower. In both cases, the connection to something larger than oneself—whether called “God” or “the universe”—is palpable.

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Living Monuments of Interfaith Harmony

Kappiri Muthappan: The African Spirit Guardian

Two sites in Fort Cochin exemplify the region’s interfaith amity: the shrine of Kappiri Muthappan and the tomb of Nehamia Mutta.

At both places, people from all faiths come to pray, light candles, offer flowers—and in the case of Kappiri Muthappan, even offer toddy (palm wine) or cigarettes.

“Kappiri” is derived from the Portuguese word Cafre, meaning a Black African man. Legend holds that when the Portuguese retreated, they buried some of their African slaves alive along with their treasure, hoping the spirits would guard it until their return. Kappiri is said to live in mango trees and is fond of arrack and cigars.

There are areas in Mattancherry called Kappiri Mathil—“Kappiri’s Wall”—believed to be places where the spirit rests. His shrine is simple: just a raised platform, no deity or idol. Yet it has become a revered space for people of all faiths.

Nehami Mutta: A Jewish Sage Venerated by All

A short walk from Jew Street, beyond the tourist paths, lies a quieter residential area. There stands the tomb of Rav Nehamia ben Avraham, a Yemeni Jewish scholar who migrated to Cochin and died in 1616.

The site, once part of the Black Jewish cemetery, was entrusted to a local Christian family after most Cochin Jews emigrated to Israel in the 1950s. The family keeps it clean and whitewashed, as promised.

Today, people of all backgrounds—Christians, Muslims, Hindus—visit the tomb to offer prayers. I lit Shabbat candles there, said prayers for friends scattered across the world, and felt privileged to do so.

Translation of the Tombstone
(Courtesy of the late Itzhak Hallegua of Cochin)

Here rests the Kabbalist and venerable sage,
Who emanated the light of his knowledge
And shines throughout the Jewish diaspora.
He is the perfect wise man,
A righteous soul of divine connection,
Rav and teacher—
Nehemia, son of the Rav and teacher, the wise and beloved
Abraham Muta (elder), of blessed and saintly memory.
He passed from this life on Sunday, 28th Kislev,
In the year of creation 5376 (1616 AD).

 

The fact that Kappiri was Christian and Nehamia Mutta was Jewish does not matter to the devotees. They come in search of grace, comfort, and healing—regardless of origin.

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Historic Mosques and Jewish Generosity

In her book The Mosques of Cochin, Patricia Fels documents the Kerala-style architecture of the region’s mosques. One such mosque is the Chembitta Palli, also known as the Kochangadi Juma Masjid.

My friend Mr. N told me a remarkable story about its founding: A Jewish merchant was so impressed by the wisdom of Sayyid Fakhr Bukhari, the mosque’s spiritual leader, that he donated all the timber for its construction.

Such stories are not anomalies—they are part of the cultural DNA of Cochin.

Enduring Friendship Across Faiths

Even today, in an era of rising global polarization, the interfaith bonds of Cochin remain intact. I have met young Cochin Muslims working in Salalah, Muscat, and Doha. Though exposed to the modern political discourse of the Arab world, they retain a deep respect for people of other religions—an inheritance from their homeland’s traditions.

I came across a video online titled Faces of Cochin. It features locals with a range of appearances—Dravidian, Arab, European—a testament to centuries of migration, intermarriage, and peaceful coexistence.

This, too, is Cochin: a living mosaic of faith, culture, and shared humanity.

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ASSASSINS

ASSASSINS

Have you ever wondered about the etymological origin of the word assassin?

Two key names frequently arise in historical accounts—whether you’re reading The Assassins by the distinguished historian Bernard Lewis or the beautifully crafted novel Samarkand by the erudite French-language writer Amin Maalouf. While the term is often casually linked to "hashish-eaters," any serious student of Middle Eastern history would quickly dismiss that oversimplification.

The so-called "Order of Assassins"—more accurately known as the Nizari Ismailis—was an Islamic sect. According to texts from Alamut, their stronghold in Persia, their leader Hassan-i Sabbah referred to his followers as Asāsīyūn (أساسيون), meaning "those who are faithful to the foundation [of the faith]." However, foreign travelers and chroniclers misunderstood or deliberately distorted the term, erroneously associating it with hashish.

Hassan-i Sabbah, a prominent Ismaili from Qom, is a central figure in this sect’s complex history, which falls within the broader Ismaili branch of Shia Islam. I was especially intrigued by the story of Nizam al-Mulk, the Grand Vizier of the Seljuk Empire, who tragically became one of the Assassins' most notable victims.

Conversely, I found it difficult to sympathize with Hassan-i Sabbah himself—a figure whose methods and ideology seemed to embody a darker side of his time, and perhaps even of ours.

As children, we were taught about the Ismailis in a far more benevolent light—largely due to the Aga Khan and his well-known philanthropy. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting several Ismaili merchants in Zanzibar, and those encounters only enriched my perspective.

History becomes even more captivating when a region enters your soul. In such moments, its stories don’t just inform you—they embrace you.

MY WAY OF TRAVEL. SUITS ME BUT I WONT RECOMMEND IT TO OTHERS, FIND YOUR OWN STYLE

My Way of Traveling

I’ve prioritized travel above everything else in my life — but this is not something I recommend to others. Everyone should discover their own style of exploration.

I was no more than four years old when I became determined to see the world. My major journeys didn’t begin until I was 19, but within the next five years, I had completed my first round-the-world trip (though I stopped in only a few places).

My First Round-the-World Flights

The route went: Melbourne – Sydney – Singapore – Bangkok – New Delhi – Karachi – Tehran – Tel Aviv – Athens – Rome – Copenhagen – and finally Sweden (as an exchange student).

I returned home via: Copenhagen – London – Bermuda – Nassau – Mexico City – Acapulco – Tahiti – Fiji – Sydney – Melbourne.

The flights themselves were just as thrilling as the destinations.

My approach is to choose a destination and return there repeatedly until I understand the region — its people, culture, and above all, its food.

Over time, I’ve covered many parts of the world:

The Caribbean during my student years in Miami

The South Pacific while working as a junior doctor in Melbourne

Africa while studying anthropology in London

South America while living in Jamaica and Cuba

I’m still waiting for Iran to open up to fearless travel for Westerners (no more “Death to this or that!”). Exploring that country remains a dream.

In the surrounding region, I’ve visited: Armenia, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Oman, Saudi Arabia, and Israel (many times). Among these, I particularly enjoy Qatar, Oman, Israel, and Morocco.

my 

Next up: I’m looking for a charming hotel in Sultanahmet, Istanbul, for my upcoming visit…

Miami, Memory, and the Migration of Authoritarian Thinking. Miami, Memoria y la Migración del Pensamiento Autoritario

 Miami, Memoria y la Migración del Pensamiento Autoritario. First in Spanish and then in English 

Soy australiano, pero mi vínculo con Miami, Florida, comenzó durante mis estudios de medicina y continúa hasta el día de hoy.

Miami ha sido durante mucho tiempo un refugio para quienes huyen de dictaduras—y, paradójicamente, también para algunos de los propios dictadores. La ciudad alberga a casi dos millones de cubanos y sus descendientes, la mayoría de los cuales escaparon del miedo, la pobreza y la desesperanza bajo el comunismo. Fulgencio Batista, el dictador derrocado por la Revolución Cubana, tenia una casa aquí.Machado otro dictador cubano es enterrado aqui. Otros llegaron huyendo de Pinochet en Chile, Somoza en Nicaragua y, más recientemente, Bolsonaro en Brasil.

Lo que siempre me ha desconcertado es que muchos de los que huyeron de la opresión no se convirtieron en defensores de la democracia liberal o la tolerancia. En cambio, a menudo adoptan ideologías de extrema derecha—volviéndose racistas vocales, capitalistas explotadores e indiferentes al sufrimiento ajeno. En las elecciones de 2020, la mayoría de los votantes inmigrantes de Miami apoyaron a Trump, quien prometió deportaciones masivas, incluso para personas con estatus legal o infracciones menores.

Entonces me pregunté: ¿los exiliados iraníes siguen un patrón similar? Esperaba más matices políticos de un pueblo que admiro profundamente por su tradición literaria e intelectual. Sin embargo, muchos inmigrantes iraníes y sus hijos también parecen atraídos por el autoritarismo.

Un reportaje reciente de la BBC perfiló a Arpineh Masihi, de 39 años, quien llegó a EE.UU. como refugiada a los 3 años. Su tarjeta de residencia fue revocada hace 25 años por un fraude menor, y ahora enfrenta la deportación. A pesar de ello, tanto ella como su esposo siguen apoyando las duras políticas migratorias del gobierno actual—un sentimiento común entre los iraníes en Los Ángeles.

La neurociencia tal vez ofrezca una explicación: los cerebros formados en sociedades rígidas como Cuba o Irán suelen resistirse al cambio. Incluso en libertad, buscan estructura y certezas, encontrándolas en el extremismo—un patrón similar al de quienes fueron moldeados por años de adoctrinamiento ideológico.

 Yehuda kovesh: Miami, Memory, and the Migration of Authoritarian Thinking

I am an Australian, but my connection to Miami, Florida began during my medical studies and has lasted to this day.

Miami has long served as a sanctuary for people fleeing dictatorships—and, ironically, for some dictators themselves. The city is home to nearly two million Cubans and their descendants, most of whom escaped the fear, poverty, and hopelessness under communism. Fulgencio Batista, the dictator ousted by the Cuban Revolution, had a house here. Another cuban dictator Machado is buried here. Others arrived from Chile under Pinochet, Nicaragua under Somoza, and more recently, Brazil under Bolsonaro.

What has always puzzled me is this: many who fled oppression did not become champions of liberal democracy or tolerance. Instead, they often embraced far-right ideologies—becoming vocal racists, exploitative capitalists, and indifferent to the suffering of others. In the 2020 election, the majority of Miami’s immigrant population voted for Trump, who openly promised mass deportations—even for those with legal status or minor infractions.

This led me to wonder: do Iranian exiles follow a similar path? I had hoped for more political nuance from a people I admire deeply for their literary and intellectual tradition. Yet, many Iranian immigrants and their children also appear drawn toward authoritarianism.

A BBC story recently profiled Arpineh Masihi, 39, who came to the U.S. as a refugee at age 3. Her green card was revoked 25 years ago over a minor fraud charge, and she now faces deportation. Despite this, both she and her husband remain strong supporters of the current administration's harsh immigration policies—echoing sentiments common among Iranians in Los Angeles.

Neuroscience may offer an explanation: brains shaped in rigid, controlling societies like Cuba or Iran often resist adaptation. Even in freedom, they seek the structure and certainty of extremism—mirroring the cognitive patterns seen in those shaped by years of ideological indoctrination.