By Nasrin Naficy
There is a folksong in my country, Iran, that mothers and grandmothers would be the first to sing to their children and grandchildren. A quick, short rhythm, like the voice of water coming down step by step on a steep path, runs through the narration of this song. It tells the story of water that rotates the wheel of life:
I was running I was running
When I saw two notable ladies (khatoon)
One of them gave me bread
The other gave me water
I ate the bread myself
And gave the water to the earth
The earth gave me grass
I gave the grass to a kid
The kid gave me dung
I gave the dung to a goldsmith
The goldsmith gave me scissors
I gave the scissors to a seamstress
The seamstress gave me a cloak
I gave the cloak to Baba
Baba gave me two dates
I ate one date myself
The other fell on the ground
I said: give me the date Baba
Baba hit me on my hat
My hat dropped into a garden
I went there to take it
Fire fell into cotton (panbeh)
Dog got busy eating lamb belly (shekambeh)
Cat ate lamb fat (donbeh).
This folksong shows the importance of water in Iran, which is a land with relatively high rates of drought in most parts. Isfahan, the city where I was born and now live, is in one of these dry parts.A rather narrow river, Zayanehrood runs through the city. Hundreds of years ago, its water was divided off to a number of narrow streams called mady, which run through the city like life-giving veins. And yet, not so far from these rushes of droughts have been years of flooding too. I remember one as a child. The water had reached up to the arches in Thirty Three Pul Bridge and had covered both sides of the river bank. This was only about half a century after a dam had been built over the Zayanehrood to prevent such disastrous events. From that time on, I do not remember severe droughts or floods.
I used to go to the river bank to have fun. Many beautiful parks with playgrounds were built along the river since the end of the war between Iran and Iraq in 1989. It was the only outdoor public place for entertainment. I used to go walking by the river with a friend of mine early in the morning every day (and still do). Whenever we got tired, we sat on a bench along the bank and listened to the water pouring down from the stairs beneath the beautiful ancient Thirty Three Pul Bridge with its colorful tiny tiles decorating the upper sides of its unique arches. We watched the fish and the seabirds screaming in the air for bits of bread people used to offer them.
But seven or eight years ago, something extraordinary happened. The river became dry all of a sudden.! That year and the year before that it had not rained at all. The dam was closed to reserve the water for agricultural purposes. Drinking water had to be rationed. Every day the river became slower and thinner until one day we saw the river bed for the first time and black heavy mud covering it. A very bad smell rose from it. Soon I was walking on the river bed, stepping over the cracks of dry mud. My shoes went deep into the dust made of fish dead bodies and dry seaweeds. The river bed was like a dusty road and its beautiful bridges were left useless. People preferred to walk across the dry river to cut short their way. No one was eager to visit this miserable road except for people with cameras to take photos or poets to weep for the glorious past. On weekends, the boys used to turn the road into a ground for their football games and the little girls searched the bed for tiny things hidden there.
This lasted perhaps a year and a half. Then there was a rumor that the bases of the bridges might get damaged by the dry earth. So in the spring during the Iranian New Year traditional ceremony (Nuorooz) the dam was opened for twenty-four hours to water the bridges and the ‘road’. It was horribl It only sprinkled salt on our wounds.! Psychiatrists in the city announced that calls for their help had risen significantly, especially among women who were experiencing depression. Women like my friend and I who enjoyed our morning time by the river when our husbands and children were still asleep lost our delightful moments. People, especially women, started to go to the shopping center or stayed at home more watching television.
I remember it was late in the spring on that year when a rumor arose again saying the water might come back to the river soon. And it did.! (On that new year, we had some rains in the mountain heights). One evening I heard heavy traffic noises from the streets around my house not far from the river. I went to the veranda to hear more. No doubt something extraordinary was happening around the river. I dressed up hastily and walked out to see what was going on. The cars were stuck in the traffic, their lights on and their horns busy. Some men were walking towards the river. When I got closer to the river bank, the scene before my eyes was amazing. It was dusk. Women were spreading rugs not only along the river bank but also on the pavement and everywhere else. Every family had its patch of rug and every patch had a woman guarding it. Some women were already busy putting big pots on the picnic gas stoves and others were arranging a table cloth on the ground with fruits, nuts, cookies and so on. Other women were clapping, sitting around a circle. The children and the men were dancing in the middle. What caused this crowd to gather together? I looked at the river. A muddy heavy water was roaring along the river bed pushing away all kinds of rubbish. The river was brilliant, with its marvelous bridges over hundreds of picnic blankets and gas lights.
(This essay was first published in the Journal of "international Feminist Politics" volume 9, number 4, 2007)
