A newborn child is completely reliant on their mother for survival. They lack the ability to perform basic tasks such as feeding, hygiene, or learning, making them entirely dependent on their caregiver.
To a young child, especially in a society where men are traditionally seen as leaders, their father can seem like the most powerful person on Earth.
Growing up with specific family traditions can be a wonderful experience, fostering a strong sense of belonging and identity. Sharing similar customs, food, and celebrations with like-minded individuals creates a warm and familiar social environment. This can lead to a more peaceful and predictable life, free from the stress of constant social judgment and uncertainty.
This sense of belonging, rooted in family traditions, can extend outward, connecting individuals to their neighborhood, community, and nation. In religious societies, shared religious beliefs and traditions can deepen this sense of belonging.
Choosing between conformity and rebellion to traditional norms can be a perplexing dilemma, as both paths may ultimately lead to similar results.
For example, some Americans hold harmful stereotypes about Mexicans, portraying them as criminals or threats to the nation. This can fuel prejudice and hatred. Conversely, others may resent those who hold such views, creating internal divisions within American society. In both cases, the common thread is hatred directed towards a specific group based on perceived shared beliefs and characteristics.
Similarly, a Muslim who hates others based on religion, or who hates other Muslims for hating other religions, demonstrates the same underlying issue: hatred directed towards a specific group based on perceived shared beliefs and characteristics.
Without formal sociological training, it's clear to see how this behavior can have devastating consequences for society, fostering division and hatred.
Despite countless historical attempts to find a solution, a significant portion of society remains entrenched in exclusivity, denying others and perpetuating division. As long as this bond and solidarity connect like-minded individuals, perhaps not much harm is done. Simply hating others within this group may not be heard or noticed by outsiders. However, when this hatred is expressed outwardly, chaos ensues.
I know of a particular family in Northern Iran that they have to search through multiple generations to find a few individuals of note. Yet, they target a much smaller family from the same region, where nearly every member in recent generations has been a renowned scientist, physician, university professor, or influential politician. This behavior is clearly excessive. Specifically when the former group refers to the latter as their "horse attendants".
This is an example of when this hatred is directed outward, it creates friction and conflict between different groups. When it is directed inward, it fosters feelings of pity and betrayal by the other members of the group itself. A firsthand experience, would be mine!
There have been countless instances where two people from different families, villages, towns, or religions have been forbidden from speaking to or marrying each other or even speaking with each other, often leading to separation or rejection. I have firsthand experience with how this works too.
Before the Iranian Revolution, Iranian society was becoming increasingly tolerant and accepting. People were judged based on their merits rather than their groups of society.
However, after the revolution, Baha'is, Jews, and many other religious groups faced significant persecution, often resulting in imprisonment. Individuals from different provinces, especially those who were more progressive and resisted conservative trends, were also targeted.
Men gained a stronger voice and influence, and as a result, women were relegated to a subservient position, expected to be obedient, specially when outdoors.
Unfortunately, many habits and beliefs formed in younger ages are difficult to change. Even worse, they often resurface in older age.
Despite always facing adversity and misfortune, I think was lucky. I was born in Nikoo Kari hospital in Sheshgelan district of Tabriz. This was a dominantly poor neighborhood. Tabriz was divided into many districts, and some of the more prominent ones had a unique dialect known as Tabrizi. While this dialect shared many similarities with other dialects in the region, it was characterized by stronger pronunciations and a more advanced vocabulary.
I didn't know how to speak Azari until I was about three years old. I learned it by imitating those around me and listening to others. Many of my relatives lived in Tehran and only spoke Farsi, the national language. In Tabriz, children typically began learning Farsi in kindergarten or even later in the first grade. Needless to say, my Tabrizi Azari dialect wasn't as refined as one might expect from someone who was born and raised in Tabriz. It wasn't until I was in the second grade that I realized I didn't fit in with the other kids. I was often called names like 'villager' or 'outsider.'
To make matters worse, when I visited Rezaiyeh, where my maternal grandparents lived, my grandmother would often call me 'Sheshgelani,' meaning someone from Sheshgalan. This made me feel inferior, as it was not much different from being called a villager. Every time my grandmother sent me to the nearby store to buy something, at the age of seven or eight, I would be mocked by the store owner for using different words to describe bread or yogurt.
I wasn't considered a true Tabrizi in my own city, but I was seen as one when I was in Rezaiyeh. Similarly, when I traveled to Tehran or when my cousins visited Tabriz, I was labeled as a 'Turk' while they were considered 'Fars.
To make matters worse, when I visited Maragheh, where some of my father's relatives lived, I was neither considered a Tabrizi nor a Rezaiyehi. I wasn't even seen as a pure Turk/ Azari. After moving to Tehran, I didn't have a noticeable accent, so no one could tell I was from Azerbaijan or that I was an Azeri. However, my friends knew my origins. To my Farsi speaking friends, I was a Turk, while to my Turk friends, I was seen as a traitor.
We couldn't even agree on whether I was a Turk or an Azeri!
Most of my relatives were not blood relatives. Almost everyone married someone from outside our family. This had a positive side effect: there was never the strong family bond that often exists in Iranian families. Everyone was accepting of each other, their cultures, and their different ethnic foods, jokes, games, and interests.
Another positive aspect of my life was that most of the women in my family were highly educated and held professional jobs in various fields. Both of my grandmothers were strong, articulate women who weren't afraid to express their opinions. Even distant relatives were well-educated, with a diverse range of professions. I remember a time when a potential suitor for a distant relative expressed discomfort about being a high school-educated shop owner. My father, however, saw this as an asset, stating that the family needed a shop owner.
Then it was a matter of faith. Most family members believed in a higher power, but few had strong religious convictions. Children were learning games like backgammon and blackjack from a young age. By the first grade, everyone knew how to play games like Gin Rummy and poker. There were no strict dietary restrictions. We often ate sandwiches from an Armenian shop nearby, without worrying about whether the meat was pork or beef. Women were free to dress as they pleased, and boys and girls played together, even taking swimming lessons together.
We used to travel as friends and family to various places without any restrictions. As a child, I couldn't understand why some women wore full-body swimwear at the beach. If it weren't for my religious school, I might not have been aware of the social distinctions between boys and girls.
Every year, During at least one religious occasion, we would have large gatherings with special food for "Sofreh." This refers to a large tablecloth spread with food and gifts in honor of a religious figure. All the furniture in our living and dining rooms would be removed to make space for massive tablecloths that could seat over 100 people. While the main Sofreh was typically for women, my mom would often set up a separate one for the kids in our family room.
These gatherings often involved a lot of preparation, sometimes taking days. We had many friends and relatives from Tabriz and the surrounding areas who would attend. My mom would often enlist the help of a skilled chef, Ahad Agha, from my dad's hospital to prepare the main course, while she and other helpers would take care of the rest. A sheep would typically be slaughtered for the occasion, usually in a nearby village. Most of the meat would be brought back for the gathering, while the rest would be given to local people. Another sheep would be slaughtered and given as a gift to neighbors and those in need.
Attending funerals was another important religious custom. My parents would often attend burials and ceremonies, sometimes traveling for these occasions. Typically, a religious leader would recite verses from the Quran, share stories, and people would mourn, eat pastries, drink tea, and leave. A prayer would also be offered at the burial site.
As a child, I wasn't forced to accept any particular religion, nor was I discouraged from exploring faith. We had an open-minded approach. Of course, things changed significantly after the revolution.
All of our freedoms suddenly vanished. I had to burn our playing cards and dispose of many other items that were considered sinful. Some items were hidden, as their religious status was uncertain. This included backgammon sets, chessboards, bottle openers, and many photographs from our travels.
It turned out that my mother's traditional way of hosting religious gatherings was also considered incorrect after the revolution. According to new interpretations, the sheep had to be slaughtered inside the house and distributed to 40 neighbors. This seemed absurd, especially considering that many of our neighbors were wealthy. It didn't make sense to feed the rich; where was the logic in that?
Many friends who genuinely worked to improve the lives of others were either executed or removed from their positions, leaving their roles vacant and filled by inexperienced individuals. One such individual was arrested and executed within a single day for the crime of creating a school for factory workers to earn their high school diplomas. The real offense was that the school was open during the day, allowing their wives and daughters to receive a free education as well.
His wife was also arrested due to her German nationality, leaving their two daughters to fend for themselves. With the help of friends, the girls managed to survive until their grandmother arrived from Germany to take them in.
If I had any religious faith, it was lost at that time. How could a former disturbed person who was executing village cats, and had spent time in a mental institution, suddenly gain the authority to control the lives of others in the name of religion? This can't be correct.
Cultural divisions began to deepen. We had a close friend, a talented Kurdish physician, with whom we spent nearly two months traveling. We saw him as a person, not as a Kurd or a Turk. Us kids, we grew up together. But after the revolution, the government turned against the Kurds, and thousands were killed in the name of Islam, simply because they were Sunni, not Shia. They were only seeking the right to practice their faith freely. Unfortunately, the British Mandate made the Kurdish people a target for all.
I lost all sense of belonging. I felt like I didn't fit in with the culture, religion, city, or the country. I began to wonder if my life would have been different if I had been born into a different family, city, province, or even country. What if I had been born in Gujarat, India, or Hong Kong? What if my family had been wealthy or if my father had been a Jewish priest?
If there is a God, did he intend for me to be born a Shia in Tabriz? And if so, what about the billions of others who weren't as fortunate? If I am a good person and I am destined for heaven, what about those who haven't had the same opportunities? If they too can go to heaven, then is God already punishing me by restricting my life? What kind of equality is this? I would have preferred to be born in Thailand, surrounded by beautiful girls, or in a family of scientists who have made significant contributions to humanity, or even better in a corrupt family with billions of dollars in assets, Trump, Khamenei, Putin, anyone.
This doesn't make sense. He can't give me the ability to think and then tell me to be silent and obedient. And if I'm supposed to follow, why are the rules constantly changing? Does the Quran really condone killing Baha'is or making life difficult for Jews? Did it say a thieves hands to be chopped, or bribery is a sin, so how come almost all at the top are enjoying their life in expense of others, and they get away with anything including raping boys in Quran classes?
Couldn't I have been born in Switzerland, a country without a mandatory military service and a strong central authority, and people genuinely nice and educated?
Why should I feel a sense of belonging when they don't accept me as one of their own? I didn't choose my birth, yet I'm expected to adhere to their rules and beliefs.
That, in a nutshell, is why I am a universalist.
I don't disregard everything I've learned over the years or the people who have taught me. I acknowledge the free education and healthcare provided by my country of birth. I appreciate my parents for raising me to the best of their ability. And I value every friend I've made along the way who has contributed to my growth.
But I don't accept that I belong to a specific place or group. I don't believe I owe them anything. What they've done for me, they would have done for anyone else, and what they haven't done, they wouldn't have done for anyone.
We are here to fulfill a greater purpose beyond our families, countries, races, and religions. As conscious beings in a vast universe of 97 billion light-years, containing trillions of galaxies, each with billions of stars, we exist to understand our purpose and contribute to the universe's growth. Our goal is to expand consciousness and promote happiness for all. Despite divisions caused by rivers and oceans, we are all interconnected, we are one. In this vast universe, that there are more visible stars than sands on Earth, why would I sell myself short to be part of a totally insignificant place and time? I am an star dust, and I would prefer that over anything.
(c) I own the rights to pictures. Please feel free to use them as you wish.
The "belonging" started in hunter gatherer societies so that groups could use each others' help to better defend against predators, and collaborate to get ahead. Not much has changed since then. We created the stories to encourage it, but more than anything, we want to promote our self-interest at the expense of the next group over. This perspective does a better job of predicting international politics than any other!
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