On a blustery recent Saturday morning, a small group of volunteers gathered at the entrance to City Hall Park. They set up a folding table and laid out four old-fashioned red telephones, which were marked with the numbers one through four. They unfurled a banner that read, “U.S. and Iran: It’s time to talk!” Another banner, draped across the front of the table, announced, “Direct lines to Iran.”
The antiwar group Enough Fear had set up the call session as a way for ordinary New Yorkers to talk to ordinary Iranians, although the event’s location, chosen by the Parks Department, guaranteed that, apart from a few bargain hunters shopping at Century 21, most passersby would be tourists. The “ordinary Iranians” at the other end were volunteers, recruited from the organizers’ Web site, who would be sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. Five young Iranians—four men and a woman in a black head scarf—began dialling numbers from a list in front of them.
Ali, a student, called Azad in Tehran and waited for a connection. “Allo?” he said, when Azad picked up. “Allo, salaam. . . . I’m Ali, the interpreter,” he said in Farsi, and added, half jokingly, “What are you doing at home on Ashura?” Ashura is one of the holiest days in the Shia calendar, commemorating Imam Hussein’s martyrdom, and many Iranians attend self-flagellation ceremonies and passion plays at mosques. Other volunteers, meanwhile, handed out flyers, on the back of which a number of questions were listed as an aid to conversation: “How old are you?” “What are your hobbies?” “What is the weather like there this time of year?”
An older woman was the first to get on a phone. “Hello, Azad!” she said loudly into the mouthpiece. “My name is Caroline.” She chatted in English with her Iranian counterpart. “Your English is fantastic!” she exclaimed. “I’m a sixty-seven-year-old grandmother who loves peace!” She nodded. “And who would you want me to vote for?” she asked, in response to a question about the elections. “We’re supporting Obama—is that O.K.?” The line to Iran, a crackly connection, gave out.
Patty, a middle-aged woman visiting from upstate with her husband, picked up a different phone. “Are you worried there might be hostilities between our countries?” she asked, enunciating the words slowly. “That’s good,” she said. “I was very worried for a time there.” A young girl stepped up to the phone marked No. 4. “My name is Dana, and I was born in Iran, actually,” she shouted into the receiver. “I would speak Farsi, but you wouldn’t understand me, it’s so terrible now!”
Manuel, an Argentine carrying a large J. & R. shopping bag, picked up line 3. “What do you think of Bush?” he asked a man named Mohsen. “He’s like our President,” came the reply. “Yes,” the Argentine said. “He’s an asshole—that’s what the entire world thinks!” A young man got on the phone with Shadi, in Iran. “My name’s Blair,” he said into the phone three times, each time a little louder. “I’m from New York.” Shadi told him that she has relatives in Los Angeles. “I don’t care much for L.A.,” Blair said. “Is there a rivalry between two cities in Iran like there is between New York and L.A.?” The translator tried to explain the question. “You know how we joke about the Qazvinis and the Rashtis,” he said in rapid Farsi. “She doesn’t want to stereotype anyone,” he said to Blair with a shrug. “O.K.,” Blair said. He gave up on his attempts at levity and, instead, asked about which Iranian films he should rent.
An older man in a Jets jacket sauntered up to the table. “I wanna do this,” he announced, and got on the phone to Mohammad, on line 1. “Would you be willing to take Bush if we sent him there?” he asked in a thick New York accent. “Jeez, he’s the worst thing that ever happened!” He listened for a moment. “Please take him. He’s so religious—you’d like him there.” In response to a question about Iran’s President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, he said, “I don’t agree with him, but I also don’t agree with what the president of Columbia University did. I mean, you invite the man here and then insult him?” He listened for a few more seconds. “I gotta move on,” he said, hanging up.
Maryam, one of the translators, who is a student at Columbia, stood up to take a break. “The Iranians in Tehran are in their own world,” she said, rubbing her hands together to get warm. “They just keep talking without really listening to the questions. But this one guy, when they were talking about the cold weather, he told the American that at least you have shelter over there, unlike the Iraqis whose homes you blew up. That didn’t go over very well—the American walked away.” ♦
