Peter is an observing Christian so he did not want to travel on this Easter Sunday. Rather, he told me, he wanted to maintain the mood of ‘resurrection of Christ’ by remaining contemplative and quiet. I agreed and we stayed on in Babolsar. It was the 3rd day of Nouruz, the Persian New Year. As is the tradition there were many in the family to pay a visit for the New Year.
We were invited to my father’s cousin, an elder couple in the family, for breakfast. Khadije, whom I call auntie looks a carbon copy of my grandma who had raised me. Looking at her waves of feelings arise in me. Does she know how familiar, how close she is to my heart? As we entered the house, I sensed the meticulous cleanliness of the place, carpeted with Persian rugs and a new addition of sofas to the modest living room.
We were welcomed warmly. Immediately the old feelings of a Persian breakfast came back to me. They told us that they had especially bought hand-made bread instead of those uninteresting machine-made breads.
The table was laid. Butter and cheese, homemade jam of orange blossom and cherry, warm milk and boiled eggs, and of course, Persian tea served in glass, to see and feel the amber red. And the ample wish of our hosts for us to enjoy this treat and their company embraced us.
Warm milk, hand-made bread and orange blossom jam … yummm.
I wondered if this was the first time ever a Dane had entered their house? Was this the first time a non-Farsi speaker came for breakfast here? We both knew that this was very probable.
I looked at Peter and I looked at them. All three religious to the core and all three people with golden hearts, good-will radiating from their eyes.
I thought to make a connection. So I told them about Easter Sunday and Good Friday, about Jesus being crucified and resurrected, about his coming back and teaching the disciples for forty days henceforth. I said that for Peter these are special days and he is observing them in his own way.
My auntie and uncle exchanged a glance between themselves. She picked up the thread of their thoughts and offered it humbly:
-Although it is mentioned in the Q’uran that there has been a mistake.
Looking over to my uncle she passed over their single thought. In the same modest tone, yet self-assured voice he continued:
-In the Q’uran it is written that someone ‘like’ Christ was crucified, but it was not him.
Ho! How do I say this to Peter?
Fortunately as interpreter I am not responsible for the content of the conversation, even though it comes as a comet. So I delivered the message as gently as I could.
His faith though stands as a rock; no comet of any type of comment would make any dent in it. He is passionately in the Easter mood and the resurrection story.
-But tell them that Easter Sunday is really about overcoming death, our fear of death … it is about rebirth, a new life…
Arguing hotly about resurrection and what it meant to him, and to humanity. I faithfully translated and watched my auntie and uncle smile. I didn’t know if they smiled about Peter’s passion, touched by his spirit and his purity of heart, or if they were smiling about the futility of his argument in their mind.
Looking at my uncle though I could feel how genuinely he desired Peter to be welcomed in his house. My auntie fretted about the milk being warm and offered us eggs. I could not resist though relating the thought that the crucifixion and resurrection are the foundation stone of Peter’s belief. And of course I knew that the teachings in Q’uran is the cornerstone of theirs. Suddenly I was caught between two clashing beliefs where wars could start. I felt the enormity of the gulf between the two worlds, two ways of being, two views of reality. Could they both be true, each in their own way, and co-exist?
I looked at Peter and he laughed. I felt my perplexity dissolve in his laughter while sitting there between two people, two worlds that I loved. Sometimes we have to let the stories be, and the beliefs also. And let the heart open, like a large sea to let all the purposeful or drifting ships of our beliefs sail. Sitting there I could feel the warm milk from Bahnamir was nourishing my body and the love my family had for me, and by extension for Peter, nourishing our soul. This was one of the most loving Easter Sunday breakfasts I have ever had, with orange blossom jam on my bread.
