I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV (4 page)

“I VISH YOU A GREAT NEW YEAR! VHAT? IIII VIIIIISH YOUUUUUUU A GREEEEAAAT NEW YEAAAAR! VHY ARE YOU REPEATING EVERYTING I'M SAYING? IS DAT ME TALKING OR YOU? I'M NOT YELLING! I SAID! I VISH YOU . . .”

This would go on for hours as we had to call relatives in Iran, Sweden, Kansas City—wherever the hell they were living. It was hard enough trying to sleep through this at four in the morning, but then my parents would wake us up to wish our relatives a happy New Year.

“HI! IT'S MAZ! MAZ! YOUR GRANDSON! WHY ARE YOU REPEATING EVERYTHING I SAY? IS IT MY TURN TO SHOUT OR YOURS?”

Living in the United States, phone calls were my main source of contact with Iran. I would get on the line with relatives and tell them how much I missed them. As I got older, it occurred to me I really didn't know them that well; it was just habit to say I missed them. Besides, it wouldn't have been too nice to tell the truth.

“HI. IT'S MAZ. I DON'T WANT TO BE ON THIS CALL. I BARELY KNOW YOU. IT'S BEEN YEARS SINCE I'VE SEEN YOUR FACE. I JUST REMEMBER YOU USED TO GIVE ME MONEY FOR CANDY. DON'T GET ME
WRONG, I APPRECIATED THAT, BUT I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW YOU THAT WELL AND MY DAD IS JUST MAKING ME TALK TO YOU AND TELL YOU I MISS YOU. WHY ARE YOU REPEATING EVERYTHING I SAY? I JUST WANT TO GO BACK TO BED. JUST HANG UP. HANG UP!”

Persian Eyes, They're Watching You

I did not return to Tehran until 1999. My father traveled there in the early 1990s to work on some real estate deals and earn back some money he had lost while living in the United States. In the ten years he was in America, he had lost much of his fortune in bad real estate ventures. It was strange seeing Don Corleone sitting around our condominium in Los Angeles, where we moved in 1990, waiting for the phone to ring, just staring at the wall very anxiously. I was always expecting him to pull me aside and whisper, “I should've known it was Barzini all along!”

Fortunately, he never went movie crazy. In Iran, if you lived rich, chances were that you would die rich. It was hard for someone on top to lose it all. In the United States, it was not the same. If you weren't careful with your money you could lose it very easily. And my father was not the type to put money into a 401(k) or a trust fund for the future. He was a self-made millionaire who thought he could never lose, but he had to move back to Tehran to get his business going again.

It wasn't until 1999 that my two brothers, sister, and I were able to get our papers in order to visit him. We had to arrange for visas that would allow us to come and go temporarily without having to serve in the military. Iran considers you a citizen of Iran
even if you have become a citizen of another country, and they have mandatory military service for all boys of a certain age. So in order to visit we had to make sure our papers were cleared and we could enter the country without having to do military service.

I had no interest in becoming Jihad Joe. First of all, I am not into fighting for any military. The only one I could ever see myself joining would be Old Navy, and that's just because their sweatpants are comfy. Second, I grew up in America. Sure I spoke Farsi, but my reading and writing of the language was and is at the first grade level. I don't know what kind of a soldier I'd make if I couldn't even read the signs. “Mines to the left, water fountain to the right”—such a sign could result in very serious repercussions for me. I don't know how you spell “mines” nor “water fountain.” I would hate to leave this world trying to drink water out of an improvised explosive device. Also, what would happen if one of the commanders wanted us to chant, “We hate America! Death to America!” Out of sincerity I would have to raise my hands and offer my opinion. “Sir, not all Americans are bad. You're right—some of them are real bastards. Still, I don't wish death upon anyone. Can we just say, ‘Bad karma to all bad Americans'? That's more my style.”

Visiting Iran made me realize that I wasn't as Iranian as I thought I was. In the United States, I didn't feel American enough, and in Iran I didn't feel Iranian enough. Somehow when strangers would see me in the streets they would know instantly that I had come from America.

“How's life in the United States?”

“How do you know I live there?”

“You're wearing Levi's five-o-one jeans. We don't have those here.”

“You don't have jeans?”

“We have the five-o-twos. The five-o-ones are so 1998.”

Being in Iran after twenty years was bittersweet. On the one hand, it was great to see Tehran and its beauty. It's a bustling city surrounded by the Alborz Mountains. It could really be a beautiful place were it not for the overpopulation and pollution. Obviously, under the current regime there's also a lack of basic freedoms. There's a lot of fear instilled in you, and you feel like you're being watched even when you're not. This made me very paranoid and forced me to walk around the streets with my hands up, constantly saying, “I didn't do it! Whatever you're thinking, I did not do it!” By the end of the second week I didn't trust anybody. My dad would come by my room at the end of the night.

“Goodnight, Son.”

“Goodnight? What, exactly, do you mean by ‘goodnight'?”

“Um . . . just goodnight?”

“Or maybe you mean I should go to sleep so you can look in my diary to see if I've written anything against the regime.”

“Son, I don't vork for the regime.”

“Sure you don't, Dad. Sure you don't.”

When I went to visit it was the month of Ramadan, so we were supposed to fast during the daytime. None of my siblings or I are religious, so we weren't fasting. The only problem was that when we were out, we didn't want to be caught sneaking food. We would wait until we were in the car, and my dad would pass back cookies, which we would hide in our fists and eat surreptitiously, trying to look inconspicuous. I felt like an idiot, a grown man sneaking bites of lemon cookie with a vanilla cream center. They were delicious—delicious and blasphemous at the same time. I wonder what kind of deity cares if you have a cookie during holy
daylight. Is there such a god? It's a shame how people can take a religious message and turn it into something so silly. I shouldn't have to feel guilty eating a cookie. Cookies are good whether you're Muslim, Jewish, or Christian. The only people who hate cookies are vegans! And even they have nondairy cookies.

Two weeks in Tehran during Ramadan was like being in junior high all over again. We were nervous eating our cookies during the day. We were nervous walking with our sister in the streets for fear that someone would stop us and ask about our relationship with her. In Iran, men are only supposed to be walking with a woman if they are engaged to her, or she is their mother, wife, or sister. The morality police could stop you and inquire as to your relationship to the girl you're walking with, and if they don't like your answer, they could throw you in jail. A lot of people who live in Tehran don't seem to fear this, but when you're visiting you're on high alert and freaked the hell out most of the time. I was constantly telling my sister to stay five steps behind. Then I realized this looked misogynistic, so I told her to stay five steps ahead. Which made it look like I was stalking her. We eventually settled on walking on opposite sides of the street, and I would occasionally shout chauvinistic barbs at her, just to fit in.

Of greater concern, alcohol is not allowed in Iran, although a lot of people drink it. The type that is consumed is either homemade or purchased from the Armenian black market. I did not dare drink in public, but the locals didn't seem to care. We went to dinner one night with an uncle who snuck in a flask. He told us all to order Cokes and then proceeded to spike our drinks. (They weren't actually Cokes, since Iran wouldn't import American products like Coca-Cola because of sanctions. It was a knockoff whose name I forget, but we'll call it Mullah-Cola.) Anyway, we
were freaking out for fear we would get caught, but he was totally blasé. This was another stupid policy in Iran, where everyone knew people were breaking the law, but they did not want to admit it. If it weren't for the damn law I wouldn't even want a drink. But since my sixty-year-old uncle had gone to such lengths to sneak it in, I indulged.

Eight Minute Keb-Abs

The last time I was in Iran, my father took me to a gym. When I say gym, I mean sauna. And when I say sauna, I mean a place where men go to relax and pretend they are exercising. You can see the difference in cultures between the Middle East and the West when you go to exercise in these countries. In California, a gym is a place with treadmills and elliptical machines, free weights and dumbbells, men and women and mirrors everywhere. In Iran, a gym has one stationary bike, four dumbbells, an enormous sauna and steam room, and men only—no women allowed. There are gyms for women, too, but I would have had to dress in drag to get into those.

It was amazing how little thought was given to the actual exercise room at the gym and what detail had gone into the sauna area. There was a sauna, a steam room, a cold bath, a hot bath, and even a restaurant to eat rice and kebab after you've steamed. “Exercisers” go in, sweat out the pounds, then come out and put them right back on. Thankfully, I was there during Ramadan, so the restaurant was closed. Besides, I had eaten so many contraband cookies, I wouldn't have been able to stomach a post-workout kebab.

Men go to these places to spend the day together and get away from their families. They talk politics, sports, and finance and
leave feeling like they've gotten an actual workout when in reality the only reason they sweat is because it's so hot. I was shocked at how openly these guys were talking politics and criticizing the leadership. People had gotten to a point where they didn't give a crap. And they knew so much detail about everyone in the regime. I think it's a cultural thing, but Iranians will know every nuance about a person and his background. Whereas in America you work with a guy for ten years and never know his last name.

“Hey Mike! How's the wife and kids? You don't have a wife and kids? Your name is Ted? Are you sure?”

In Iran people know first names, last names, family history, what car you drive, net worth, where you went to school, why you went to school, whom you slept with at school, who wouldn't sleep with you at school, on and on. I don't know why Iranians know so many details about each other, but I'm guessing it's in case they want to set you up to marry their daughter. It's like buying a new car. They do all the research so they can compare and contrast. Why set your daughter up with a Toyota when she could be with a BMW?

That trip to see my dad was the last time I visited Iran, which is a shame. I've done stand-up all over the Middle East, but I have never done it in my birth country. It is a dream of mine to one day be able to perform there. For now, though, I don't know if the current regime would welcome me because I've made fun of them in my stand-up. I'm guessing they would have me begin my show with a confession that I am a puppet for the Great Satan and close by denouncing Jerry Seinfeld. “He is a Jew. And the only thing worse than a Jew is a gay. While we're at it, Ellen DeGeneres, go to hell!”

As an Iranian-American stand-up comedian, it is almost
impossible not to talk about Iran in your act. That's because Iran is always in the news in the United States. Even when something happens that has nothing to do with Iran, Iran will find a way to work itself into the discussion. There was a revolution in Egypt in 2011, and the first thing Iran did was send ships into the Suez Canal. They weren't dropping anything off or picking anything up. They just made the trip to indicate that under the new Egyptian leadership, they would be treated as closer allies. Either way, the revolution was about Egypt, but Iran got its name into the papers. The Iranian regime must have the same publicist as the Kardashians.

Being unable to avoid talking about Iran makes it difficult to go back and visit. I do one joke in which I claim that perhaps the leadership in Iran is on drugs. That would explain why they talk so much shit to America—a country with the most powerful military in the world. The fact is that opium usage is high in Iran, so it would make sense that some of these leaders
could
actually be on drugs. We always assume that leaders of a country have their act together. But anyone who witnessed Muammar Gaddafi's last days in power in Libya understands that a lot of these guys are out of their minds. Gaddafi was rambling on like a meth head. I'm convinced that some leaders in Iran are just as bad. And the fact that I just wrote that line means I won't be performing stand-up in Iran anytime soon. I'm not sure if I'm officially banned in Iran, but if I ever do a show out there I plan to call it “
Banned in Iran?”
and just perform until they arrest me. At that point the tour will change its name to
“Banned in Iran
!
” Exclamation, end of paragraph, end of tour.

The Supreme Newsletter

In 2009, there were protests in the streets of Tehran after the presidential elections. Many accused the regime of rigging the elections and giving President Ahmadinejad a wide victory when it was expected to be a close race. In some provinces, Ahmadinejad got more than 100 percent of the votes. Apparently some people voted in more than one province. The whole thing reeked of voter fraud. The protests became known as the Green Movement. Iranians were proud to see the peaceful protests, and for once it was okay to say you were Iranian in America. Up until then, most Iranians preferred to say they were Persian because it sounded nicer and friendlier. It distanced you from the current regime, and also most Americans didn't even know what you were talking about. “You're Parisian? I love french fries!”

I remember being in Chicago for the Just for Laughs comedy festival and a big announcement came from the Supreme Leader of Iran claiming that if people continued to protest, whatever happened to them would be out of his hands. It was basically a threat that the authorities would be allowed to punish the protesters any way they saw fit. That really pissed me off. How dare he make such a declaration against his own people? And what the hell is a Supreme Leader anyway? What is this,
Star Wars
? I'm willing to accept a supreme burrito, but a Supreme Leader? Give me a break!