…and after breakfast I got into a bus to Esfahan with Benny, the 65yo Malaysian guy I met in Shiraz and we “adopted” each other: he does the haggling with the taxi drivers and the shops keepers – as all males are expected to be in charge of- and I do the hostel research and exploration planning. It’s a beautiful, sweet symbiosis we got going for the past 3 days. Benny is independent, very social, he has been traveling the world throughout his life and has lived and worked in many countries, currently living in Hong Kong. From what I understand he is well off financially, and yet he prefers to stay in hostels where he can meet new people and share life and traveling.
This morning when I met him for breakfast I noticed he had given his phone to the servers – both Iranian girls- for them to go through his traveling pictures. “It’s like a window to the world for them. They deserve to know what’s out there” he explained. And indeed, both of the girls’ eyebrows would often raise with wonder, and they wouldn’t let his phone from their hands even when other guests would interrupt them. It was one of the most real and considerate things I’ve seen a traveler do for a local.
(Handmade dolls from Yazd, Iran.)
Benny and I arrived in Yazd on a Friday which is Iran’s Sunday. Everything was closed but there was a little bazaar on the main street in front of our hostel. We separated and we usually like to do, and I stopped in front of a table full of dolls each in their own cute dollhouse, and pictures of the people they represent. A girl gave me this tiny book telling the story of the doll maker, a woman who’s story hit home a bit too close.
The woman grew up being passionate about doll making, and received relevant education. Once she graduated and she stepped into the world to begin her career, her family shut her dreams down. She needed to find a “real” career; she needed to find a job that would support her family.
(Tight, picturesque corridors are the forte of Yazd.)
Frustrated and disappointed, the woman turned inwards and wondered when did her parents become so bitter. She went through their stuff and found one of their wedding picture: they looked so young and happy! Inspired by this photo she created her first two dolls: her mother and father on their wedding day. Satisfied with the outcome, she started recreating her whole family into dolls, and she found so much joy in the process, but mostly healing. Today, this woman not only creates and sells her dolls sharing her story, she also works with young people who are going through similar situations, and she helps them find their own path. Taking the feeling of rejection, one’s own trauma and turning it into art, and then supporting others who wish to do the same, that’s perseverance. That’s the definition of healing.
(Every story deserves a happy ending.)
To find this kind of beauty in humans is not uncommon; to discover this story in a country that’s suppressing its people so hard, and connect deeply with someone who doesn’t speak your language is rare and precious. The woman saw my tears and hugged me, and offered me her dolls for free – which of course I refused and gladly paid the full price: $2 for two of her priceless dolls. We hugged again and she took a video of me holding the dolls, probably telling the story of this white girl who showed up one day and started crying in front of her table when she read her story. I never got to tell her how much of me I saw in her.
(Beautiful home in the Old Town.)
If this woman was on social media I would direct you to her so you can read her story and support her. But she is not. What I can suggest though is to support your local artists – whatever their art might be. Not everyone has an inspiring story like hers, but in the name of love, we all need a bit of encouragement, and we definitely all need a bit of art in our hearts.
(Different doors lead to different paths. In Yazd, all doors are beautiful.)