Iranian Love Quotes

Have patience. All things are difficult before they become easy.

And I saw it didn't matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.

If you will it, it's not a dream.

Throughout his job ordeal, my father never complained. He remained an Iranian who loved his native country but who also believed in American ideals. He only said how sad it was that people so easily hate an entire population simply because of the actions of a few. And what a waste it is to hate, he always said. What a waste.

And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.

Suppose That I'm Inevitable Suppose that I'm inevitable Even the veins of my right hand Cross you from the drafts. On my smooth nails The breeze Which is not from the sky Is curving you Either the veins of my right hand Is running short On my pulse. Rolled along my fingers Vanished Not repeated forever For the second. I'm a half Since the first. The veins of my neck cross you all. If the warmth of my ten fingers Seized on your torn pieces of breath All is over With the dead-end alleys all in oblivion. (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

The king was not marrying a princess; he was not giving in to the convention of arranged marriages between families of royal blood. No, he had fallen in love with a "little Iranian girl" and, as in fairy tails, he was going to follow his heart.

There are those who believe, at times too hastily, that Iran is at core a Western-loving nation that can hardly wait for America to save it from its own bloodthirsty leaders. And there are those who are convinced that Iran, by and large, is a nation of Allah-worshipping, gun-toting terrorists. In truth, Iranians themselves live in a far more complex and schizophrenic reality, at a surreal crossroads between political Islam and satellite television, massive national oil revenues and searing social inequalities.

I was afflicted with a familiar attack of discovering my own loneliness. From time to time I suffer this emotional attack, especially when I am happy, when I have succeeded at something, and on those rare occasions when I am pleased with myself. Immediately, a gentle and soothing sorrow engulfs my entire being.

James Buchan’s The Persian Bride combines a moving love story, a political thriller, and a history of modern Iran in a beautiful novel about the relationship of two people caught up in the Iranian revolution: John Pitt, a young man from England who arrives in Isfahan, Iran, in 1974, and seventeen-year-old Shirin, one of John’s students, whose father is a general in the shah’s army.

Like A Hanged Pitcher Like a hanged pitcher, No drink is pouring off me It's natural to get numbed gradually. Pig-headed seashells! This boasting sky, Is an anchor which has fallen on my lap This dizzy sky! The moon's been cleared A shadow's coming after me Barefooted on my dreams You used to run! Enjoyed?! Numb! All my veins are connected to this land... Like a hanged pitcher Joyful of this sky One day a huge whale swallowed it as a whole. And it was over! The Gulf was over! You waved hands. Like a hanged pitcher, It's simple! I lost the game And gambled away... (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN TO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

At the same time that he was devising a response to the Afghanistan incursion, Carter had to confront a much more acute crisis in Iran, where he had brought the greatest disaster of his presidency down upon himself. In November 1977, he welcomed the shah of Iran to the White House, and on New Year’s Eve in Tehran, raising his glass, he toasted the ruler. Though the shah was sustained in power by a vicious secret police force, Carter praised him as a champion of “the cause of human rights” who had earned “the admiration and love” of the Iranian people. Little more than a year later, his subjects, no longer willing to be governed by a monarch imposed on them by the CIA, drove the shah into exile. Critically ill, he sought medical treatment in the United States. Secretary of State Cyrus Vance warned that admitting him could have repercussions in Iran, and Carter hesitated. But under pressure from David Rockefeller, Henry Kissinger, and the head of the National Security Council, Zbigniew Brzezinski, he caved in. Shortly after the deposed shah entered the Mayo Clinic, three thousand Islamic militants stormed the US embassy compound in Tehran and seized more than fifty diplomats and soldiers. They paraded blindfolded US Marine guards, hands tied behind their backs, through the streets of Tehran while mobs chanted, “Death to Carter, Death to the Shah,” as they spat upon the American flag and burned effigies of the president—scenes recorded on camera that Americans found painful to witness.

திருமண கொட்டகை பெண் சிரித்துக்கொண்டே சொன்னாள்: இதை தூங்கு வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் என்ன, இந்த வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் தண்டு நான் என் விரலில் உட்கார்ந்திருந்தேன், இந்த வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் வெட்கப்படுதல் மற்றும் மிகவும் இனிமையானது என்ன? அந்த இளைஞன் மிகவும் ஆச்சரியப்பட்டு சொன்னான்: இந்த மோதிரம் அதிர்ஷ்டமானது, வாழ்க்கையின் வளையம். எல்லோரும் சொன்னார்கள்: வாழ்த்துக்கள் மற்றும் நன்றாக இருங்கள்! சிறுமி சொன்னாள்: ஆசை! விரலுக்கு இதுவே காரணம் என்று நான் இன்னும் சந்தேகிக்கிறேன். பல ஆண்டுகள் கடந்துவிட்டன, இன்னும் ஒரு இரவு ஒரு பெண் அவசரமாக ஒரு தங்க மோதிரத்தைக் கண்டாள் மற்றும் அவர்களின் அழகான வடிவமைப்பில் காணப்படுகிறது கணவரின் விசுவாசத்தின் நம்பிக்கையில் நம்பிக்கையை இழந்து, நாளுக்கு நாள் முற்றிலும் பாழடைந்தது அந்தப் பெண் அழுதார்: ஓ, இந்த மோதிரம் இன்னும் நிலையற்ற மற்றும் நிலையற்ற இது அடிமைத்தனமும் அடிமைத்தனமும் ஆகும்.

Then just when I thought I was going to really break down for a good cry, I remembered a large bag of pistachio nuts in the back of the pantry. I don't know what made me think of them. I had hidden them beneath several packages of dried pasta. Sam liked pistachio nuts. I bought them for a cake recipe I had seen in Gourmet. I stood up like a sleepwalker, my hands empty of sheets or shoes. I would take care of all this once the cake was in the oven. The recipe was from several months ago. I didn't remember which issue. I would find it. I would bake a cake. My father liked exotic things. On the rare occasions we went out to dinner together over the years, he always wanted us to go to some little Ethiopian restaurant down a back alley or he would say he had to have Mongolian food. He would like this cake. It was Iranian. There was a full tablespoon of cardamom sifted in with the flour, and I could imagine that it would make the cake taste nearly peppered, which would serve to balance out all the salt. I stood in the kitchen, reading the magazine while the sharp husks of the nuts bit into the pads of my fingers. I rolled the nut meat between my palms until the bright spring green of the pistachios shone in my hands, a fist full of emeralds. I would grind the nuts into powder without letting them turn to paste. I would butter the parchment paper and line the bottom of the pan. It was the steps, the clear and simple rules baking, that soothed me. My father would love this cake, and my mother would find this cake interesting, and Sam wouldn't be crazy about it but he'd be hungry and have a slice anyway. Maybe I could convince Camille it wasn't a cake at all. Maybe I could bring them all together, or at least that's what I dreamed about while I measured out the oil.

Mondays are for baklava, which she learned to make by watching her parents. Her mother said that a baklava-maker should have sensitive, supple hands, so she was in charge of opening and unpeeling the paper-thin layers of dough and placing them in a stack in the tray. Her father was in charge of pastry-brushing each layer of dough with a coat of drawn butter. It was systematic yet graceful: her mother carefully unpeeling each layer and placing them in the tray where Sirine's father painted them. It was important to move quickly so that the unbuttered layers didn't dry out and start to fall apart. This was one of the ways that Sirine learned how her parents loved each other- their concerted movements like a dance; they swam together through the round arcs of her mother's arms and her father's tender strokes. Sirine was proud when they let her paint a layer, prouder when she was able to pick up one of the translucent sheets and transport it to the tray- light as raw silk, fragile as a veil. On Tuesday morning, however, Sirine has overslept. She's late to work and won't have enough time to finish preparing the baklava before starting breakfast. She could skip a day of the desserts and serve the customers ice cream and figs or coconut cookies and butter cake from the Iranian Shusha Bakery two doors down. But the baklava is important- it cheers the students up. They close their eyes when they bite into its crackling layers, all lightness and scent of orange blossoms. And Sirine feels unsettled when she tries to begin breakfast without preparing the baklava first; she can't find her place in things. So finally she shoves the breakfast ingredients aside and pulls out the baklava tray with no idea of how she'll find the time to finish it, just thinking: sugar, cinnamon, chopped walnuts, clarified butter, filo dough....

Josephson had died just north of Abd al-Kuri Island, an uninhabited, mountainous desert with, on its eastern side, perhaps the world’s wildest and finest beach. To mollify Holworthy, in a moment of weakness not long after they had departed Lemonnier, Rensselaer had considered leaving a few SEALs there on the way south, to observe traffic, as on occasion irregular forces were ordered to do. But he had decided then that rather than mollify Holworthy, he would keep him down. The rendezvous point with the Puller wasn’t far, and, arriving first, Athena waited. The Puller was out of sight but in radio contact. Eventually they saw her to the west, and she came even with Athena at dusk, although in that latitude, as Josephson had learned, dusk is so short it hardly exists. With the lights of the Puller blazing despite wartime conditions, her vast superstructure, hollow and beamed like a box-girder bridge, was cast in flares and shadows. A brow was extended from a door in the side and fixed to Athena’s main deck. As a gentle swell moved the two ships up and down at different rates, the hinged brow tilted slightly one way and then another. The Iranian prisoners were escorted over the brow and to the brig in the Puller, which would take them very close to their own country, but then to the United States. They were bitter and depressed. The huge ship into the darkness of which they were swallowed seemed like an alien craft from another civilization, which, for them, it was. A gray metal coffin was carried to Athena by a detail from the Puller. This was a sad thing to see, sadder than struggle, sadder than blood. It disappeared below. Josephson’s body was placed inside it and the flag draped over it. Six of Athena’s crew in dress uniform carried it slowly to the brow and set it on deck. After a long silence, Rensselaer spoke a few words. “Our shipmates Speight and Josephson are no longer with us—Speight committed to the deep, lost except to God. And Josephson, who will go home. Neither of these men is unique in death. They are still very much like us, and we are like them: it’s only a matter of time—however long, however short. If upon gazing at this coffin you feel a gulf between you, the living, and him, one of the dead, remember that our fates are the same, and he isn’t as far from us as we may imagine. “At times like this I question our profession. I question the enterprise of war. And then I go on, as we shall, and as we must. In this spirit we bid goodbye to Ensign Josephson, to whom you might have been brothers, and I and the chiefs, perhaps, fathers. May God bless and keep him.” Then the captain read the 23rd Psalm, a salute was fired, and Josephson’s coffin was lifted to the shoulders of its bearers and slowly carried into the depths of the Puller. When he died, he was very young.

I will take care of everything," I whispered, as if words might be enough to lure him back. I promised him that I'd open an Iraqi pastry shop. I lied. "We will sell the vanilla cake with pomegranate sauce, the date truffles, the cardamom cookies, the sharkrlama." All the things he loved. Things we had served night after night at the restaurant.

Representing the apogee of human rights and humanitarian sentiments among post-war U.S. presidents, Carter also rebuffed Iranian demands for an apology from the U.S. for installing the Shah in power since 1953 and the subsequent decades of the S.A.V.A.K. torture that continued well into this ‘soft’ Democrat’s administration: ‘I don’t think we have anything to apologize for,’ assured Henry Kissinger. Ruminating about the United States of Amnesia, Carter’s principal White House aide for Iran throughout the crisis, Mr. Gary Sick, admitted that from the standpoint of U.S. policy-makers ‘anything that happened more than a quarter century before—even an event of singular importance—assumes the pale and distant appearance of ancient history. In Washington, by 1978, the events of 1953 had all the relevance of a pressed flower.’ Barely over a year before the Iranian people toppled this modernizing despot, Carter toasted the Shah’s Iran as ‘an island of stability,’ which he called a ‘great tribute to the respect, admiration and love of your people for you’. A defiant George H.W. Bush announced, after the U.S. shot down a large Iranian airliner filled with 290 civilians, ‘I will never apologize for the United States of America. I don’t care what the facts are.’25

The next day, Sunday, June 14, Ahmadinejad held a press conference in the office of the president, on Pasteur Street in south Tehran. In the large white room with its decorative varnished wood panels, I sat among the dozens of Iranian and foreign journalists, taking notes and concentrating on remaining professional, even as I felt the anger inside me growing. The newly reelected president spent the first part of the press conference boasting about his win. When reporters asked about allegations of vote rigging, he barely batted an eye: Mousavi supporters “are like a football team that has lost a game but keeps on insisting that it has won,” he said. He flashed a malicious smile and added, “You’ve lost. Why don’t you accept it?

The familiar song of a night-singing nightingale rises from somewhere in the garden. A nightingale that in this season of cold should not be in the garden, a nightingale that in a thousand verses of Iranian poetry, in the hours of darkness, for the love of a red rose and in sorrow of its separation from it, has forever sung and will forever sing.

Every writer has met with his words time and again. They have had frequent conversations. They have even flirted with each other. But there are those rare moments when the shadows and the naked bodies of the writer and the words, in one time frame of the story, in one setting of the story, are coupled. They become two lovers who have long known each other and who in their clandestine meetings have frequently concealed their longing for one another.

Although my work is to grapple with words, I have no words with which to describe and explain this feeling. Perhaps I write stories to show that in life there are moments, emotions, and events that cannot be explained with words.

Equally scandalized by this election are the colorful band of lipstick jihadi Hirsi Ali wannabes who are writing one erotic fantasy after another about Iranian “women,” oversexualizing Iranian politics as they opt for “love and danger” during their “honeymoon in Tehran.” The representation of Iranian women in the flea market of the US publishing industry began under President Bush with Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran and has now reached a new depth of depravity in Pardis Mahdavi’s Passionate Uprisings: Iran’s Sexual Revolution. Between a harem full of Lolitas and a bathhouse of nymphomaniacs is where Nafisi and Mahdavi have Iranian women, marching in despair, awaiting liberation by US marines and Israeli bombers. What a contrast to the real work of women, as testified to in this election, and now on the street in defense of the collective will of the nation.

I loved that the Iranians never quite did what you thought they were going to do, or even, what you wanted them to do. The whole damn place reeked of cheeky bad-boy charm, and to this, I was not immune.

We must be careful in our right and proper protests against the folly of nuclear stockpiling that we are protesting truly, that we are not being false prophets fearing only for our own selves, our own families, our own country. Our concern must be for everybody, for the Russians, the Chinese, the Iranians, for our entire fragile planet, and everybody on it. And for all of God’s creation, because we cannot blow ourselves up in isolation. Indeed, we must protest with loving concern for the entire universe.

Iranians love nothing more than an excuse to gather outdoors, preferably next to a body of water, be it a fountain, river, lake, or sea, with plenty of food, drink, and slices of kookoo--Iranian-style frittatas--nestled in warm pieces of bread.

So we improvised and made do, substituting where possible, always with an eye out for the postman and packages from Iran. Packages bursting with dried herbs and spices, well-traveled scents and secrets from home. Envelopes with a few perfunctory words from family (lest officials be monitoring them) and a photograph or two pulled from all the picture albums that were left behind. Substitutes for all the loved ones that were left behind.

The same day that Reagan gave his inaugural address, the Iranian government released the American hostages that had been held captive in Tehran for a total of 444 days. The group were flown to Algiers and returned to the United States, where they were given a hero’s welcome.

Another spring was upon the country. A time of jubilance, a time of joy. A new year, gifts, love, quiet streets and the only season Iranians get a little breathing room.

Parviz continued, “Do you even know why we refer to it as toman?” “No, never thought about it, why?” Hooman replied with as much spirit as his mask could muster. “Well, it’s from the Mongolian word tümen, which means ‘unit of ten thousand.’” He gritted his teeth, agitating Hooman more than hearing about his son getting caught and arrested. Money was his only real love. “That terror, Genghis Khan, still lives with us to this day.

A girl goes in with a white dress, and comes out in a white robe. This was the Iranian rendition of until death do us part; a girl goes in with a white wedding dress and leaves once she dies and is wrapped in a white drape when buried.

And so, with a slow sweep of the arm that remained forever etched in my memory, he took out a match, lit it, and tossed it onto the pile of books. With a quiet huff...ff...ff the flames rippled over the pages, catching first the old books with the brown paper whose smell I loved so much. I vividly remember how Danko's Burning Heart was engulfed in flames that then licked at Luce's skirt who, desperately trying to protect herself from the fire in pages of Romain Rolland's book, held Pierre tightly to her breast. I watched as the fire spread to the intertwined lovers Pierre and Natasha, Heathcliff and Cathrine Earnshaw, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, abelard and Heloise, Tristan and Isolde, Salaman and Absal, Vis and Ramin, Vamegh and Azra, Zohreh and Manuchehr, shirin and Farhad, Leyli and Majnun, Arthur and Gemma, the Rose and the Little Prince, before they had the chance to smell or kiss each other again, or whisper. "I love you" one last time.

then: if you have goals in life and want to avoid regret, time with loved ones is best measured in quality, not quantity.

Pāpa āmi ēkaṭā paramānandēra pāpa karēchi, ēmana ēka āliṅganē yā chila uṣṇa āra ābēgabharā. Bāhura ghērāṭōpē āmi pāpa karaluma tā chila tapta āra śaktimaẏa āra pratikarmēra phala. Andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē āmi ōra nigūṛha cōkhēra dikē tākāluma. Āmāra bukēra madhyē hr̥daẏa adhairyabhābē spandita hala ōra karaṇīẏa cōkhēra anurōdhē sāṛā diẏē. Ō'i andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē, āmi āluthālu ōra pāśē basaluma. Ōra ṭhōm̐ṭa āmāra ṭhōm̐ṭē kāmēcchā ugarē dilō, āmi āmāra uttējita hr̥daẏēra duḥkha kāṭiẏē uṭhaluma. Āmi ōra kānē bhālōbāsāra kāhini balaluma phisaphisa karē: Āmi tōmākē cā'i, hē āmāra jībana, āmi tōmākē cā'i, hē jībanadāẏī āślēṣa hē āmāra unmāda prēmika, tumi. Cāhidā ōra cōkha thēkē anurāgēra sphūliṅga chaṛiẏē dilō; pēẏālāẏa nācatē lāgalō lāla mada. Narama bichānāẏa, āmāra śarīra ōra bukē mātāla sphūraṇa gaṛē phēlalō. Āmi ēka paramānandēra pāpa karēchi, śiharita stambhita ākārēra naikaṭyē hē īśbara, kē'i bā jānē āmi ki karēchi ō'i andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē. Biẏēra bēṛi mēẏēṭi hāsala āra balala: Ē'i sōnāra āṅaṭira rahasya ki, ē'i āṅaṭira rahasya yā ēmana ēm̐ṭē basē gēchē āmāra āṅulē, ē'i āṅaṭira rahasya yā jhilamila karachē āra ētō dyūtimaẏa? Yubaka bēśa abāka hala āra balala: Ē'i āṅaṭi saubhāgyēra, jībanēra āṅaṭi. Sabā'i balala: Abhinandana āra bhālō thēkō! Mēẏēṭi balala: Hāẏa āmāra ēkhana'ō sandēha āchē āṅa Show more 1135/5000 पाप मैंने एक पाप किया है, एक तटबंध में जो गर्म और भावनात्मक था। मैंने बांह के आसपास के क्षेत्र में पाप किया है यह गर्म और मजबूत था और प्रतिरोध का परिणाम था अंधेरा और सन्नाटा पीछे छिप जाता है मैंने उसकी गुप्त आँख को देखा। हृदय मेरी छाती में अधीर कंपन कर रहा है उसकी आँखों के अनुरोध का जवाब। वह अंधेरी और खामोश छुपी, मैं अलुथलू के पास बैठ गया। उसके होंठों ने मुझे वासना से अभिभूत कर दिया, मैं अपने दिल की उदासी से अभिभूत हूं। मैंने उसके कान में प्यार की कहानी सुनाई और फुसफुसाया: मैं तुम्हें चाहता हूँ, हे मेरे जीवन, मैं आपको चाहता हूं, हे जीवन-रक्षा प्रसार हे मेरे पागल प्रेमी, तुम माँग उसकी आँखों से स्नेह की चिंगारी फैलाती है; कप में लाल शराब नाचने लगी शीतल बिस्तर, मेरा शरीर उन्होंने अपने सीने में एक उनींदापन विकसित किया। मैंने एक पाप के साथ पाप किया है, चकित आकार के झटके से रोमांचित हे भगवान, जो जानता है कि मैंने क्या किया है वह अंधेरा और मूक छेद

no secret that the Iranians would love nothing more than to topple what they believe is the corrupt westernized Saudi government and establish a Shia Caliphate across the region. Coupled with this is Russia’s backing of Iran and her involvement with the nation, both in aiding them with arms as well as in Iran’s quest for nuclear power. This leaves Israel as the one, lone democratic form of government in the area.

Mark had no love for Dubai. The place was like Disneyland. The tallest building in the world! An island resort shaped like a palm tree! A mall with a ski resort inside of it! But it was also true that Iranian and American spies were all over the city—the Iranians to keep an eye on antiregime activity and to protect the flow of black market goods going from Dubai to Iran,

At only nine in the morning the kitchen was already pregnant to its capacity, every crevice and countertop overtaken by Marjan's gourmet creations. Marinating vegetables ('torshis' of mango, eggplant, and the regular seven-spice variety), packed to the briny brims of five-gallon see-through canisters, sat on the kitchen island. Large blue bowls were filled with salads (angelica lentil, tomato, cucumber and mint, and Persian fried chicken), 'dolmeh,' and dips (cheese and walnut, yogurt and cucumber, baba ghanoush, and spicy hummus), which, along with feta, Stilton, and cheddar cheeses, were covered and stacked in the enormous glass-door refrigerator. Opposite the refrigerator stood the colossal brick bread oven. Baking away in its domed belly was the last of the 'sangak' bread loaves, three feet long and counting, rising in golden crests and graced with scatterings of poppy and nigella seed. The rest of the bread (paper-thin 'lavash,' crusty 'barbari,' slabs of 'sangak' as well as the usual white sliced loaf) was already covered with comforting cheesecloth to keep the freshness in. And simmering on the stove, under Marjan's loving orders, was a small pot of white onion soup (not to be mistaken for the French variety, for this version boasts dried fenugreek leaves and pomegranate paste), the last pot of red lentil soup, and a larger pot of 'abgusht.' An extravaganza of lamb, split peas, and potatoes, 'abgusht' always reminded Marjan of early spring nights in Iran, when the cherry blossoms still shivered with late frosts and the piping samovars helped wash down the saffron and dried lime aftertaste with strong, black Darjeeling tea.

In popular Islam as most Iranians know it, various female saints are deeply revered, and spiritual women are well respected. Their powers, however, seem to be personal, not institutional. Female leaders are seen as inspirational, but not authoritative. Male clerics are generally accepted as the definers of religion, but probably most people’s actual values and world views are more shaped by their mothers or grandmothers. ... As in popular religion almost everywhere, loving care, personal aspiration, and moral decency are usually better respected than institutional authority.

Like many Iranians in the diaspora, I was filled with hope and heartbreak as women and girls took to the streets after that incident because they had had enough. Enough of being controlled. Enough of being held down. Enough of having what they wore, what they said, and who they loved dictated by those who did not value their vibrancy, talents, skills, or dreams.