People of Astaneh

People of Astaneh

Mid 1350s, (1970s)
From left, sitting: Haj Abbas (deceased), Mohamad Mehrbani (teacher), Haj Akbari (deceased), Haj Ahmad Abedi (deceased).
From Left Standing: Panahbarkhoda Shafie (retired teacher), Haj Shams Ebrahimi (deceased), Shamsollah Moghadari (deceased)

Families who have lived in Astaneh (*) since or prior to 1340 (1961). If there are families who have lived in Astaneh since or prior to 1340 (1961), and their name does not appear in this list please send us an e-mail with their names and other information to: info@astaneh.com

A-D	F-K	M-N	P-Z
Abbasi Abdi Abedi Abdollahi abolhassani Afshar Agha Mohamadi Ahmadi Akbari Ali-Asghari Alisavareh Allah Yari Amiri Asadi Asghari (H) Ashtari Askari Astaneh Ataei Azimi Azizi Azizsoltani (P) Bahari Bahrami Bakhshali (farjampour) Bakhshi Barati (B) Bayat Beigi Bojari Darabi Dargham Darvishi Dehghan Dehghani Ebrahimi Esfandiari (P) Esmaeili	Fadaei Fakhari Faraji Fereidouni Ghadimi Ghafouri Ghasemi Gholami (B) Ghorbani Golmohamadi (H) Hajgoli Hajian Hamedi Hamidi (H) Harooei Hashemi Hassani Hatami Heidari Hosseini (H) Jadidi Jafari Jatootan Javani Kamyab Karima Karimi Karkhaneh Kaveh Khajeh bashi Khalili Khan Mohamadi (H) Khodadadi Khodami Khorshidi Khosh alhan Kord Ali	Mahmoudi Majidi Maleki Manshouri Mansouri (P)(R) Mashhadi Mehrbani (R) Mehri Mirala Mirhaji (P) Mirmohamadi (P) Mirsafi Mirzaei (P) Modaressi Moghadari Moghadasi Mohamadi Mohamad Shahi Mohseni Mokhtari Moradi Nabavi Naderi Nassiri Naziri Nemati Niazi (R) Nikouei (H)	Parchami Rafiei Rajabi (H) Ramezi Rezaei Rostampour Saberi Sadeghi Safdari Sahraii Salami Salehi Samimi (P) Sayyadi (R) Shafiei Shafighi Shahbazi (P) Shahvaladi Sharifi Sheikhi Shekari Shirazi Soleimani Taheri Talaei Talebi Teimouri Vaziri Yar Mohamadi Yousefi Zamani

(*) This list includes Mahaleh Sofla (Paein (P)), Ghaleh Ahamid (Hajia(H)), Ghaleh Baleman (B), and Ghaleh Abbasabad (Roudkhaneh (R))

	Ostad Ebrahim
	Mr. Azimi, one of the first teachers in Astaneh's elementary school, Ebn-e Sina. I (Assad Shafie) was his student in 1340, and I have great memories of those days. He is a wonderful teacher as well as a great man. We salute him and we wish him the best.
	Winter of 1353 (1974), From left: Karim Saberi (Retired airforce officer), Abbas Saberi.
	Who is he? He beautifies our town.

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An icon of Astaneh

Yadollah Chell (the crazy Yadollah)

When the last of the yellow and burning red leaves fell off the trees, and the hills got brown and burnt looking, and the brooks started to look cold and non-inviting, and the bumble bees sounded so out of breath, and the sun looked so pale and lifeless, you knew it was that time of the year again, when Yaddolah would get ready to head for a warmer place.

He used to come to our town, right after the Iranian New Year (Norouz), in late March or very early April, and would stay until the first frost came, in late October or early November.

He was a man of great stature in his fifties with graying hair. He wore a moustache that covered his upper lip. His face always looked like as if he had shaved sometimes within the past week. His eyes were always restless and filled with tears, even when he was smiling.

Around the main square of our town, there were a teahouse, a few small shops of some sort, a fruit stand, a bicycle repairing place and a butcher shop. Most of the time the merchants would gather in front of the teahouse, drink tea, smoke, and chat. He was always one of the bunch sitting and puffing on his cigarettes in his absolute silence, gazing deep into the far away places, beyond the open fields and mountains. He would very seldom say a word.

Our town was located at the end of a road about 25 miles from the provincial capital, in the Western part of Iran, surrounded by mountains. Everyone in our town knew everyone else. He was the only outsider in the entire town. He was the only person we knew nothing about.

There were 4 buses, which came to our town every day, the morning bus, noon bus, the afternoon bus and the extra bus, which would arrive in our town in the late afternoon. They would all come to the main square and stop in front of the teahouse. As soon as a bus stopped he would be sitting on his usual spot, on a chair, silently watching people, and automatically helping anyone that needed a hand. He would help old people out of the bus, carry people’s luggage out of the way, or simply watch them with great affection.

At night he would sleep in the teahouse. It was as if that was his home. He would help the owner with little things such as cleaning, making tea or washing the cups and saucers. I don’t think he got paid for that, but he always seemed to have money. Some people in town feeling sorry for him would give him money or a pack of cigarettes from time to time, but in private. He was a proud man and would not accept hand outs from just anyone.

When he would drift away from the main square, and be walking aimlessly in the other parts of our small town, the ragged kids would follow him and throw rocks at him. He would simply dodge the rocks while covering his face and would calmly get himself out of the situation, and back to the main square, without a single word or complain.

In months of mourning he would always be present with his unshaven face and his sad eyes. He would be walking alongside the crowd, with his head slightly bowed to one side and tears rolling down on his face, in silence. His sorrow for some reason seemed much deeper than anybody else’s in that crowd. It was as if he was carrying a sorrow much bigger than any ordinary man could ever handle.

No one knew who he was and where he had come from. No one knew where he went to in winter either. There were only speculations, and rumors of all sorts. But none where more credible than others. Some people thought that he was an outlaw, fleeing from the authorities. But it never crossed anyone’s mind to report him. People had accepted him as a member of our community.

He spoke so little to be able to figure out from his accent, where he could be from. He showed no real skills in anything, to show what he could have been. His hands were not the hands of farmers or laborers though.

He would stand the worst verbal abuse by some not-so-nice people of the town, and would not make a single sound or gesture. Even the expression on his face would not change, as if he was above and beyond all that abuse. There was an air of nobility about him. He was not as little of a man as those who tried to belittle him. I could only notice that his eyes would get waterier than usual. He would slowly move away and disappear in the darkness of the teahouse.

If there was a wedding, he would be there helping out. If someone fell he would rush to help him up on his feet. He would attend every funeral. He was everyone’s relative, a relative who simply kept to himself, and wasn’t bothered for not being invited to any event. When there was "ta’zieh", he would be sitting there and weeping silently. The expression of his face looked, more like a baby than a big man. He looked as innocent as a saint.

Nevertheless, he was the icon of our town. When he would leave for the winter, I for one would feel his absence. He would not be out of my mind till he would be back again in early spring. I thought he was lucky that he didn’t have to put up with our town’s nightmarish winters, with snow and howling cold wind. I was sure that he was in a warmer place. But I was equally sure that he loved our town so much, and felt comfortable enough to return as soon as the snow melted and the cold was gone.

Unlike his departure in late fall, which would be a reminder of a long, dark and treacherous cold winter fast approaching, his return was a pleasant reminder of spring season, the season of blossoms, honeybees, and red and yellow fields of wild flowers. The season of walking along the riverbank watching the muddy water roar like a mad giant awaken from a thousand-year sleep, The season of downpours and gentle breeze, the sweet season of loving.

He would get off the bus one day and before you know it the whole town would be aware that Yadollh was back. He would look pretty much the same, and would seem happy to be back. He would exchange an eye contact and a very faint smile with everyone, as if he had seen his relatives. That was his way of showing his affection for everyone. I always thought that he was a man with the biggest heart that contained the greatest sorrow any person can ever endure.

In summers he would sit on a chair under the willow trees, in front of the teahouse, with his eyes closed. He looked like a baby, his face peaceful and serene, with no sign of those restless and wet eyes.

Some people thought that he was an outlaw, fleeing from the authorities. But no one ever tried to report him. We didn’t have police in our town. We had no sign of authorities. They would only come from the next town if there were robberies or things of that nature, which were so rare in our town to begin with. People had accepted him as a part of our community.

But that year he returned late. It was unusual. He always was back before the big picnic of the "Sizdeh Bedar". He was always there before mountain almonds blossomed. He was there way before poppies covered the hills around the town, and for sure before the wheat and alfalfa fields were to my knees. The town square sure looked empty without him.

Finally he came back one day. He looked very pale, and not as stout as he had always looked. He was grayer than ever. He moved much slower and needed to sit and rest frequently. He was still as silent as ever, but his eyes had lost the twinkle, and looked sadder than ever.

That summer he was not the same old Yadollah. He didn’t have the spirit to help people either. He would just sit in front of the teahouse and stare into the space. I knew that the mighty sorrow has finally broken the back of my hero. He had given up on everything.

That year when the frost came, and the cold wind started to blow, unlike other years he didn’t leave our town. He would bundle up in a long old military coat and sit in front of the teahouse, in the pale sun. He would not make any eye contact with anyone any more.

It broke my heart to see him like that. Every time I thought about him, tears would fill my eyes. I thought about the days when he was a kid. His parents and siblings must have loved him then. But where were they now? Did any of them know he was so sad and lonely?

He stayed for a few more weeks. Snow blizzards hit our town day after day. The normal harsh winter had finally arrived.

Finally one day he boarded the morning bus and left our town. The next spring he didn’t come back. Mountain almonds blossomed. Red, yellow and purple flowers, which cover the hills came and went. The wheat fields turned golden. The muddy riverbank shrunk. The hot summer came and went. But there was no sign of Yadollah.

He didn’t come back that year and years after that. He just became another vague page in the history of our town, an untold story, like so many others. He was no more and the town-square forever remained empty and lonely.

The willow tree is still there, so are the teahouse the butcher shop, the fruit stand and the bicycle shop. New people live here now. New kids play around the town-square. Very few people recall him or I.

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