This is Leslie Powell Ahmadi: a Black American Christian woman who met and married a man from a Muslim family and lived several years with him and our two young children in Iran.
Every month or so, I enjoy bringing you information, an experience, an encounter, and/or a perspective related to Iran and its people. Something that may catch your attention. 

You may or may not know that I have also written a soon-to-be released memoir about my life and discoveries in Iran, called The Road Between Hearts: A Memoir of a Black American Woman Discovering Iran. Some of you will notice that the title has changed slightly since I last mentioned it … but more about that later. For now, let me share another preview of one of my earliest discoveries (since my last blogpost):                
 
MEET THE AHMADI SISTERS!
 
In the summer of 1989, Mahmoud—my husband of just one year at the time—took a break from his research at Ohio State to visit his parents, siblings, and the rest of his abundant family back in Iran after twelve long years of living in America!
 
Here is a photo of Mahmoud and his five sisters, shortly after they first laid eyes on each other:

When Mahmoud returned to Columbus two weeks later and showed me the photo, the joy that emanated from it was so sweet and palpable, I could almost eat it with a spoon! In order of their position from left to right, he pointed out each one to me proudly. (And one year later, when I went to Iran for my first-time visit, I would come to discover and love each sister and personality in her own right!)
   

• Zahra, the baby sister, exuded kindness and a glamor mystique while somehow managing to make mischief whenever the opportunity presented itself!

 
            (Later, she would paint a stunning replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s famous  
            painting, “The Last Supper,” and hung it as a centerpiece on her wall. Why?
            Because she loved da Vinci’s painting!
        

• Ozra, the eldest sister, tempered her no-nonsense demeanor and efficiency to match with a penchant for fun—and a hearty laugh!

 
(Later, she’s the one who would sometimes walk in and offer to scrub my back down while I was in the shower. And even though I’d politely decline, I appreciated the intention behind it … she knew how to get things done!)
 

•  Nadereh, the most lighthearted and energetic, had a heart for young children, baby animals, and sparkly trinkets she loved to collect!

 
(Later, she would ask me all kinds of questions about Mahmoud’s and my life in America and our early days of knowing each other. She also taught me how to frame my face fashionably with a scarf and drape it around my neck just so!)
 

• Badri, the second-born sister and the same age as me, was the most down to earth—a calm and comforting presence with a radiant smile.

 
(She’s the one who would later bring me sweetened mint tea she had brewed for me herself if she noticed me showing even the slightest signs of stomach pangs. She also sewed me a stunning crimson blouse of silk that I wore and wore till I wore it out!)
 

•  And Parvin—independent, free-spoken, and generous of heart—loved communing with nature and its magnificent treasures.

 
(One November, she would take it upon herself to cook a delicious turkey dinner with a “Persian touch” and invite me and all the families, after she learned about an American holiday known as “Thanksgiving.”)
                                                              ***
As you may have picked up from my various blogposts, my road to Iran began with Mahmoud, continued with his family, and extended beyond that!
 
That’s why the first part of my memoir’s title has changed from Road Between Two Hearts to The Road Between Hearts: a lot of hearts ended up on this road besides Mahmoud’s and mine! I hope you will join me in my next blogpost—when the day of the book’s release and other details will finally be announced! (By that time, I might also be able to invite you to explore my newly-designed website!)

Her parents” named her “Shazdeh”: the Persian word for “princess.” Baba called her “Khanum” (“Ma’am”), at least in the presence of others. I called her “Mamán,” same as her daughters did. She was one of four siblings and the younger of two sisters. Growing up in neighboring villages, she and Baba noticed each other when he was eight and she was seven—when one day, according to Baba, she hurled him a splendiferous smile in passing (she never denied it.) She married him at the age of fourteen in Baba’s village of Duzaj. Together they would raise a bevy of nine children (Mahmoud, my husband, was number three!)                                            
​
Baba was long and lean; Maman was soft and round. Baba moved quickly and decisively on foot or on horseback; Maman’s steps were slow and steady—flowing like molasses, chugging along, but getting things done with astonishing efficiency. Cracking fresh walnuts open with a hammer, chiseling blocks of sugar into knobby cubes, tenderizing choice cuts of meat in a pressure cooker, seeing to dinner for twenty people or many more. And on lazy weekdays when it was just Parisa (my daughter, her granddaughter) and I, she would peel us nectarines, or apricots, or cucumbers, or apples, or pears, or melons—then serve them before joining us on the carpet to eat.
 
Baba, a respected leader of the region, had a seasoned word for every occasion. Mamán hardly spoke at all in the twenty-one years I knew her. When she did speak, her words were few, understated, and matter-of-fact. If you didn’t know her, you might think she was being curt, dry, or indifferent with you. But then you’d see that light in her eyes or hear her deep-throated chuckle—and suddenly you’d understand everything differently.
 
Like one evening at the village in 1994, when family and guests were sitting down to an elaborate dinner—not uncommon for Mahmoud’s family. But after taking one glance at her lavish plate, three-year-old Parisa turned and told me in English that she wanted french fries for dinner instead.
 
Pouncing on her like a cat on a ball, I told her she would eat what was placed before her, (“or you may just have to eat nothing at all,” I added.)
 
My bad. Evidently, I had forgotten how I used to feel as a three-year-old youngster—when I was served liver and expected to eat it (!) It wouldn’t have mattered who had prepared it, or where in the world it had been prepared.
 
But Mamán evidently had not forgotten about the issues kids (and even other folks) can have around liver. So, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, she entered the scene with a tiny plate in her hands. On it was a Parisa-sized portion of homemade French fries that she had prepared (so I wouldn’t have to).
 
Then Mamán turned toward me, speaking quietly in Persian and a tender tone,
 
“Leslie Khanum, until they are seven years old, let the little ones have what they want. In time, they will learn what they need to learn. But for now, the most important thing that they need to learn is that they are loved.”
 
I looked into her eyes and all I could see was love—for me. She offered me the plate, I accepted it, and Parisa feasted on french fries that night!
 
How Mamán managed to appear at just the right time, while surrounded by a cloud of noisy people, and without her knowing a word of English, I’ll never know. How I wish I had spent more time getting to know her!
 
Even so, I knew just a few things about her:
 
·      She may not have liked to talk all that much, but she did love to dance—to Iranian music or Turkish music, waving a colorful scarf in each hand!
 
·      As the wife of a prominent regionwide leader who constantly entertained, she knew how to formulate, delegate, and orchestrate spectacular feasts for a large crowd of people.
 
·      She loved to be played with and teased by her children and grandchildren, who took great pleasure in making her laugh.
 
·      While I can’t recall a time when I saw her wearing lipstick, her eyes would always light up when I brought her a pretty shade from the USA.
 
·      As the matriarch of the Ahmadi household, she would bless our comings by burning incense and bless our goings by raising the holy Qur’an over our heads.
 
And (so I am told), she was sometimes spotted here and there, excelling at the art of flirting with Baba (as he did with her throughout the nearly seventy years of their marriage).

So, in honor of Valentine’s Day (the day in 2011 when my dear mother-in-law passed away), I would like to pay homage to Mamán too, for the multiple wonderful ways she loved her family, including me!
 
 I invite you to learn even more about Mamán, whom you can read about in my upcoming memoir, Road Between Two Hearts: A Black American Woman Discovers Iran (Please stand by for details about its release.) There you will learn how, ironically, this lady of very few words inspired the words of the title!
                                                                    ***
In addition to reading the post above, please (continue to) do the following:
 
Follow me on Instagram (note updated username: @leslie_powell_ahmadi), where you’ll find other snippets of my personal story, mostly on moving to and living in Iran from 1992-1996.  If you take interest in what you discover,
 
Also, in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I invite you to visit (or revisit) my website homepage. Signing up for my monthly newsletter will give you access to a pretty booklet of romantic Persian poetry, luscious recipes, and contemporary love songs that you’ll be able to print or view online, and possibly inspire you for Valentine’s Day! (Our daughter Parisa—now in her early thirties—designed it!).

​It was January of 1990 in a snowy Columbus, Ohio, when Mahmoud called me over to join him on the phone—where he’d been chattering and laughing in Persian for the past twenty minutes. As I entered the sitting room, he handed me the telephone receiver and encouraged me with his eyes to follow suit.
 
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, a string of his relatives (siblings, aunts & uncles, nieces & nephews, Baba & Maman, cousins, and so on) were gathered around the telephone at my in-laws’ house in the Iranian village called Duzaj—each person waiting their turn to greet me and wish me a happy New Year. It felt odd for us to be so far apart; just six weeks earlier, Mahmoud and had still been submerged in my two-week introductory trip to Iran, where all our hearts had begun to meld. I was actually part of an Iranian family! But now we were back in the USA.
 
Unsure of my level of Persian, I nonetheless accepted the telephone, took a silent breath, and set off the chain of conversations with a single word: “Allo?”
       
One by one, most of them started the conversation with me in the same way—with the same cheery voices, congratulatory words, and a gentle reintroduction: “Salam, Leslie Khanum! Saleh no mobarak!  (Zahra) hastam” [i.e., “Hello, Ms. Leslie! A blessed New Year! I am (_____.)”]                          
 
There was one greeter, however, who forgot to identify himself to me. Or maybe he was confident that I would recognize his voice (even though I did not). So, hesitant and slightly embarrassed, I asked the gentleman his name.
 
Without missing a beat, the voice answered back in Persian. “I am Firooz!” he said cheerfully in a confident tone. He sounded so sure that I knew who he was, I guessed that I was the one at fault if I didn’t. So, I decided to play along and not plead ignorance.
 
“Firooz!” I responded in a cheerful voice too—but upped a notch. “I am happy to hear from you! How is your wife?”
 
Fortunately for me, he had a wife, apparently. “Thank you! She is very well.”
 
Our jovial exchange continued for another minute or so, almost as if it were a game. We fell into a tidy pattern of my starting each conversation topic by stating his name (I liked the sound of “Firooz,” somehow), then asking him a question, then his answering each question as if it had made sense—even if perhaps it hadn’t. I realized that with the last question I asked him.
 
“So, Firooz … where do you live? Where is your house?” I was hungry for any clue, any detail that would help me place him.
 
Again, his answer was cheerful, plain, and straightforward, “My house is here.”
 
“You live in the village, Firooz? But where in the village?
 
“I live right here in this house, Leslie Khanum,” he said. I could hear a gleeful smile overtaking his voice. A voice that was starting to sound familiar.
 
“‘This’ house, you say … So, by ‘this house,’ do you mean the house you are talking from? But isn’t that the house of …wait a minute—” I turned to Mahmoud and looked him straight in the eye. “Who is this person on the telephone, Baby? It couldn’t … or could it be … BABA? (I had never called him or known him as anything else). And does his first name happen to be … ‘Firooz’?
 
Mahmoud said nothing, but his eyes were full of delight.
 
“Bale (Yes), Leslie Khanum,” the voice on the other line answered in Persian, then finished the sentence in limited English and a strong Iranian accent, “My name is Firooz Ahmadi. I am ‘BABA!’
 
I could still hear the smile in his voice, but I was horrified. So, it really was the case that I’d been talking with my father-in-law without knowing it—and all the while calling him by his first name, which was totally inappropriate culturally?
 
Throughout his life and career, Firooz Ahmadi had been called and acknowledged by many names:

• Aqaye Firooz Khan (“Mr. Lord Firooz”) as chief magistrate under the feudal lord when the village and surrounding villages were still being managed under the feudal system
• Firooz Khan (“Lord Firooz”) as referred to by colleagues in local communities who knew and respected him
• Firooz Aqa (“Mr.” or “Sir” Firooz) as referred to by friends and local acquaintances
• Aqaye Ahmadi (“Mr. Ahmadi”) as referred to respectfully by surrounding neighbors, as well as by his beloved wife
• Aqa (“Sir”) as addressed respectfully by his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

 
But no one had ever presumed to call him “Firooz” or “Baba”—not even his own children! That is, no one except for me, Firooz Khan’s foreign American daughter-in-law! Despite my best efforts, it was one of the many cultural snafus I was guilty of committing when I lived in Iran in the early 90s. But I’m so glad my calling him “Baba” was allowed to stick.
 
Of course, I never called Baba “Firooz” again. But I wonder what mischief possessed my father-in-law to introduce himself as “Firooz” to me on that memorable day. I suppose that just like his son Mahmoud, he could be as mischievous and playful as he could be eloquent and noble.
 
Come to know him and the other members of my family better as revealed in my upcoming memoir Road Between Two Hearts: A Black American Bride Discovers Iran. The final details and publication date are soon to be announced!

This is my Iranian family from the 1990s (well, it’s at least some of them…roughly fifteen percent of some 160 family members, if you count my husband Mahmoud’s parents, his parents’ parents, his parents’ siblings with all their spouses and children, and his own eight siblings with their spouses and children. At the time of this photo, I had reached my fortieth birthday, and Mahmoud (who took the photo) had reached his forty-third.

The picture was taken January 1995—about four months after our son Nikiar (“Niki”) was born. Although he is the youngest person pictured above (on his mother’s lap), he celebrated his thirtieth birthday this year in September!)
 
Oh, and as I hinted--I’m in the photo as well (I bet you can spot me if you really try!) It was a season when my hair was “big” and the color of coal (instead of “little” and the color of snow, like now!) A time when whatever color my hair was on a given day (yes, I let my mother and sisters-in-law try out a few shades on me, for the sheer fun of it), people stuck around to get to know the “me” inside—and, lucky for me, they cared enough to keep coming back for more!

                                                             ***

In my upcoming memoir (Road Between Two Hearts: A Black American Woman Discovers Iran), scheduled to be released spring of 2025, readers (which I hope will include you!) will pick up a little about nearly every person in the photo above—and what they taught me about Iranian culture and customs, dynamics of American/Iranian relations, the hazards and rewards that come with crossing cultures when living in Iran, the gifts and surprises that can come from interfaith dialogue, and their special brand of cross-cultural love, family style!
 
For example, you’ll read about:

• A time or two someone behind me tugged at my headscarf till I was scarf-less (like in the photo above)—and the reason behind the tug!
• What our daughter Parisa did at one year old when she saw her Iranian grandmother in Iran for the very first time--and what her grandmother had to say about it. (Hint: her words inspired the book’s title!)  
• How, when Nikiar our son was born two years later, my mother-in-law (who never went to college) introduced and ultimately proved a genetics principle to me without actually trying (and taught me a lesson in humility in the process).
• Where I discovered a portrait of Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, laughing amicably together—and its significance to the owner.  

Finally: if you’re a longtime reader of my newsletter or blog, I may have already introduced you to three young girls from the photo above in an earlier post—except that when you first saw them, they were in an online interview—and almost thirty years older than as pictured in the photo! All three of them—each one now a beautiful grown woman—are nieces to Mahmoud and me and include the following:

• Roxareh (the girl in the above photo sitting next to our daughter Parisa and wearing a red dress), who proudly presented a charming introductory overview of Iran  (on YouTube, embedded in my June blogpost from 2022.)

 

• Ghazaleh (the girl in orange with her face propped in her hands), who explained her life in Iran, how her parents raised her, and the impact her upbringing has had on her life (on YouTube, embedded in my August blogpost from 2022.)

 

• Ghazal (the small girl sitting beside her grandfather [Mahmoud’s father] at the back and center of the photograph), a scholar and artist who presents and interprets for us her favorite original abstract painting (again on YouTube, embedded in my November blogpost from 2022.)

In short: if today’s post sounds like I am getting excited, it’s because I am excited! I am eager to share my story with you—a story I never expected to be able to tell! So, in my first post for 2025, I will share more details about the progress of the book and when it will become available in the new year!
 
In the meantime, wishing people of all traditions a meaningful holiday season and a happy new year in 2025!
 
All best,                                                               
Leslie
                                                                                      
--Leslie Powell Ahmadi

​(or, How One Develops a New Set of Eyes)
 
As I announced in last month’s newsletter, my first book is scheduled for publication in 2025! Its title? Road Between Two Hearts: A Black American Bride Discovers Iran.
 
The story? It’s about me, a Black American Christian woman too ashamed to admit I am terrified to start a new life with my husband in his homeland: post-revolutionary Iran (1992-1996). The rest is what happens when I deny my true feelings, leave Columbus, Ohio, and follow him anyway.
 
So, it’s a memoir, a love story, a cross-cultural analysis, and a self-reflection—all rolled into one!

Finally, Road Between Two Hearts is about how I developed a new pair of eyes toward the country, the culture, and the people of Iran. Just as a pitch black room at night gradually becomes easier to see as our eyes adjust, and just as an intricate painting, a complex movie, or the subtle range of colors along a mountainside become more distinguishable with each subsequent view, so my eyes perceived Iran differently over time.
 
Maybe that’s why when I was writing my story, I imagined telling it to fellow non-Iranians like perhaps many of you—most who have not had the opportunity to experience Iran and its people firsthand like I did. And while your reading my story as seen through my eyes may not lead you to the same impressions as mine, I hope it will at least leave you with new perspectives to ponder.  
 
Years before I met Mahmoud or knew I would fall in love with him, marry him, and start a new life with him in Iran, my sister Sylvia happened to share a favorite quotation of hers: “The real voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” (Marcel Proust). Little did I know how deeply relevant its message would become in my life, or how often its wisdom would challenge and enlighten me.
 
I hope you will follow me on my authoring journey—from now till my memoir is a published book! I can’t wait to share it with you; that’s why I wrote it! Please stay tuned for updates as they develop!
 
--Leslie

Today, dear Readers, I offer you something a little different. It’s a happy message, short and sweet (although not necessarily soft and sweet; you’ll know what I mean once you hear it!)

​I hope you will take a moment to listen!

Thank you, Readers, for listening as well as reading! And please stay tuned to future blogposts for additional details regarding this message!

My very best,
​Leslie Powell Ahmadi

This year for my birthday, Mahmoud surprised and delighted me with the living, breathing gift of a cockatiel—something akin to a small parrot sporting a proud crest on its head plus an attitude to match, and colored in shades and shocks of yellow, gray, orange, and white. Torn between naming him “Charlie” (for the “regular guy” character he was) or “Mango” (for his plump, mango-shaped body and sweet blush of mango color on each cheek), we knitted the two names together and started calling him “Chango”—the name that stuck.

But when Chango came to his new home and his feisty little whistle soon dwindled to a sullen silence, we impulsively returned to the pet store and bought him what we thought he needed: an avian companion in the form of a zebra-striped blue parakeet with a neon-white circle on the crown of his head. Miniature in size compared to his towering new roommate, he was nonetheless curious, persistent, even insistent about keeping watch over Chango as if he were the bigger one—a doting, nurturing caretaker! Wherever Chango would go, so would his self-appointed little sidekick—often sidling up close, invading Chango’s “personal space,” imitating Chango’s cockatiel gurgles and mumbles, and otherwise getting into Chango’s business. It wasn’t long before he had aptly earned the name “Snoopy.”

Suffice it to say, the two didn’t start off on the best of terms—so much so that we decided to buy little Snoopy his own separate living space to keep him safe from Chango’s lunges. But, wouldn’t you know, when we walked in on them with the new cage in hand, we witnessed a most unexpected scene: a moment of Snoopy and Chango interfacing as friends! Not only that—but that moment marked the beginning of a flourishing bond between them—one that endures to this day! They have even chosen to remain together in the same living space!

Take a peek at the “before” and “after” scenes of their interpersonal interactions:

“Baba”—that is one of the first words I learned in my Persian class at Ohio State after marrying my Iranian husband Mahmoud. The word is the equivalent of “Daddy” in Persian. And that’s what I came to call my father-in-law when we moved to Iran in 1992 (In a similar vein, I came to call my mother-in-law Maman too). You would think I’d have noticed that Mahmoud and his siblings addressed their father as Aqa (“Sir”), as was common practice for children to do in Iran at the time, but no, I did not! And no one ever corrected me—including Baba—so, happily for me, the name Baba stuck! (Of course, while Baba never took the place of my father, it was such a comfort to have a father figure like him to look up to while in Iran.)
​
And just as I called him “Baba,” so I treated him as would a very young child who looks up to her daddy with simplicity and trust—asking him anything and everything that came to mind in my very basic Persian. I asked him to explain lessons to be learned from different figures loved and revered by Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike-- figures like Abraham, Moses, Joseph. I asked him if it was really true that in Islam men were permitted to have more than one wife. I even asked him what he thought would happen at death to a person like me who loved God but was Christian rather than Muslim. His candid answers usually surprised, often amused, and consistently delighted me. Part of the reason is that with every response I always saw love, acceptance, and often a fun-loving spirit in his eyes. And I couldn’t help but recognize my husband’s deep-ridged smile and shining eyes in his father’s.  
 
In these deeply troubled and troubling times, how I wish Baba could be here to answer my questions, to share his heart, his wisdom, his example. He is no longer with us. And yet…
 
…I still remember the day I asked Baba what he thought was the secret to our two countries (i.e., Iran and America) getting along, given the ongoing history of tension between our two governments. I can still hear the thoughtful pause before his answer, then his slightly crackly voice, then his simple words resonating:
 
“Ms. Leslie, the secret to our two countries getting along … is for them to truly want it.”
 
Wow. Such a simple answer. And yet rife with profound challenges and implications. Not just for Iran and America, but for so many parties throughout the whole world. Like between countries at war, between spouses or among other family members, between people of different faiths—even in the relationship between God and me. My dear Baba—he showed us how it worked.
 
As the American saying goes, “The proof was in the pudding.” Little did I know then that  “Baba,” (whom everyone outside the family called Firooz Khan [“Sir Firooz”]), was famous across multiple surrounding regions for the kindness and wisdom he shared with those who sought it—how he was frequently asked to be an arbitrator when differences between parties seemed irreconcilable. He had a gift—and heart—for helping others understand the benefits inherent to people getting along with each other … and the unlocking power behind truly wanting it.
 
Baba, I miss you! We could truly use your example and wisdom now in the world.

​And finally:
 
SALE NO MOBARAK!

A happy Persian New Year to everyone who celebrates it!                                          

PS For those who would like a brief explanation of the meaning behind the haft sin symbols:
 
It’s not hard to see how the green sprouts of sabzeh would tie in with the theme of the “new life” of spring. And in keeping with long-held Iranian tradition, at least six other items (all beginning with the “s” sound) should grace a household table with their symbolic presence:

• Samanu: a wheat germ pudding, standing for affluence
• Senjed: a dried fruit called oleaster, standing for love
• Sir: garlic, which stands for medicinal power
• Sib: the apple, standing for beauty and health
• Somaq: sumac, which stands for fertility, and
• Serkeh, vinegar, which stands for increased grace and patience with age

 
There’s a whole array of additional options that could make for an even fancier table: a polished mirror, shiny coins, brightly-colored eggs like you might see at Easter, goldfish swimming in a bowl. But between you and me, my favorite item will always be sabzeh, (like the sprouts Zari [pictured above] gifted me with as a centerpiece for the table, and like the shoots we used to plant in our milk cartons when I was in second grade!)