Gulnisa delicately caresses the small green tray containing mung beans with her fingers, showing immense care and patience, as if she’s taming nature itself with her touch. “Planting greens for Nowruz has been a cherished tradition in our family, along with preparing the Haft Seen, coloring eggs, and cooking Sabzi Polo for generations,” she explains. “Around fifteen days before Nowruz, we soak the grains, usually wheat or mung beans, in small trays designated for greens. Throughout the day, we place the trays outside to soak up the sunlight, bringing them indoors at night to shield them from the cold. By the time Nowruz arrives, the greens flourish into tall, vibrant plants. However, this year, due to the overcast and rainy weather, their growth has been stunted, as they’ve received less sunlight than usual.”
Gulnisa, a twenty-six-year-old teacher, holds Nowruz and the onset of spring in high esteem. For her, Nowruz symbolizes both a cherished family tradition and the promise of new beginnings. “I’ve always endeavored to portray Nowruz as a vibrant and joyous celebration to my friends, colleagues, and students,” she explains. “I tell them that Nowruz brings mercy and hope. However, I’ve come to realize that not everyone shares this perception of Nowruz.”
Gulnisa vividly remembers the first encounter with harsh criticism regarding Nowruz. “In the Solar Hijri year 1400, before the regime changed, one of my students handed me a leaflet on one of the last days of the year,” she recounts. “They asked me to read it aloud for the class. The leaflet, written in small, barely legible handwriting, declared celebrating Nowruz as forbidden, claiming it to be against religion.” Additionally, Gulnisa’s colleagues ridicule her for recalling the precise moment of the New Year’s transition.
To Gulnisa, the mockery, reproach, and resistance surrounding Nowruz hold no power, for in her eyes, Nowruz emerges triumphant from the icy grasp of winter, heralding a time of renewal and growth for all living things. Gulnisa fondly reminisces about the vibrant spirit of Nowruz amidst the bleak winter nights of her childhood. “During those wintry evenings,” she recalls, “my father would kindle a fire with great care, tending to each flame with the precision of an artisan. He knew the wood, the dark silhouette of the skewer, and its shovel intimately. I would stand beside him, mesmerized by his skill. As the crackling of oak logs grew louder and their warmth enveloped my face, I would drift into a tranquil reverie. In the glow of the fire, there was no room for distant or unattainable thoughts. The fire’s warmth became our companion on those chilly nights, allowing us to bask in my dear father’s captivating stories and shorten the length of those long, dark hours. Tales of Aunt Kampirak and Mullah Mamadjan, along with the enchanting verses of Hafez, such as ‘From the beloved’s alley, the breeze of Nowruz comes/ If you seek help from this breeze, your heart’s lamp will illuminate,’ and ‘The morning breeze will scatter musk/ The world will become young again,’ filled me with the essence of spring and anticipation for the arrival of Nowruz. Nowruz marks the onset of the most jubilant seasons, infusing nature with excitement and joy, casting off the cold and weariness that linger on the earth’s bed.”
Gulnisa finds it challenging and disheartening to comprehend why others fail to perceive Nowruz as a cherished tradition and personal preference. Yet, she clings to hope, yearning to witness the invigorating spirit of Nowruz brightening everyone’s countenance. Amidst these somber days, devoid of Nowruz festivities, she dreams of traversing distant, verdant plains, longing for someone to proclaim, “This spring belongs to you.”