What Sin is This?

Includes themes of cultural and religious discordance.

I inherited my father’s gene of moral right and wrong along with his temper and mother’s gene of patience and compassion. I was an international observer on the panel for Human Rights for the United Nations and found myself racing to catch my flight from New York to Tehran, Iran with connecting flights from Germany and Istanbul.

I hurriedly stopped at the Duty-Free store in Berlin. The bright white display with neon lights showcased designer jewelry, watches, and perfumes wrapped in pink and silver foil. I went to purchase sunglasses as there were a few different colors; mustard, black and tortoiseshell. I opted to buy the tortoiseshell pair for $39.60 euros. I quickly got in the queue for the next available cashier. The first line was busy, so I went to the next lady who was on the phone. I let her know I was running late and I didn’t want to miss my flight. She pointed to the next cashier, then the next, everyone was busy. I finally found a woman who was open and she proceeded to check me out. I grabbed a box of chocolate Toblerone for $27 euros for my sweet tooth. She rang up my total for $666 for what should have been $66.60 and gave me the receipt.

“Mam this price is incorrect? You rang up the wrong total”

“I will need the 3-digit code on your credit card for your refund”

I handed her back the card. “Please I have a connecting flight, I am running late”

“Sir, I do not see the code on your card. I need the code to cancel your purchase or to issue you a credit or refund. Please get the tag from the display as it’s not on your item”

I was trying not to get upset and to control my temper as I felt my voice percolating. I took a deep breath as my blood pressure was rising. It was starting to become quite the scene

“This is totally unacceptable” I finally blasted out.

I walked back to the display to provide the tag without losing my place in line.

The tortoiseshell pair was the last one.

I shouted out “There are no more of these glasses on the display!” as the next person took my spot in line. “How incompetent can you be?”

I boarded the plane for the next two legs of the 8-hour flight with my Ray-Bans and my box of decadent chocolates.

Arriving in Tehran late that afternoon, our group was led through the narrow halls of security and their exhaustive bag checks. Handing over my passport, I had been warned about political retributions to our group as I was one of six westerners and ominously the only American.

“Mr. Perdono?”

“Yes”

“Is this your bag?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

“Under Sharia law, we do not allow alcohol or chocolate into our country”

“I did not bring alcohol…wait a minute, did you say chocolate?”

“Yes, the rest of your party may proceed and continue on. You are to be detained for further questioning and investigations”

“You do know I have diplomatic immunity, right? I am here on a UN peace mission!”

“Mr. Perdono, we are only following the edict and direction that have been established by the Mullahs under Sharia law. Your attempt to supersede our laws with your western ways hold absolutely no weight here”

“This is insane, for chocolate? I need to speak with your superiors. Immediately!”

“Mr. Perdono that will be enough! In mardra bah selol zandan bebar! (Take this man to the jail cell!)”

Glancing back at me, my colleagues appeared dumbfounded and helpless as they were escorted out of the airport. I was quickly separated and led away from my group by two security officers who spoke no English and put in an isolated jail cell. The iron bars were open to the air to the south-facing courtyard. The sweet smell of pomegranate and jasmine flowers were interrupted by the acrid smell of urine when the slight breeze went stagnant.

I was provided with a gray blanket that felt like a fiberglass asbestos blend for the hard concrete floor. A Persian rug it was not. Exhaustion set in as I hardly stirred to the sounds of men arguing and laughing. Hours went excruciatingly by as the night passed and the morning sun rose to the muezzin’s call to prayer blaring over the loudspeaker. I was brought some tepid morning breakfast tea and able to stretch my legs to walk to the western wall to relieve myself.

 “Where is my counsel? I want to speak to the authorities. This is my right as a diplomat!” I might as well have been speaking gibberish as my guards had a look of bewilderment on their affectless faces.

There appeared a cleric, silhouetted by the morning sun in his gown and white headwrap, giving an outdoor sermon on the top of wide outdoor steps three stories high. His jeremiad rantings sounded more like a tirade and tongue lashing than an exultation of moral pulpitry. It was not an altar but a stage.

I was made to face him and to stand in the courtyard for the next few hours in that one spot. A sort of long grueling physical and mental torture. I watched as old men and children were led in, after which what appeared to be an executioner. He was to take the finger, hand, arm or foot off the offending citizenry for whatever crime was to be announced by the cleric.

The executioner was to remove the fingers off five to six or so children. Too young to have done anything that warranted such an extreme sentence. One little curly auburn-haired little boy of 5 or 6 years old appeared younger than the rest. I was standing across the facade where wild grapes, climbing nightshade vines and wormwood plants grew thin and sickly with foliage crawling up the front of the buildings and entrances. The tall Damask Roses and Persian Ivy struggled to survive in the ditches, none of which looked healthy. It was now late afternoon; I was strengthless and squinted as the sun’s trajectory was now low and blinding.

The old men were to be executed, and the children were to be amputated of their fingers, for what crime or infraction of their father’s sin was unknown. It weighed heavily on me. My concern was for this one little boy with auburn hair and fair skin who seemed to be oblivious or accepting of his fate. His right hand was wrapped with bandages as he was playing with the other children. I noticed that some of the boys’ hands were also wrapped with bandages marking which hand was to be treated. I stood next to the executioner who was six foot tall, skinny and sweating wearing a dirty white T-shirt, hunched over at his workstation. He had stringy thin brown hair and was somewhat balding. A seemingly nice enough gentleman with a work-like disposition given his occupation.

I asked him, “I do not know why or what the little boy has done to deserve this punishment to have a finger removed. Why is he paying this price? What sin is this? If it must be so, can you just remove the tip and please let it be his left hand. Do you know if he is right or left-handed?”

I did not expect an answer as I didn’t think he understood English and I was quite taken aback when he said, “Why do you ask me what hand the finger must be removed from? What does it matter to you?”

“Because if he has to grip a sword, a bat or a club he will not be able to grab it tight without his last finger”

He looked at me without answering. I bowed my head knowingly as if we had come to some sort of gentlemen’s agreement. I resisted putting my hand on his shoulder of his sweaty dirty shirt to thank him for listening to my request. Justice tries to fix the system, but it is compassion that fixes the moment.

All of us stood outside on what had become a premonitory overcast day as the cleric’s voice boomed in Farsi over the loudspeaker. Resolved to eliminate his sibilance of white noise, I remembered Proverbs 16:24 “Kind words are like honey. They are sweet to the spirit and bring healing to the body”

I tried so hard to let go of my anger, then looked to my right to where the children were playing. The little auburn-haired boy was now sitting on the curb smiling and talking to another somewhat taller little boy. I imagined and fancied giving him a piece of chocolate. The bandage was in fact switched and was now on his left hand.