<p>When my husband was sent to Iran, on a civil-engineering assignment for his company, we looked forward to our stay in that country. Our one concern<br />was that church attendance might not be possible. </p>.<p>There were cathedrals in Tehran, but we would be living in Ahvaz, the capital of Khuzestan province, in the southwest of Iran. In 1986, the Iran-Iraq war was raging, and we were uncomfortably close to the border. </p>.<p>The power plant, which my husband was engaged in constructing, was a regular target of air-raids. When we were home, if the warning siren sounded, our neighbours would quickly escort us to shelters. In our city, funeral processions were a daily, depressing sight. As flag-draped coffins went past, the defiant chants of the pallbearers mingled with the wailing of onlookers. </p>.<p>Steeped in the struggle for survival, we wondered how we would ever meet those of our faith. We were delighted when my husband’s Muslim colleagues were kind enough to introduce us to a group of Iranian Christians.</p>.<p>Every Friday (the weekly holiday) we assembled for worship at a small building, where we were warmly welcomed by the pastor and his wife. </p>.<p>Like everyone else, we followed the rules. I wore a ‘monto’ (long light coat) over my usual attire and a ‘rusary’ (headscarf). Men and women sat apart. This was new to my husband and me, although it was, and still is, the custom at several churches in India.</p>.<p>A young man with a long name, who smilingly told us to call him Johnny, was in charge of the music. He wrote hymns and led the singing, as he played the guitar. While Johnny’s sombre Good Friday compositions were difficult to grasp, we picked up his Farsi translation of the well-known lyric, ‘If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.’ </p>.<p>Early on March 30 (before people left for work that Sunday morning) we listened to the scriptural account of the first Easter; all the more beautiful, somehow, in an unfamiliar language. We marveled at the courage of the congregation. Many of them had lost loved ones in the ongoing conflict, but, clad though they were in traditional mourning black, their faces shone with joy.</p>.<p>They knew — better than most — that the one thing certain in life is death. They held fast, however, to the hope that the end was a new beginning: the age-old promise of Easter!</p>
<p>When my husband was sent to Iran, on a civil-engineering assignment for his company, we looked forward to our stay in that country. Our one concern<br />was that church attendance might not be possible. </p>.<p>There were cathedrals in Tehran, but we would be living in Ahvaz, the capital of Khuzestan province, in the southwest of Iran. In 1986, the Iran-Iraq war was raging, and we were uncomfortably close to the border. </p>.<p>The power plant, which my husband was engaged in constructing, was a regular target of air-raids. When we were home, if the warning siren sounded, our neighbours would quickly escort us to shelters. In our city, funeral processions were a daily, depressing sight. As flag-draped coffins went past, the defiant chants of the pallbearers mingled with the wailing of onlookers. </p>.<p>Steeped in the struggle for survival, we wondered how we would ever meet those of our faith. We were delighted when my husband’s Muslim colleagues were kind enough to introduce us to a group of Iranian Christians.</p>.<p>Every Friday (the weekly holiday) we assembled for worship at a small building, where we were warmly welcomed by the pastor and his wife. </p>.<p>Like everyone else, we followed the rules. I wore a ‘monto’ (long light coat) over my usual attire and a ‘rusary’ (headscarf). Men and women sat apart. This was new to my husband and me, although it was, and still is, the custom at several churches in India.</p>.<p>A young man with a long name, who smilingly told us to call him Johnny, was in charge of the music. He wrote hymns and led the singing, as he played the guitar. While Johnny’s sombre Good Friday compositions were difficult to grasp, we picked up his Farsi translation of the well-known lyric, ‘If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.’ </p>.<p>Early on March 30 (before people left for work that Sunday morning) we listened to the scriptural account of the first Easter; all the more beautiful, somehow, in an unfamiliar language. We marveled at the courage of the congregation. Many of them had lost loved ones in the ongoing conflict, but, clad though they were in traditional mourning black, their faces shone with joy.</p>.<p>They knew — better than most — that the one thing certain in life is death. They held fast, however, to the hope that the end was a new beginning: the age-old promise of Easter!</p>