Jadd's Pear Tree

Just outside Eṣfahān, Iran - 2004 to 2006

grandfather جـد Jadd

Khina Mirzaie sat back against the 40-foot tree, her eyes closed, humming her favourite song. Droplets of sweat provoked by the midday sun were eagerly absorbed by her black hijab. This was the blueprint for most of Khina’s life. She waited all year until the towering tree began to bear the fruit it was intended to.

Her callused and work worn hands caressed her growing belly. She felt something kick. Her smile widened.

The tree was planted by her jadd, Shamil, years before she was born. In 1931, he dug a small hole for a young pear tree, purchased from a local farmer, in hopes of one day running the most fertile and profitable orchard in all of Iran. Now, years after his passing, he would be proud to see his family making a living off of his dream. With over 5 acres of trees and 270 trees per acre, the Mirzaie descendants were able to live comfortably on their land.

The entire orchard was run solely by the Mirzaies. With patriarch, Payam, calling the shots. Payam was a sincere and benevolent man with olive skin and well-defined laugh lines that demonstrated his often facetious disposition. His wife, Nousha, a plain yet charismatic woman, would spend her days pruning everything from saplings to 40-foot trees — just like the one Khina often found herself reclining beneath. This took up most of her time, so it was up to the couple’s children to collect the ripened fruits. In the off-season, they could also be found with their own pairs of sheers, helping Nousha clip the many overgrown branches and rogue leaves.

Aside from Khina, there were seven other children. Four brothers: Payam II, Bijan, Faridoon, and Sher. Then three sisters: Parvaneh, Morvarid, and Zohreh. When picking season arrived, all eight of them would be on their feet twelve hours a day, filling large tubs with fresh produce.

During peak season, the family offered villagers the opportunity to stop by, pay a small fee, and pick their own bell-shaped fruit. For those who couldn’t afford the luxury, Payam would always make special exceptions, using his favourite quote from the Quran as rationale: “A man is not a believer who fills his stomach while his neighbour is hungry.”

One of such people was a boy named Behnam. He and his own father lived alone, just down the block from the Mirzaie family. The young man was only a couple of years older than Khina, and the two of them would spend as much time together as possible, under the watchful eye of Payam, of course. Even with his easygoing attitude Payam, like most other Iranian parents, was not keen on the idea of his children dating, but he did have a soft spot for Behnam, and Khina knew this.

It took a few years, but two summers after Behnam met Khina, he went to Payam and expressed his desire to one day marry the man’s eldest daughter. At first, Payam was apprehensive, but he knew that Behnam was not only a man of honour, but a man who would show the utmost kindness to his daughter.

Shortly after Khina’s 17th birthday, Behnam asked Khina to marry him. The proposal differed from Iranian tradition, in that the two families were already familiar with each other and got along swimmingly. They were able to skip tea and sweets and moved immediately on to a gift exchange. Payam thought the best way to show his deep affection for the boy was to offer him a job at the orchard.

This was something he never did. It was strictly family-run, and inviting Behnam to work with them was an offering of great distinction. In return, the Mirzaie family was gifted a beautiful handwritten Quran from the 19th century. It was their only prized possession, and Behnam and his father knew its importance would be acknowledged by the Mirzaies.

Nousha was adamant that, since there was no official marriage proposal ceremony, they have a memorable bale borān. In Iranian culture, this is a function at the bride-to-be’s home where they discuss final wedding agreements and, of course, conditions of said marriage.

This time, Behnam and his father came bearing the most beautiful gold ring the Mirzaie family had ever seen. Behnam explained that he had spent all of his savings on the wedding band and that he was determined to be the perfect husband for Khina. Both parties were delighted, and the other guests agreed that it was, indeed, very charming. Khina’s extended family was unsure of the boy at first, due to his current inability to provide financially, but it was clear he would be willing to put in the work.

After several more traditional ceremonies over the weeks that followed, Khina and Behnam were married. It took convincing, but Khina eventually persuaded her family to let them hold the wedding beneath her grandfather’s pear tree.

“It will bring good fortune,” she had attested. “Jadd planted this tree with hopes for a promising future. That is what I want for my marriage. A good future.”

Payam knew that she was right. That was the reason his father had planted the pear tree. It had grown into something bigger, both physically and spiritually, than any of them. It had allowed him to raise his children, provide for his wife, and sustain his community. He wanted that for Khina and Behnam.

So they were married under the pear tree.