Chaharshanbe Suri: The night our neighbours thought we’d lost the plot

I do wonder what our neighbours make of us sometimes. We’re a fairly ordinary family, at least by our own standards. We have a young son, a back garden and the usual domestic craziness. Nothing strange there, until you happen to glance out of your kitchen window and discover the family next door jumping over three fires while chanting in Persian one evening of the year.

That’s what we’ve been doing this evening, 16 March 2021, while the rest of Britain is still living under Covid-19 restrictions. H, my Persian husband, has decided that a global pandemic is no reason to abandon Chaharshanbe Suri, the ancient Persian fire festival celebrated just before Nowruz. With public gatherings off the agenda, he’s brought the festivities into our back garden, much to Cyrus’s delight and, I suspect, the bewilderment of anyone watching from next door.

I can only imagine the conversation taking place behind the curtains. Perhaps someone is washing the dinner dishes when they notice H carefully arranging three small piles of wood in the garden. A barbecue, perhaps? Then the fires are lit, the chanting begins and the family starts leaping over the flames. I wouldn’t blame anyone for putting down their tea and calling their partner over for a second opinion.

After a year of lockdowns, we’re all finding increasingly creative ways to entertain ourselves. We’ve baked banana bread and watched far too much Netflix. H, meanwhile, has decided that the best way to welcome spring is to set fire to three small piles of wood and encourage his British wife to jump over them.

I rather hope somebody next door is muttering, “You won’t believe what they’re doing next door.”

We happily burn a stuffed Guy Fawkes every November, but three little Persian bonfires in a back garden might have the neighbours wondering whether they ought to call someone.

Before anyone starts questioning the sanity of a Persian family jumping over fires in their garden, I think we British ought to take a good look at ourselves. Every November, we gather around enormous bonfires, stick a stuffed replica of Guy Fawkes on top and watch it burn while children wave sparklers and adults stand around eating hot dogs. Throw in a few fireworks, a Catherine wheel that refuses to spin and somebody complaining about the noise, and you’ve got yourself a thoroughly respectable British family evening.

Yet let a Persian family light three small fires and jump over them while chanting about health and happiness, and suddenly I can imagine the neighbours wondering whether they ought to call the fire brigade. I’ve always found that rather funny. The British have spent centuries commemorating a failed attempt to blow up Parliament by burning an effigy of one of the conspirators. The Persians, meanwhile, jump over fires to symbolically leave behind illness, weakness and the troubles of the previous year.

Admittedly, modern Chaharshanbe Suri celebrations can involve fireworks and firecrackers, so I won’t pretend the Persians are entirely innocent when it comes to making an almighty racket. But why should we British assume our customs are any more sensible? Both traditions involve fire, cold evenings, excited children and adults making decisions that deserve a second thought.

The only real difference is that we’re used to one and not the other. We’ve seen Guy Fawkes perched on top of bonfires since childhood, so we barely question it. H grew up celebrating Chaharshanbe Suri, so jumping over flames is as familiar to him as fireworks are to me.

Personally, I think the British have the easier job. On Bonfire Night, I can stand at a respectable distance with a hot drink and watch somebody else deal with the flames. At Persian New Year, I’m expected to jump over them while remembering a sentence in Farsi. Neither activity is flattering in the cold, but at least the British version doesn’t need me to demonstrate my questionable athletic coordination.

Chaharshanbe Suri takes place on the eve of the last Wednesday before Nowruz, the Persian New Year. It’s a centuries-old tradition associated with fire, renewal and the arrival of spring. Families traditionally gather around small fires and jump over them while chanting “Sorkhi-ye to az man, zardi-ye man az to.”

The words roughly translate as “Let your redness be mine, my paleness yours.” The redness represents the fire’s warmth, health and vitality, while the paleness symbolises illness, weakness and misfortune. By jumping over the flames, you’re symbolically giving away the bad and taking back the good.

It’s a lovely idea after a year of lockdowns, uncertainty and endless government announcements. Who wouldn’t want to hand over their worries and start again with a bit more energy? If only getting rid of life’s problems were as straightforward as jumping over a small fire, I’d be out there every Friday evening.

Of course, none of this is immediately obvious to our neighbours. Unless they happen to speak Farsi, all they can hear is the family next door shouting something incomprehensible while leaping over burning wood. I can imagine them wondering whether we’re celebrating something, protesting about something or attempting to contact someone from another dimension. In fairness, if I hadn’t married H, I might be wondering the same thing.

“Let your redness be mine, my paleness yours.” A wish to exchange illness and misfortune for warmth, health and vitality.

With public celebrations out of the question, H has arranged three small piles of wood in the garden with the sort of concentration usually reserved for assembling flat-pack furniture without instructions. Cyrus watches with interest, while I’m wondering whether our neighbours are about to witness something that will keep them entertained for the rest of lockdown.

H is delighted with his handiwork. He lights the fires, explains what we’re supposed to do and begins chanting “Sorkhi-ye to az man, zardi-ye man az to!” with the confidence of someone who’s been doing this since childhood. Cyrus is fascinated, and I’m trying to work out whether I have enough room to jump without landing in the flames.

I can almost hear the imaginary conversation taking place next door. One neighbour glances out of the window and asks what’s happening. The other takes a look, sees three fires and a family hopping about while shouting in Persian, and decides that it’s best not to get involved. Given the restrictions we’re all living under, I suspect an unexpected garden fire festival is the last thing anyone expects to see.

H, of course, is completely in his element. To him, this is a perfectly normal part of preparing for Nowruz. He’s grown up with these traditions, and the fact that we’re living in Newcastle and not Iran isn’t going to stop him passing them on to Cyrus. Meanwhile, I’m trying to embrace my husband’s culture while keeping one eye on the garden fence, half expecting a concerned neighbour to appear and ask whether everything is all right.

H can recite “Sorkhi-ye to az man, zardi-ye man az to” without giving it a second thought. He’s been saying it since childhood. I, on the other hand, am still trying to remember which bit comes first. By the time I’ve got the words in the right order, I’ve either forgotten half the chant or become distracted by the possibility of setting fire to my jeans.

Remembering a sentence in Farsi while jumping over a bonfire takes a level of multitasking I just don’t possess. I can manage the words when I’m standing still, and I can probably manage a jump when I’m not thinking about anything else. Ask me to do both at once, however, and the whole thing becomes rather less convincing.

So there I am, muttering something vaguely Persian, watching where I put my feet and hoping I won’t emerge on the other side with blackened jeans. H makes it look effortless, Cyrus thinks it’s brilliant, and I’m wondering whether the neighbours are watching me. If the whole point is to leave behind the previous year’s troubles, I’m not keen to begin the new one with a trip to A&E.

Explaining Chaharshanbe Suri to a British child presents a few challenges, especially when he’s spent his life being taught that fire is something you keep well away from. At school, children learn about fire safety, practise fire drills and are told never to play with matches. Quite rightly, too. Yet here is Daddy explaining that, on this evening, jumping over fire is OK because it’s part of a family celebration.

I can imagine how a British primary school might approach the subject. There would be a risk assessment, a parental consent form and probably a letter home explaining that the flames would be made from red, orange and yellow tissue paper. The children would take turns stepping over a cardboard bonfire while a teacher explained the cultural significance from a carefully prepared lesson plan.

And while I appreciate the importance of keeping children safe, a pretend fire made from tissue paper isn’t quite the same thing, is it? Try explaining that to a Persian husband who grew up celebrating the real thing.

I can picture H volunteering to demonstrate Chaharshanbe Suri at Cyrus’s school. He’d enthusiastically explain the symbolism, ask where the fires were going and probably look rather disappointed when someone produced a cardboard box covered in crepe paper. Meanwhile, the headteacher would be searching for the relevant safeguarding policy.

I sometimes think raising a British-Persian child takes a degree in explaining cultural exceptions. One minute you’re telling Cyrus never to play with fire, and the next you’re explaining why Daddy is celebrating the arrival of spring by jumping over it. H sees a familiar childhood tradition, while I see three little bonfires and every school fire-safety lesson I’ve ever heard running through my head.

Of course, open flames are dangerous, and there are good reasons for strict safety rules where children are concerned. But I also understand why H wants Cyrus to know about the traditions he grew up with. There’s a difference between reading about your heritage and experiencing the atmosphere of a family celebration, even when some parts need to be adapted for safety.

I do wonder what Cyrus will tell his teachers when he returns to school. Children have a wonderful habit of reporting family activities without providing the background information that might make them sound remotely sensible. I can just imagine him announcing that we’ve spent an evening jumping over fires in the garden, before adding that Mummy was taking photographs.

I suspect that would prompt a rather interesting telephone call home. I can picture myself trying to explain that no, we haven’t abandoned all common sense during lockdown. We’re celebrating a centuries-old Persian tradition, and H is teaching Cyrus about his cultural heritage. Although I appreciate that the phrase “we were teaching him about his heritage by jumping over bonfires” probably won’t help matters.

Still, I like the idea that Cyrus has these experiences to talk about. He’s growing up in Britain, but his childhood includes traditions that many of his classmates might never have encountered. He knows about Christmas, Halloween and Bonfire Night, but he also knows that Persian families have their own ways of celebrating the changing seasons.

I hope that, as he gets older, he’ll appreciate having both. Although I wouldn’t blame his teachers for requesting a little advance notice before our next cultural celebration.

There’s also the small matter of celebrating an ancient Persian fire festival in Newcastle. In Iran, the arrival of spring brings associations with renewal and warmer days. In the North East of England, March can mean standing in the garden wearing three layers and wondering whether your fingers have stopped working.

Nothing quite says “welcome, spring” like a British woman shivering beside a bonfire while her Persian husband enthusiastically explains the spiritual significance of renewal. If the fire is supposed to give me its warmth, I wouldn’t mind it starting with my frozen feet.

H, of course, is perfectly happy. He’s keeping a family tradition alive, and a little British weather isn’t going to stop him. I suspect that after growing up with Persian celebrations, he finds the idea of abandoning one because it’s a bit chilly amusing. Personally, I’m beginning to think the neighbours have the right idea. At least they can watch our antics from the comfort of their centrally heated homes.

And here’s something else I find rather amusing about our neighbours. During lockdown, Britain has discovered the joys of standing on the doorstep banging saucepan lids with wooden spoons. Every Thursday evening during last year’s Clap for Our Carers campaign, people emerged from their houses to applaud the NHS and key workers. Some clapped politely, others cheered, and a few enthusiastic neighbours attacked their kitchen utensils as though they were auditioning for a band.

It was a lovely gesture of appreciation, of course, and one that brought communities together during a frightening time. But I couldn’t help smiling at the idea that banging pots and pans outside the house was somehow a wonderfully British lockdown invention. The Persians have been doing their own version for centuries.

As part of Chaharshanbe Suri, there’s a tradition called Ghashogh Zani, which involves children disguising themselves, visiting homes and tapping spoons against bowls to announce their arrival. In return, they traditionally receive nuts, dried fruit or sweets. But there’s more to the banging than making a noise and hoping somebody hands over a few pistachios.

The noise is traditionally associated with driving away evil spirits and bad luck, making way for health and good fortune in the coming year. It’s part of the wider celebration of renewal and the arrival of spring, and there’s something appealing about the idea of making enough noise to send the previous year’s misfortunes packing. After the past twelve months, I imagine most of us would be willing to give that a go.

The British were banging their saucepans to thank the NHS, while the Persians have long used their own noisy traditions to welcome a healthier year. Different reasons, same kitchen equipment. I can just imagine our neighbours standing proudly on their doorsteps, saucepan lids in hand, thinking they were doing something so original. Meanwhile, H could have leaned over the garden fence and pointed out that the Persians had been doing this for hundreds of years.

Of course, the two traditions don’t have the same origins or meaning. One was a public expression of gratitude to healthcare workers, while the other belongs to Persian cultural tradition. But the similarities in the kitchenware department are difficult to ignore when you’re married to someone who has grown up with the Persian version.

If I’m being perfectly truthful, I think the Persian children got the better deal. So here we are, the supposedly eccentric family next door, jumping over fires and chanting in Persian, while the rest of the street has spent part of lockdown enthusiastically banging cookware outside their front doors. And somehow we’re the strange ones.

Although I do wonder what the neighbours would say if Cyrus appeared on their doorstep with a bowl and spoon, expecting a handful of pistachios. They’d probably give him a round of applause.

The funny thing is, I sometimes wonder whether our neighbours might actually enjoy themselves if we explained what we’re doing. After all, the British don’t need much encouragement to gather around a bonfire, particularly if there’s food involved. I can imagine H enthusiastically explaining the symbolism while everyone nods politely, before someone eventually asks whether there are any sausages.

There probably wouldn’t be, but there would be Persian hospitality. One of the traditional foods associated with Chaharshanbe Suri is Ajil-e Chaharshanbe Suri, a mixture of nuts and dried fruits. There are also regional traditions involving hearty soups, including noodle-based dishes such as ash-e-reshte, which are welcome when the weather is cold.

Perhaps that’s how we should introduce Chaharshanbe Suri to the neighbourhood when restrictions allow. A little less chanting over the garden fence, a few more plates of food and an explanation that we aren’t attempting to summon anything. Although knowing H, he’ll want everyone to learn the words before they’re allowed a cup of tea.

For all the humour, there is something genuinely lovely about watching H share his Persian traditions with Cyrus. Our son is growing up with two cultures, and sometimes those cultures make for a rather interesting combination. He’s as familiar with British celebrations as any other child his age, but he also knows that the arrival of spring can involve Persian food, family gatherings and, apparently, his parents jumping over bonfires in the garden.

I also want Cyrus to know that there’s nothing wrong with being a little different from the people around you. Although perhaps we could give the neighbours some warning next time.

I still have no idea what our neighbours think of our Chaharshanbe Suri celebrations. Perhaps they think lockdown has finally pushed us over the edge, or they’ve accepted that the Persian family next door does things a little differently. Whatever they’re thinking, we’re only trying to welcome spring, get rid of the previous year’s misfortunes and pass a little Persian culture on to Cyrus.

It’s hardly a grand celebration. There are no crowds, no organised festivities and certainly no fireworks display. Just three little fires, a family and a tradition that’s travelled thousands of miles from Iran to a back garden in Newcastle.

And if the neighbours think we’re a strange bunch, I’d respectfully remind them that every November, the British gather around bonfires to watch a stuffed man go up in flames. During lockdown, they’ve also been perfectly happy to stand on their doorsteps banging saucepans with wooden spoons. At least our peculiar behaviour comes with a few thousand years of Persian tradition behind it.

And if Chaharshanbe Suri really can help us leave behind the troubles of the past year, I think we could all do with a bit of that right now. After twelve months of Covid-19, restrictions and uncertainty, I’m quite happy to wish for better health and happier days, even if it means making a spectacle of myself in the garden. Although I still hope nobody has filmed me trying to remember the chant.

Fire-jumping is a traditional part of Chaharshanbe Suri, but open flames can cause serious burns and injuries. Children should never jump over fires unsupervised. Families can celebrate the symbolism through safer alternatives, including lights, storytelling and supervised community events.

Have you ever celebrated a family tradition that left your neighbours wondering what on earth was going on? Or are you raising children between two cultures and finding that the differences make family life all the more entertaining? I’d love to hear your stories, particularly if they involve confused neighbours, unusual customs or a husband with rather ambitious ideas about what constitutes a quiet evening at home.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.