Stoned

Kiaras Gharabaghi

STONE: A hard, solid non-metallic mineral; a small piece of stone found on the ground; verb: throw stones at in order to injure or kill.

Strolling along in one of those leftover green spaces commonly found in new suburbs, amongst the handful of trees lucky enough to have escaped the destructive might of the bulldozer, I came across a boy, no more than 14 years old, looking kind of preppy and all alone. It was a sunny morning, perhaps 10 am in late May, when one might expect a boy like this to be in school. He was startled by my sudden appearance, looked momentarily the other way, perhaps wishing I was anywhere but in this space at that particular moment. Amidst the freshness of the just re-emerging leaves and some wild flowers, I smelled something else. It was an aroma reminding me of my own youth, wild parties with friends, my social scene when I was navigating the turbulence that is adolescence. Preferably from the Caribbean, but acceptable from some parts of the United States, I clearly picked up the scent of grass “not the kind good men living in clean suburbs might mow on a Sunday morning.

I am not usually considered to be a “prudish” kind of a person, and I have no particular objection to adolescents enhancing their social experiences with what I would consider fairly benign substances. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how this boy found himself all alone in the morning getting stoned. As I looked at him, I saw that his posture was slumped, and his eyes exuded sadness and a sort of dull expression. We stared at each other rather awkwardly, not really sure what to say. It occurred to me that in this situation, this chance encounter, I was considerably better equipped to break the silence than him; after all, he was only a young teenager, stoned, and clearly not where he was supposed to be.

I opened with a simple “hi”, and given the lack of response, followed it up with “how is your day going”? I realized that was probably not a great question, but I had already asked it, so I gave him the opportunity to respond. To my surprise, he did in fact respond, albeit with a quiet mutter that sounded like “fine”. “It seems a little early to be smoking that” I said, quickly cursing myself for being so intrusive so quickly. Since he didn’t respond, I thought it was time to stop asking questions. I sat down next to him on a fallen tree, played with some sticks, and after a while, said “I remember having days when things just didn’t seem right”. No response. “Never really knew how to get through them”. Still no response. “Do you go to school over there”? I asked, pointing to a nearby school. “Yeah”. “You got friends there”? “Of course”. “Sometimes I used to bag off school, but usually my friends came along” I said staring off into another direction. “Just don’t want to sit through religion class”, he quickly muttered. “I’m going back as soon as the bell rings”. I looked at him closely. His grass must have been local, because now he barely seemed stoned. “Sure everything is ok?”,I queried. “Yeah man, thanks for asking”. I could have sworn he smiled at me, and suddenly he didn’t look lonely anymore.

Shortly after, the bell rang, and true to his word, the boy ran off toward the school. I continued on my stroll, wondering whether there was anything else I should have done or said. I remembered that I had skipped religion class for an entire grade; I think it was grade 5. Then again, I lived in Iran at the time, a revolution was on its way, and religion was to mean something quite different for years to come.

* * *

By all accounts, Farideh was a sweet young woman, barely an adult at the tender age of 18. She had grown up in Teheran, where she never knew a life without a moral police. She had been a good girl, following the directions of her parents for the most part, and staying away from “immoral” activity. Until she met some other girls, all from better economic means, and all with a basic understanding of western values and culture. This led her down a path of immorality, as defined by the religious authorities in Iran. She started attending social gatherings, a national euphemism for wild parties. Along with the parties came alcohol, and along with that alcohol came sex.

When I first heard this story, it didn’t really occur to me that the ending would be different than it commonly is for young women that age. In fact, “discovering” parties at age 18 is usually a good sign. Most of the girls I have worked with in various Canadian social service settings had discovered parties, including alcohol and sex, much earlier in life. The majority faced some adversity as a result, but most pulled through and entered adulthood all the wiser for it. Those who didn’t live complicated lives, but they do live, sometimes well and sometimes not so well.

Farideh was not as fortunate. One of the social gatherings was reported to the moral police. They came, quietly and well armed, and caught Farideh in the act. She was dragged to the police station, and notwithstanding the pleas and financial offers of her parents, she was charged with moral crimes and sentenced to death.

Contrary to some reports, stonings are very uncommon in Iran, but they do happen, usually to women. And every time they happen, along with the horrifying death suffered by the victim, a little of our humanity disappears as the pleas for mercy go unheeded.

* * *

Jacquie is quite the young woman. Enrolled in college in the child and youth worker program, she is eager to convince me that I should let her do her placement in the residential treatment program where I first met her “as a client.

Jacquie has a history of sexual abuse, and when I had met her about five years earlier, she was sniffing glue, cutting regularly, and she never ever took off her bright yellow jacket. After several tumultuous weeks in the program, during which she suffered many a consequence for various misbehaviours, I asked Jacquie where her favourite place in the world was. “Lake Ontario”, she answered without hesitation. It was breakfast time, and as usual she wasn’t eating much in front of her peers. As the manager of the program, I usually tried hard not get in the way of my staff, all of whom, without exception, were exceptional child and youth workers. But Jacquie had caught my attention. She was the kind of youth who drives everybody crazy, but at the same time, she was by far the most helpful, giving, and sensitive youth in our program at that time. Her behaviour was hard to take sometimes, but she had that magnetic quality that for some kids is the foundation of their resilience.

–Lake Ontario”, I repeated pretending to be deeply in thought. “What a coincidence, I was just about to hop in the car, drive to Lake Ontario, and grab some breakfast while looking out on the water. I don’t suppose you want to come along”?

I didn’t have to wait for the response. Seeing that she was already wearing her jacket, she was at my car before I could take another sip from my coffee. “Well let’s go” she yelled, mocking me for being so slow. With the protests of the other kids behind me, I jumped in my car, and together we drove off to her favourite place, about a half hour from the centre. Since that day, Lake Ontario ranks pretty high on my list of favourite places too. We had the kind of day that every child and youth worker cherishes, strolling along the beach, talking about this and that, and having ice cream to the point of stomach cramps. We also talked about how she was feeling, the challenges of having a good day when living in residential care, what was good and what sucked. Before getting back in the car to drive “home”, I picked up a stone and gave it to her. “A little souvenir”, I said, “for you to remember a wonderful day”.

I had just finished explaining to Jacquie why doing her placement at our Centre might not be the greatest idea, at least not for a first placement. She acknowledged my reasoning, clearly not agreeing entirely, but accepting the verdict. Then she pulled out a stone and showed it to me. “Remember”? she asked. “I just did”, I said, referring in part to the stone and in part to why I love being a child and youth worker.