Zoroastrians use Internet dating to rescue religion

[canadian]

Source: Pittsburgh Post Gazette

Zoroastrians use Internet dating to rescue religion
Monday, February 06, 2006

By Peter Wonacott, The Wall Street Journal


MUMBAI, India -- After trying for four years to have a baby, Khorshed Bulsara called on her fellow Zoroastrians for help. She tapped into a new fertility clinic whose mission is to save one of the world's oldest religions.

Her doctor waved off concerns that Parsis, as Zoroastrians are known in India, may suffer fertility problems linked to generations of inbreeding within a tiny and highly insular community. She put Ms. Bulsara through a battery of tests, prescribed fertility drugs and began an expensive program of in vitro fertilization.

To defray costs, a local Parsi organization and anonymous Parsi donors gave the couple about $2,500.

The investment paid off. In September, Ms. Bulsara delivered Parsi triplets. "There is a way to fulfill one's dream of having a beautiful family through the wonders of technology and the undoubted power of prayers," said her husband, Khushro Bulsara.

There are fewer than 200,000 Zoroastrians in the world, experts say. Most are in India and Iran, the religion's birthplace. The numbers are clearly dwindling in India. According to the 2001 census -- the latest figures available -- India's Parsi population had fallen to 69,601 from 76,382 a decade earlier.

To replenish their ranks, followers of the Iranian prophet Zoroaster, who is thought to have lived about 3,500 years ago, are extolling not just the modern benefits of fertility clinics but also those of Internet dating.

The high-technology push to connect and reproduce Parsis comes as education and work opportunities pull a younger generation into the global work force, delaying love, marriage and children. Like other ethnic groups, Parsis in India are trying to adapt to a changing world without changing too much themselves.

"I am totally in favor of using the best technology available to bring our boys and girls together," says Khojeste P. Mistree, a Zoroastrian scholar here in the former Bombay who has two children in the U.S. -- a son at Ohio State University and a daughter at Georgia Institute of Technology. "We are trying to preserve a religion and a people," he says.

For many Parsis, the aim also is to marry someone who shares the same culture and is familiar with the religion.

The Zoroastrian faith centers on a supreme God who presides over seven creations: the sky, waters, earth, plants, cattle, man and fire. Among these creations, fire -- a source of light and life's energy -- occupies a central role in the religion. It burns inside Zoroastrian temples as a focal point of worship. Man's spiritual aim is to preserve these creations. (Thus in death, the Zoroastrian's body is placed in a "Tower of Silence," or stone amphitheater, and devoured by flesh-eating birds. The ritual seeks to avoid sullying sacred fire with cremation or the earth with burial).

How Zoroastrians dispose of their dead is outlined in religious texts and even mentioned about 2,500 years ago by the Greek historian Herodotus, according to the Zoroastrian scholar Mr. Mistree. Zoroastrians believe exposure to the sun and birds of prey -- vultures mostly -- cleanse the corpse in a naturally harmonious way, says the Oxford-educated Mr. Mistree, noting that several Indian cities with sizable Parsi populations continue the practice. In Mumbai, the "Tower of Silence" has been equipped with solar panels to speed up desiccation and compensate for the city's vanishing vultures.

Parsis arrived in what is now western India in the 10th century after Islam drove them from Persia. Rather than trying to win converts in their new home, Parsis formed self-contained communities that effectively barred newcomers to the faith. Children of mixed marriages were admitted only if the father was a Parsi. Because Zoroastrianism doesn't seek converts, a small band of the faithful were able to live peacefully among Hindus, Muslims and Christians.

During the British rule of India, Parsis showed a knack for commerce. Today, they are well represented among the rich and famous. The Tata family, India's best known industrialist clan, is Parsi. Others include the conductor Zubin Mehta and Freddie Mercury, the late lead singer of the rock band Queen.

But it took lesser stars in the Parsi firmament to do something about population decline.

About two years ago, Cyrus Poncha, the head coach of India's squash team, said he wasn't having much luck meeting Parsi women. So his older brother, Neville, posted his picture on Shaadi.com, one of many Internet sites offering matchmaking services for Parsis.

Neville also solicited and screened candidates for Cyrus. He said he knew enough about appealing to the tastes of Parsi women to play down his brother's squash playing and play up the family's roots in cosmopolitan Mumbai.

"It was love at first sight," recalls Cyrus about his first date with future wife Roshan, one of the Parsi women his brother arranged for Cyrus to meet through the Internet. As he closed a car door, Roshan says she caught Cyrus's "lovely light brown eyes" and came to a similar conclusion: "Marriage material."

Several years earlier, Neville had met his own wife, Yasmin, through the Internet. They chatted via email for months before meeting. Now the mother of two young Parsi boys, Yasmin feels she has fulfilled her child-bearing obligations to the community.

"I am so not having a third child," says Yasmin, a former journalist. "I have to think about my sanity."

The shrinking population in India isn't the only threat to the Parsi community, which is growing older and coming under scrutiny for possible genetically linked health problems, too. According to India's 2001 census, people over 60 years of age account for 31 percent of the Parsi population, while children under 6 constitute less than 5 percent.

"Entire villages are emptying out and nursing homes are filling up," says Shernaz Cama, director of the Unesco Parsi Zoroastrian Project in New Delhi. The project has supported studies on the prevalence of cancer and infertility among Parsis.

The demographic shifts have fanned fierce debate about the Parsi community's future. Orthodox members contend there is nothing wrong with Parsi genes and that emigration accounts for the shrinking numbers in India. Liberals argue the community would be better served by welcoming all children of mixed marriages and recognizing converts, too.

For years, the Bombay Parsi Punchayet, an organization managing the affairs of local Parsi city residents, has offered discount family housing in one of the world's most expensive real-estate markets, Mumbai, and subsidies to those in need after having a third child. It also funds holiday trips for young Parsis in the hope that some will find a Parsi partner and have children earlier in life.

Recently, it has begun reimbursing couples for exams at the new fertility clinic. In the 16 months since it has been open, the clinic has counseled 85 Parsi couples, and about 20 of them have conceived, according to Anahita Pandole, the clinic's gynecologist and a Parsi herself.

To date, the 4-month-old Bulsara triplets represent the clinic's biggest success. On the fourth floor of an apartment down the street from the clinic, Khorshed Bulsara wakes her swaddled children from an afternoon nap. On the walls are pictures of the prophet Zoroaster and a sister of Khorshed's who moved to Houston and married a descendant of Parsi priests who became a business consultant. They have two sons.

Ms. Bulsara's three children lie together on an old bed that has been in the family for more than a century. After a fifth hand was spotted during an ultrasound, she called her husband to break the news about the Parsi community's three newest additions. "All he could say was "Wow!' " laughs Ms. Bulsara.




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(Binny Sabharwal in Mumbai contributed to this article.)

[babak]

In the same topic reed the following paper:

Source: CNN-IBN

Hope for Parsis on brink of extinction

Arunima
CNN-IBN
Posted Sunday , February 12, 2006 at 09:41 Email Print

New Delhi: Two hundred and twenty three families and just about 750 individuals - that's the number of Parsis left in Delhi.

The population of the Parsi community is fast reducing not only in the capital, but across the country.

In an attempt to preserve the last vestiges of their community, the Delhi Parsi Anjuman is now accepting offspring of mixed marriages into the hitherto exclusive Parsi fold.

"The Delhi Parsi Anjuman got together and decided to accept a family even if one spouse was non-Zorastrian. Though they are not allowed to enter the fire temple, not buried in the Aramgah but, socially they are accepted," President, Delhi Parsi Anjuman, General Setna, says.

The Parsi community has generally been seen as a conservative one and does not accept people who marry non-Zorastrians.

But in Delhi, things are changing for the better as Parsis have learnt to accommodate "outsiders" into their fold to check the rapidly dwindling population of their community.

One such example is Anahita Patkar who has a Parsi for a mother, a Hind for a father and yet, she is a Zorastrian. At the regular weeked Farohar classes, Anahita and her friends learn more about Parsi culture.

"I learn about the religion and all the rituals related with it at these classes. It helps me understand the culture better," Patkar says.

However, it's not really easy breaking an age-old tradition as liberals are still not completely acceptable.

When Delhi-based Parsi Adil Nadgodwala decided to marry Tenzim - a Tibetian, his mother was petrified.

"Tenzim is a sweet girl but we feel that the community is getting smaller and smaller because people are marrying out," Adil's mother, Mrs Nadgodwala says.

The offspring of these mixed marriages are aware that one of their parents will never accepted completely by the fold. There is an obvious resentemnt at this reality but hopes have not died yet.

But for their parents, it's a huge relief that at least their children are being allowed to practise the Zorastrain faith.

A beginning has been made in Delhi - a beginning which can go a long way in saving the Parsi community from dying out.

_______________________________________________________________________
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[canadian]

I found the following article funny. It's written by a Jewish woman marrying a half Parsi.

Source: http://www.sevendaysvt.com/features/2006/the-babes-of-beaver-pond-copy-4.htmlSeven Days

Intermarry Me

I'm Jewish, he's not: How we learned to count our mixed blessings

by Ruth Horowitz (02/15/06).

When I told my family that my non-Jewish boyfriend and I were tying the knot, my grandmother countered with an announcement of her own. "Fine," she said. "I'll just go upstairs now and kill myself."

Her reaction was dramatic, but not exactly original. For as long as lovers have been saying "I do," they've been pressured to pick partners from among their own kind. Montagues weren't to woo Capulets. Mennon- ites, Muslims and Mormons all encourage endogamy. Anti-miscegenation laws once criminalized cross-race unions in 30 states. My own parents' marriage was considered mixed in its day: Mom's people were Russian Litvaks, Dad's Galitsiyaners, from Poland. But at least they were all Jews.

Grandma's vow to do herself in was a twist on tradition. Jewish children who "marry out" were supposed to be considered dead to their parents; they lamented the loss by sitting shiva -- observing ritual mourning. My parents were having none of that. Sure, they would have preferred that I had chosen a Jew. But they liked David. And since we'd already been together four years -- I'd moved 3000 miles away to live with him -- they were mostly relieved that we were making it legal.

The focus now was on the details. The ceremony would take place at my family's home in New Jersey and we would cater it ourselves. I would wear the dress my mother wore as a bride. Most importantly, it would be a Jewish ceremony, complete with canopy, broken glass and rabbi.

That last detail seemed like a no-brainer. Even though my mate wasn't a member of the tribe, I still was. At least, that's how I saw it. My intention was to keep practicing my religion as before: attending synagogue a couple of times a year and celebrating Hanukkah and Passover at home. Our children would attend Hebrew school, as I had. They would be named Horowitz, rather than Christensen.

All of this was OK by David. He's the product of a mixed marriage himself: His Danish-American father was raised as a Protestant; his Parsi mother was born into the ancient Zoroastrian religion, whose members were exiled from Persia and settled in India about a thousand years ago. Although his scientist parents had brought him up pretty much religion-free and he had no interest in converting, he understood what my legacy meant to me. Plus, he liked lighting candles and eating latkes.

Negotiating these terms between the two of us turned out to be a lot easier than finding clergy to oversee our nuptials. The rabbi at my parents' Conservative synagogue was out of the question. Conservative and Orthodox rabbis are barred from performing intermarriages. They're even prohibited from attending such ceremonies, and aren't supposed to congratulate intermarried couples or their families. Clergy within the more liberal Reform and Reconstructionist movements can decide for themselves whether to bless mixed unions.

Around half do, according to the Rabbinic Center for Research and Counseling, an organization that helps mixed couples find a place within Judaism. But the RCRC's findings also show that even intermarriage-friendly rabbis have their limits. Close to 60 percent require that the couple commits to establishing a "Jewish home." More than half won't co-officiate with clergy from a different religion. And still fewer will participate if the venue is a church, or if a cross or other Christian symbol is present.

Why all this resistance? Building a lasting bond is difficult enough, opponents point out. Why add extra stressors such as differences in background and belief? Another argument is that the kids will be confused -- especially if both parents are committed to their faiths. Practical considerations aside, traditional Jewish law is clear: Intermarriages aren't considered valid. Because Jewish identity passes through the mother, children whose fathers are Jewish and whose mothers are not have to convert in order to be considered Jews.

Visceral reactions like my grandmother's are driven by demographics. Ever since Exodus, Jews have been struggling to stay off the endangered religious species list. The Holocaust made horrifyingly real the possibility of disappearing as a people. Ironically, since the Second World War, as anti-Semitism has declined and Jews have been welcomed into more schools, neighborhoods and jobs, intermarriage rates in the U.S. have soared. Around 50 percent of Jews marrying today are getting hitched to non-Jews. And the rate is likely to increase. Studies show that Jews who "marry out" are less apt to raise their children within the religion, and those offspring more often marry non-Jews themselves.

Like other aspects of globalization, social integration threatens cultural uniqueness. And Jews aren't the only ones sounding the alarm. Among Parsis living in the West, intermarriage rates are roughly the same as those for Jews. But the existential calculus for Zoroastrians is more dire, as a posting on zoroastrian.com points out. "The world Jewish population is about 13,000,000," the author of "Save the Parsi!" notes. "The world Parsi/Irani population is 130,000 . . . If the Jews are in grave danger due to intermarriage, what would you say about the Parsis?"

Exacerbating the problem for Zoroastrians is their religion's tenet against conversion, and its policy of not recognizing half-Parsis, such as my husband. Calls to slow the group's decline by loosening these restrictions are being hotly debated. A parallel conversation is underway within Judaism.

Organizations such as the RCRC and the Jewish Outreach Institute take an "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach. The best response to the reality of intermarriage, they argue, is to make Judaism more welcoming and attractive to mixed families. Often, the make-or-break moment occurs when the wedding is being planned. Not surprisingly, interfaith couples who try to have a Jewish wedding -- and succeed -- are much more likely to raise their kids within the religion than those who get turned away.

To improve the odds, the RCRC maintains a list of intermarriage-friendly rabbis. For $30, you can send for a roster of 338 individuals in the U.S. Those who would rather not shell o ut the bucks can look online. A Google search unveils dozens of niche-market-savvy clergy with websites such as interfaithrabbi.com, faithtofaithweddings.com, the euphemistic rabbinetwork.com and the all-business RabbiRentals.com. Purists may wring their hands, but intermarriage is a growth industry.

******

In 1981, we found our clergy through word of mouth. My parents first turned to the rabbi they'd hired for my older sister's interfaith wedding, 10 years earlier. He wasn't available. David and I weren't able to speak with the rabbi they did find until just a couple of days before the ceremony. He seemed disappointed that we hadn't written our own vows and weren't interested in incorporating any personalized rituals into the service. We just wanted him to do his thing.

We stood under a canopy of fresh flowers. We shared wine. The rabbi recited the Seven Blessings. I repeated the traditional Jewish vows in Hebrew, and David recited a modified version in English. David stamped on the glass. Once the rabbi had driven off, we moved to the front steps for a Zoroastrian benediction.

David's mother and her sister had arranged a silver tray with symbols of sweetness and abundance: fruits, nuts, flowers, rock sugar, coins. His aunt made paisley patterns on the walk with white powder tapped through special tin stencils. His mother mixed red powder with water, then dipped her finger into the paste, drew vertical stripes down our foreheads, and pressed rice into the damp stripes. The blending of backgrounds felt natural and relaxed. Even Grandma -- who hadn't carried out her promise after all -- seemed to enjoy the day.

That ease extended into our marriage. When Sophie and Sam were born, David and I followed our original agreement. After we moved to Burlington, I joined the Conservative synagogue, Ohavi Zedek. On the High Holidays, the children and I went to services there, and then came home to share the festive meal with David. On Hanukkah, he coached the kids as they learned the Hebrew blessings over the candles. On Easter, I helped them hunt for hidden chocolate eggs and marshmallow peeps. They learned about God in Hebrew school, then listened as David read them a children's book arguing for atheism.

The arrangement worked well for 18 years. But we hadn't counted on a crisis. My parents passed away within a few years of each other and, in my grief, I turned to religion. I appreciated the community support and the structure of established ritual. The minor melodies and Hebrew words reminded me of my childhood, and felt comfortingly familiar.

My twice-a-year synagogue habit became a daily fix. Before long, I wasn't just attending services every day. I was leading them. And my increased observance spilled over into my home life. When David wanted to go shopping on Saturday afternoons, I silently resented the intrusion on my Sabbath. Although I had never kept kosher before, I surreptitiously started experimenting with not mixing milk and meat. Because I was loath to provoke a confrontation, I never discussed any of this with David. But he could see what was happening. One day he asked, "You've stopped buying pork chops, haven't you?"

I had to admit that he was right. And I wasn't just forcing my will on the family. I was reneging on my side of the bargain. But what could I do? In the 18 years since our wedding, I had changed. I found myself trapped between spirituality and my spouse -- caught between the rock of being a bad Jew and the hard place of failing as a wife. If only I'd listened to my grandmother, I thought, I wouldn't be too embarrassed to say my morning prayers aloud. During services, I gazed longingly at those congregants who attended as couples, and wished I had a Jewish husband sitting beside me, too. More and more, I started feeling like an outsider -- both at the synagogue and in my own home.

It seemed like a no-win situation, but it wasn't. Ultimately, the solution came from within Judaism. Rabbi Joshua Chasan, at Ohavi Zedek, had helped me find comfort in spiritual practice. Now he explained that the point of religion wasn't to make people slaves to ritual but to foster freedom. He stressed the Jewish concept of shalom bayit -- peace in the home. With his encouragement, I remembered what had drawn me to David in the first place, and saw that those qualities were still there. I started dwelling less on the life I imagined I might have had and more on the one I was living. It was pretty damned good.

At the same time, I looked around the synagogue sanctuary more carefully and realized I wasn't such an oddball. Most participants came without partners. Lots of them were also sharing homes with non-Jews. And even single-religion households sometimes had their spiritual squabbles.

Couples who weather conflicts often end up stronger than before. David and I started discussing religion more openly, and working together to find a new formula that would work for us both. I dropped my campaign to keep kosher and settled into a twice-weekly synagogue schedule. We began welcoming the Sabbath on Friday nights as a family -- saying blessings over wine and bread, and lighting candles. David bought me special silver candlesticks and my own prayer shawl to wear during services. Although he rarely comes to synagogue, when I wrap the shawl around me, I feel his embrace.

My self-confidence as an intermarried Jew increased significantly about four years ago. I got a call from a couple asking if I could perform their wedding ceremony. She was Jewish and he was not. They wanted a Jewish wedding and hadn't had any luck connecting with the handful of clergy who officiate at intermarriages in Vermont. They'd gotten my name through a friend who knew my story, and had seen me leading services and chanting from the Torah. Although I had never performed a wedding before, I figured I could learn.

One thing I found out is that a Jewish wedding doesn't even require a rabbi. The couple essentially marries each other. Because I didn't have any legal standing with the state, we brought in a justice of the peace to sign the license and declare them united in the eyes of Vermont.

We stood under a wedding canopy in a field in Goshen, my prayer shawl fluttering in the wind. The couple shared wine. I sang the Seven Blessings. Together, they broke the glass. I looked out at the guests and there was David, cheering among the crowd.