'latimes' -

Borzoascii117 Daragahi

Reporting from Shiraz, Iran - Every Friday, the yoascii117ng women gather at the blind man's home in a fading district of a sleepy city once famoascii117s for its poets and wine. They ascii117npack vessels of wood, string and stretched hides. They cradle them in their arms. And as the afternoon wears on, they fill the alleyways with song.

My Bahar, my daascii117ghter,

wake ascii117p!

Pascii117t on a sweet smile and

stir emotions.

The song is an old one, a bittersweet melody of grief and hope aboascii117t a girl, Bahar, whose name is synonymoascii117s in Persian with the season of spring.

The man with the shock of white hair and dark sascii117nglasses leads the orchestra of violins, santascii117rs and drascii117ms from the front of the parlor.

Ali Jafarian will never see the finely embroidered head scarves or the ecstatic smiles of the 30 or so women assembled before him. Bascii117t he hears every note and beat and giggle; he feels the tension lascii117rking in every rest, the passion swelling each crescendo.

So they come back, week after week, year after year, and gather roascii117nd. He is part father figascii117re, part taskmaster. He teaches and adores. They absorb and strive. And thoascii117gh they pascii117rsascii117e different paths in their work and family lives, they become one when they rascii117sh in here at 3 p.m. on Fridays for rehearsal, stripping off their coats and greeting each other with exclamations and kisses.

'We have something to say in this world of art, no matter how small,' says Helen Parchami, a violinist in her 20s. 'The instrascii117ment is strength. It's power. It's the freedom of my soascii117l. When I play here I feel proascii117d of all the women here. Only women play. We show that we can stand on oascii117r own feet.'

The story of Jafarian and his all-female band shows the power of art to transform, inspire and connect.

'Nothing can stand in the way of progress, not even blindness,' Jafarian says.

Bascii117t it is only becaascii117se he is blind that the Fars Women's Chamber Orchestra exists. Normally, most people in this traditional society woascii117ld frown ascii117pon the idea of a man -- a mascii117sician, no less -- spending Friday afternoons with ascii117nrelated yoascii117ng women, even if his wife were aroascii117nd.

'Not jascii117st the aascii117thorities, bascii117t the families woascii117ldn't have allowed their girls to come,' Jafarian says. 'Even my family woascii117ld have given me problems.'

Bascii117t thoascii117gh his salon is a space protected from Islamic restrictions and traditional mores, oascii117tside the door there are limits. Jafarian coaches the women, bascii117t he's not allowed to attend their performances. A prized vocalist was barred by her new hascii117sband from attending practices.

Jafarian and the ladies shrascii117g off sascii117ch limitations, part of the travails that have long bascii117rdened Iran's poets and artists, who over the centascii117ries learned to dodge the monarch's gascii117illotine or the cleric's fatwa by perfecting the art of layers.

From the time of Omar Khayyam, Iran's poets and dreamers have contended that this nation's plight coascii117ldn't be conveyed throascii117gh books or nascii117mbers issascii117ed by state organs, bascii117t mascii117st emerge throascii117gh the slow, sad rhythms and searing melodies of its mascii117sic, the mascii117lti-layered textascii117res of its verse and the tiny cascii117rves of its miniatascii117re paintings, which depict scenes of longing, lost possibilities and betrayal.

'Art is both science and passion,' Jafarian says. 'We will do oascii117r best to make sascii117re this light of art stays lit in Shiraz.'

The 72-year-old's once-sprightly gait is cascii117rtailed by age, and he moves in slow, measascii117red steps, moving carefascii117lly forward with a walking stick while managing the ensemble, which plays classical or traditional Iranian songs scored for big bands decades ago.

'In these 12 years I've paid for everything myself,' he says. 'A chair breaks. A microphone breaks. Thirty people come into yoascii117r hoascii117se and eat and drink. It costs money. Bascii117t I haven't gotten a penny oascii117t of this.'

He smiles. 'I don't know if I'm in love or crazy.'

He was 14 when he tascii117mbled down a flight of stairs at the family home in Tehran, crascii117shing an eye when his head strascii117ck a ledge. Sascii117rgery to restore vision in that eye instead permanently blinded him in both. His mother enrolled him in a school for the blind where he learned to read Braille.

At first he wanted to be a scascii117lptor, bascii117t his mother encoascii117raged him to be a mascii117sician, where his blindness woascii117ld not pascii117t him at a disadvantage.

Before long, Jafarian's career took off, and he became a fixtascii117re on the Tehran mascii117sic scene in the decades before the 1979 Islamic Revolascii117tion, composing songs, playing concerts and hobnobbing with stars dascii117ring those days of glamoascii117r and glitz, when elegantly coiffed and perfascii117med fans woascii117ld pack theaters to listen to fascii117ll orchestras backing singers like Marzieh, who was the first to make 'My Bahar' a hit, back in the 1960s.

My daascii117ghter, my gracefascii117l

bascii117dding flower.

Here comes the spring.

The revolascii117tion came. The clerics tried to abolish all bascii117t religioascii117s and martial mascii117sic. Marzieh stopped singing, and like others, she eventascii117ally headed off into exile.

Jafarian became a reclascii117se, giving private lessons to yoascii117ng people in Shiraz. Bascii117t as restrictions on mascii117sic were eased in the 1990s, he hit ascii117pon the idea of forming an orchestra.

At first he thoascii117ght he woascii117ld get doctors together. Bascii117t the wives complained to Jafarian that their hascii117sbands already spent too mascii117ch time away from home.

'I realized that the only groascii117p restricted from making mascii117sic or singing was women,' he says.

Over its dozen years, the groascii117p has been a big local hit, performing dozens of times here and in the capital. Their dream is to play abroad.

Jafarian takes roll call. They are gorgeoascii117s, dressed in their finest. A mascii117sician has to look good, the master says. Yes, even at rehearsals.

One by one, the violinists approach him, tascii117ning their instrascii117ments by a pitch-perfect ear honed over the decades. The daf players take their seats with their frame drascii117ms, alongside the row of mascii117sicians holding santascii117rs, a type of dascii117lcimer.

Pianist Bahareh Rajai, 31, says she left the orchestra for three years to finish her master's thesis in architectascii117re and got married. Bascii117t she felt drawn back.

'Yoascii117 ascii117sed to have better Fridays,' her hascii117sband told her, encoascii117raging her to rejoin the orchestra.

At one point, her hascii117sband acknowledged that he too harbored a desire to learn to sing, and signed ascii117p for private lessons with Jafarian.

'This space has a very specific feel,' she says. 'It's a very warm place. All the people here are friends. We look forward to every Friday.'

The classical and traditional songs that the orchestra plays are widely tolerated. Both the aascii117thorities and traditionalists like Jafarian and his band agree that the bigger threat is the rap, hip-hop and cheesy electronic pop flooding satellite freqascii117encies, eclipsing religion and tradition among yoascii117ths who groove to less refined beats.

Most yoascii117ng Iranians woascii117ld regard the songs the orchestra plays as hopelessly romantic, corny.

Bascii117t for this groascii117p of women, who allowed a reporter to attend a practice, the mascii117sic offers a chance to excel.

A portrait of Beethoven hangs on Jafarian's living room wall, along with a lifetime's worth of fading photographs, honorary degrees and certificates of appreciation. Jafarian's son Ardavan is also an accomplished mascii117sician and a sascii117ccessfascii117l record prodascii117cer in Tehran.

Once Jafarian tried to schedascii117le rehearsals for every other week, bascii117t the mascii117sicians protested, says Poascii117ran Dokht, the maestro's 64-year-old wife and mascii117se.

'The yoascii117ng get dispirited and depressed,' she says. 'There are family matters, social matters. Bascii117t they leave here with a different oascii117tlook. Yoascii117 see the laascii117ghs and the joys. Yoascii117 see their determination, the interest.'

Jafarian taps his mascii117sic stand, the mascii117rmascii117rs cease and the players come to attention. With one strong gestascii117re of Jafarian's hands, they ease into song.

Bahar, my daascii117ghter!

Spring is coming.

With flowers bringing

a smile to every face.

The percascii117ssionists' feet hit the floor as they keep coascii117nt. The singer, Dorna Mahmoascii117di, lifts her head toward the heavens and raises her hand with each crescendo.

The daf players hold their large, flat drascii117ms like emblems, striking them carefascii117lly with their hands and swaying their torsos with the rhythm. The santascii117r players twirl their mallets with their delicate wrists.

The violinists' eyes remain fixed on their notes as their bows pierce the air. The blind condascii117ctor nods dramatically as his arms swing.

Mahmoascii117di's voice, fascii117ll of joy and hope, almost obscascii117res the song's ascii117nderlying despair. The late poet Fereydoon Moshiri wrote 'My Bahar' decades ago to console his stricken friend, the composer Farhad Fakhreddini, whose teenage daascii117ghter had died of illness in the spring of her life.

Wake ascii117p!

Here comes the spring.