Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults

I was in early elementary school when my mother registered me at the Kanoon. I don't remember at all how I ended up at the Kanoon. I don't even remember how many years I went to the Kanoon, but I remember that the most beautiful summers of my childhood were spent there. Especially me, who was an only child and most of my games and pastimes were in the world of imagination and among toys. There was neither news of football in the alley nor a human playmate.

I don't know what happened and how my mother found the Sari Kanoon. A place where you could have lived in Sari for years but never cross paths with it. And the interesting thing was that among relatives and neighbors, I was the first kid to go to the Kanoon. Its address was like this: from Shohada Square, at the beginning of 18th Dey Street, there was an alley that started with a famous wholesale egg shop named Shajari. You went down the alley, reached a fork; you took the left path and continued until you reached the end of the dead end. And on its right was the Kanoon building. A building that had a very ordinary yard in front of it. In the summers, twice a week, my mother and I would go to the corner of the street, take a taxi, get off at Shohada Square, and walk this path from there. In those days, the taxi fare was 100 single Tomans per person. My mother also wanted her son to gradually learn to be in society. She gave me the money so I could pay the fare.

The Kanoon was fascinating to me from the moment I entered. A destination that I was impatient to reach. After we got off the taxi, we had a relatively long walk (at least for a kid) to reach the Kanoon building. The sun beat down relentlessly the whole way, and I would start sweating profusely from my head, just like now. When you opened the door to the Kanoon, the air conditioner was right next to the door. I would run towards it and put my head in front of it to cool down. It was amazing! I endured the whole way hoping that we would reach the air conditioner right away. Furthermore, the air conditioner itself was fascinating to me; because it was exactly the same model that they had installed at my grandfather's house: an O'General window unit.

The main part of the Kanoon where the kids went was a silo-like space. It had shelves full of books on both sides from end to end. At the beginning of the hall, there were tables and chairs. A large space for group games in the middle, and at the end of that section were the desks of the instructors and librarians. Behind that was the music and theater section. In some places, there was a landing with stairs and doors to rooms that I never figured out what they were. Ms. Hashemi was our instructor. A kind and patient lady who had been working at the Kanoon before me and remained there for years after me. Sometimes I think about how much someone can love their job to be able to see so many kids come and go, see them grow up, and not be terrified of this passage of time. Of this sitting and watching life pass by. I was in high school when, after years, I went to the Kanoon again and visited it. Ms. Hashemi was still there. As soon as I said I am Azadi, she recognized me instantly and said: "Alireza jaaaaaaan!" She hugged me and pinched my cheek. Then she turned to her colleagues and said: "Do you remember this rascal? Do you see how big my son has become?" She said this, and I folded under the weight of nostalgia and emotions.

The Kanoon for me was a combination of mystery and entertainment. That same Ms. Hashemi would come and put a song on the tape recorder for us, and all the kids would play musical chairs together… colored wooden chairs. Or we would get busy painting. Or gathering around those same tables, Ms. Hashemi would come and read us a story, and in short, this is how our hour would pass.

At the end of the day when we had to go, I loved to get lost among the shelves looking for a new book. The Kanoon's books had age categories: Alef, Be, Jim, Dal, He. I wanted to grow up sooner so I could borrow the Jims. Or to see those cool multi-volume books that were on the top left shelves. I would take the books, bring them home, and quickly finish them or give them to my aunt to read for me. Because she had the patience and would read each character with a specific tone.

The mystery of the Kanoon was here for me: when I get older, can I join the music group? Or what are those upstairs rooms for? Or when can I go see how they rehearse plays? When can I ever bring down those cool books from up there? Will I ever become so literate to read such and such books?

But the summer was too short to reach the answer to many of my questions. Summer was short, and my Kanoon life was even shorter. I never reached the Jim age group. After a few terms, I had to quit the Kanoon because of the gifted students and English classes that were held even in the summers.

The Kanoon, like many other things, was abandoned halfway, and I was thrown from that lovely cool silo into a high-pressure life full of competition. A place where I was too much of a kid to endure. A place where instead of growing properly, although I didn't break, I became deformed. And this stayed with me forever.

I still don't know why and how my mother decided to take me to register at the Kanoon. But I am sure a large part of the positive aspects I have now are souvenirs of that era. A short, but deep era.

P.S.: I wrote this note, which wasn't supposed to get this long, on the occasion of the new Bplus video which was about the Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults. Do not miss that video either.