Mirza brought over the steaming kebabs laid out on a platter lined with flat bread, surrounded by charred tomatoes and onions. Then he returned with a platter of fresh parsley, tarragon, radishes and scallions, a block of feta cheese, a bowl of sumac, and extra bread.
From the shed in the back of the house, Akbar-Agha returned with a basin and presented it to the group. All the men looked on in awe. Inside the basin was a bottle of vodka, half-submerged in ice. He set the frosted vodka bottle on the sofreh. Mirza brought over shot glasses and Akbar-Agha poured, the cold vapor rising off the glasses like smoke.
Each man took a glass and held it up, except Madjid. He looked on with his eyes open wide. His father turned to him. “Go ahead,” he said.
Madjid raised his glass and Akbar-Agha toasted to their health, besalamati, as each threw back his shot and chased it with a spoonful of the cucumber yogurt. They dug into the meal, Akbar-Agha passing out pieces of the flat bread from underneath the kebab and refilling the shots at rhythmic intervals.
The alcohol began to take hold of them, loosening their minds. Mirza brought out his dombak and leaned on it. Akbar-Agha unfolded an intricately carved wooden bookstand and opened up the Divan of Hafez. He ran his fingers along the book’s edge with his eyes closed and opened to a random page, flipping back to the beginning of a poem, and set it down on the bookstand. Then he read, addressing each poem to each man as though he were a seer. Madjid, being so young, was often moved by the music of the language, never fully understanding the subjects of the poems. But today the words spoke directly to him. “Grieve neither at existence nor at nonexistence,” Akbar-Agha read to him from Hafez. “Be thy mind, happy. For the end of every perfection that is . . . is non-existence.”
Akbar-Agha brought his reading to an end by singing out the first line of a bawdy folk song. On his drum, Mirza added a jubilant rhythm and the men joined in for the chorus, a homage to the beauty of a woman’s geography.
After the musical interlude, Mirza brought out the tea service. Akbar-Agha took a sugar cube and dipped it into his tea and watched the liquid infuse the hard white cube. He held the cube between his teeth and sipped his tea through it, lost in thought. “Is there a reason why you dip your cube in the tea?” said Madjid.
“There is a reason for everything, young man.”
“What is it?”
“It is a true story. It happened in this very town, just a stone’s throw from here. Before you and I were born.”
The Imperial Sugar Company of Persia was located on the outskirts of Naishapur. There, three European brothers purchased the land for a pittance from a native farmer who had spent the better part of his life and earnings trying, in vain, to keep his sugar beets in bloom. The brothers took control of the farm with the promise of profit sharing, once the mill was built and operational. The farmer used the money from the sale to buy a modest home in town for his wife and children. But in one year’s time he fell destitute when the brothers informed him that there was no profit yet to share.
At last, he came seeking work at the sugar mill that had been erected on the land he used to own, where there was now a flourishing sugar beet farm complete with irrigation.
He was given a job on the production line. His duties consisted of, but were not limited to, standing at the conveyor belt, stamping the boxes of sugar cubes that passed before him in an unending procession with a red-ink mark that read, “Made in Naishapur.” He stood there from seven o’clock in the morning until twelve noon, taking thirty minutes for lunch, which he ate outside the factory with the other Persian workers, none of whom were allowed inside the mess hall, at the entrance of which a sign read, “No dogs or Persians allowed.”
He returned to the line at twelve thirty, forbidden to take a siesta, and stood on the line exhausted until seven in the evening, at which point he left the mill for home. The walk was long, but the buses in Naishapur were now separated into “Persian” and “European.” During the oppressively hot summer, he sometimes waited for more than an hour as several buses for Europeans stopped and continued on, sometimes carrying only one or two people. The Persian buses never appeared. After a few months, he moved into a shanty settlement the three brothers had built within walking distance to the mill, which was simply known as “the sugarhouse.”
The brothers hailed from Wallonia, a region in Belgium where the language spoken, Walloon, belonged to the langues d’oïl, of which French is the most prominent. Wallonia was at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution and rich in coal mines, blast furnaces, and factories for steel, glass, iron, zinc, wool, and weapons. The brothers owned and operated a textile factory but had to shut down their operations after the Luddite rebellion—which had started in England—broke out in Wallonia. The brothers decided to move to a region that had yet to be industrialized and begin over again. They chose Persia in the hopes that the more mystical-tempered Orientals would be less inclined to fight the machine, and besides, the sugar was already there and the government had invited them to come and cultivate it.
They purchased three orchards for their own families and hired natives to cook, clean, and keep the gardens. They had studied the local flora and fauna and adapted it to their manicured European gardening style. One wife purchased several lambs from a local farmer and had their wool dyed in soft hues of green, pink, and blue, allowing them to roam the grounds during the week of Easter. During her holiday celebrations, as the traditional Persian tea service was passed around by the ghostly gloved hands of the help, the women clapped and tittered with delight as the pastel-colored sheep passed by on the lawns.
The wife that had purchased the sheep was considered the most adventurous of the group, and made many excursions into town. She scoured local shops for trade secrets, always carrying small hard candies to give to the native children who learned to congregate around her. From the shopkeepers, she had discovered that putting cucumber peel on the face cools and calms the skin. Every day during the lunch preparation, she instructed the help to prepare a salad for her face as she lay out on the lawn.
The other wives followed suit, marveling at their friend’s ingenuity as she modestly clasped her hands and said with a high honeyed laugh, “When in Rome, ladies. When in Rome.”
They often traveled back home with trunks full of local fabrics they had tailored in the latest fashions. Their children were schooled by tutors brought from their home countries until they reached the appropriate age to be sent off to boarding schools in Europe, entrance to the most prestigious of which would be cause for celebration by the parents of said child, and envy and anxiety by the parents of the others.
The sugar that the mill refined, dried, and cubed was unlike any the natives had ever seen. The whiteness of each crystal was so white, it almost shone blue. The cut of the cube was so sharp and precise, it rivaled the blade of a knife. These two improvements were made possible by the machinery that the brothers had shipped from Europe: batch vacuum pans standing thirty feet high and continuous sugar centrifuges that hummed through the mill. There had been a few unfortunate sugar dust explosions that had taken the lives of several native workers, badly burning a few others, but the families of the deceased were compensated generously and the injured ministered to medically.
Because of their beauty, the mill produced the most coveted cubes in Naishapur. Many local families stocked them for the tea service, using them only for special guests due to their high cost. In private, they used the discolored, jagged ones made by local artisans who were all but put out of business by the Europeans.
The exotic, distant origins of the sugar cubes made them a novelty in Europe. High-society families purchased them for entertainment. Usually the lady of the house brought out the box and, after showing it to guests, demonstrated how the Persians drank their tea with their sugar cubes held between their teeth, as the guests gasped in delight and admired their hostess’s effortless intercontinental charm.
The three brothers were making profit, hand ove
r fist, with their little factory in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the East. In gestures of goodwill and grace they honored most of the native holidays. They sent the families of the workers several boxes of complimentary sugar cubes for birthdays, anniversaries, and promotions.
The man who had owned the factory land was informed that, unfortunately, there still was no profit to share since new machinery had to be purchased to keep up with high demand. After a year’s worth of good service, he was promoted to the job of overseer of the belt he manned. His duties now consisted of standing at the end of the conveyer belt, staring at the men who stood staring at the boxes they stamped. It was a better-paid position, one that came with a crisp white lab coat to wear. But time seemed to move more slowly. Each day, that hour after lunch when he longed for a siesta—but was forbidden to take one—felt harder to endure. He sucked on sugar cubes to keep his eyes open. His requests to learn how the machinery worked were always met with a stern yet delicate refusal, by the foreman, alluding to his safety and well-being.
Each Friday the factory workers were given their pay and their day off. They gathered in front of the sugarhouse, in their pantaloons and woven shoes with the backs flattened by their heels. Each man carried his worry beads. Collectively they headed to town to attend Friday prayers, smoke ghelyans in the town square, and visit with family, occasionally discussing financial obligations that could never seem to be met. The morning’s activities were followed by a proper lunch and a proper siesta, the only time their sleep was undisturbed by the mill’s constant industrial hum.
After the third sugar dust explosion, several of the workers, including the land’s original owner, Ali-Agha, formed a queue at a local government office to file a complaint. After several hours they found themselves standing in front of a clerk’s desk. Ali-Agha represented the group, speaking eloquently about the unsafe practices at the plant, the unsanitary quarters in the shantytown, and the unlivable wages. Wrapping up his speech, he requested that the government hold the owners of the mill accountable for their fiduciary responsibilities to their workers. The clerk wrote out the demands laid before him, had Ali-Agha sign the document, and stamped it with the official Imperial insignia.
The following week, Ali-Agha was relieved of his duties at the mill. Another man on the line was given the crisp white lab coat and stationed at the head of the belt. Ali-Agha packed his few belongings and walked away from the sugarhouse, the sound of the industrial hum fading as he entered the sand dunes.
He had sold his land to Europeans for profits that never materialized. He had filed his grievances with a local government who answered to a monarchy in business with the Europeans. He looked at the ground beneath his feet. He watched the wind blow sand circles around his woven sandals. He had been born on this land, as his father had and his father’s father and so on and so on. The mill, the sugarhouse, the old city, the bustling square where his wife and children were waiting for his paycheck were all miles behind him. On this day in February in the year 1890, also known as the month of Esfand in the year 1268, Ali-Agha realized that he had, for all intents and purposes, by powers both East and West, been exiled from his homeland. There was only one place left for him to go.
Ali-Agha pushed open the large arched wooden doors of the mosque and stepped inside, taking off his shoes and socks and stopping at the ablution fountain to wash before entering the hall. Shafts of sunlight beamed through the geometric carvings in the dome. Footsteps echoed behind rows of massive columns. Not a soul was in sight. He walked into the prayer hall and knelt, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes before placing his forehead on the ground to pray. He mouthed the words by rote, then sat back. He had been inside this mosque on many Fridays but never had he been alone and never had he felt so small beside the symmetrical rows of columns and beneath the grand chandelier.
Ali-Agha looked up at the curved ceiling made up of stalactite tilework, each curved tile intricately painted with the interior of a miniature mosque. He imagined the hundreds of hands that painted the calligraphy and geometric designs over the vast stretches of cobalt blue and turquoise. He yearned for that unity, that brotherhood, that sanctuary. He longed for the dignity of belonging.
“It is a thing of beauty,” said a voice behind him.
Ali-Agha turned around and standing before him, admiring the wall, was an old man in an aba with a book and worry beads clasped in his hands. It was the cleric of the mosque, whom he had heard speak many times at Friday prayers. This close up, he did not immediately recognize his face or voice. “Yes,” he said, “it truly is.”
The old man looked at Ali-Agha, who had cast down his head with his eyes closed. “What is weighing so heavily on you?” he said.
“I have lost my land. I have lost my means. And I will lose my family. I left my dignity somewhere. I don’t know where. I have nothing. I have nowhere.”
The cleric flicked his worry beads and fell into thought. Ali-Agha looked at him, hoping for some words of comfort. “Well,” said the old man. “We must find your dignity. Once you have that, all else will be restored.”
The following day, Ali-Agha sat upfront for Friday prayers, watching the cleric climb onto the mambar. The congregants fell silent. The cleric found Ali-Agha in the crowd and spoke slowly and forcefully, filling the mosque with his resonant voice. “Money?” he said. “Power? Property? Status? Family? What do any of these things profit a man who has lost his dignity?”
He cleared his throat, then continued. “A man can lose his fortune. He can fall from power. His home can be destroyed, his position ruined, his family taken from him. But if he has his dignity, he loses nothing. If he has his dignity, he is in a state of grace. For dignity is given to us by God. Dignity can only be taken from us if we give it of our own free will.”
He reached into the pocket of his ghaba and held forth a sugar cube. “Each of you take this ghand with your tea every day. Each of you make your way to the market and purchase it in boxes that say ‘Made in Naishapur.’ But who profits from this sale? Foreigners, non-Muslims, who spit on your customs and beliefs. They pilfer our resources and subjugate our people, and force them to work in dangerous conditions. How many families of the dead have I consoled within these walls? These Europeans put us in the company of dogs! They hire our sisters, mothers, and daughters to clean up after their whores! And what do we do? We work for them! We pay them!”
The cleric was shaking with anger, as was the entire congregation. He took a silent moment and regained calm. “There are more than one hundred people who work at the Imperial Sugar Company,” he said. “Eighty of those people are our own and twenty of them are foreigners. Not one Persian knows how the machinery works. Not one! Our town is not compensated by the factory’s profits. Our elders are not allowed to see their books. And believe me, it is at our expense that they profit. It is at the expense of our dignity that they profit. Sugar is the devil’s profit.” He crumbled the cube into dust and let it fall onto the floor like sand.
And that is how the cleric began his crusade against the Imperial Sugar Company of Persia and, by proxy, the monarchy. The edict was passed and spread like wildfire through the town. His sermon was the topic of conversation at every home, shop, and street corner. Soon all the coffeehouses had removed their sugar bowls and replaced them with dates and honey. Homes followed suit, wives dumping their Imperial sugar cubes in the garbage, proudly displaying the jagged discolored chunks made by locals.
Every morning the cleric rallied people in the town square and marched to the factory. There he preached in front of the towering double doors, demanding to see the company’s books. Every day the crowd grew bigger and bigger. Some people were upset over the moral issues, others were furious at the injustices the workers endured, still others were just curious and needed something to do.
One day a worker looked at the crowd gathered behind the cleric. Instead of entering the factory gates, he walked over and stood with his people. One by one his fellow
workers did the same. They stood with the cleric. The factory hired Afghan scabs but even these men soon stood behind the old man with the white beard.
The brothers had workers shipped to the factory from their home country. But the natives pushed back. They set up a blockade in front of the sugarhouse so the Walloon workers could not enter, and began attacking the factory itself. It doesn’t take much effort to set fire to sugar dust. Local police refused to attack their own people and even the military battalion sent by the monarchy backed down.
Within a month the Imperial Sugar Company of Persia was on the brink of collapse. The three brothers invited the cleric to a private meeting. He sat in their offices, facing them directly, smiling. A Walloon dragoman, with a pince-nez clipped onto his bulbous nose, sat between them and translated the proceedings.
“We would like to offer a truce,” said the oldest brother. “We will split our profits sixty/forty with the town council.”
“You will split the profits fifty/fifty with the town, not the council,” said the cleric, “and you will give the sugar beet farm back to Ali-Agha and you will buy your sugar beets directly from him. You will hire locals for a fair wage and you will rebuild their accommodations to the specifications that will be sent to you. If you do not do all of these things, you should leave right away. I cannot guarantee the safety of your families.”
The three brothers sat with their mouths agape, the eldest rubbing his chin. “And how will you lift the ban on the sugar cubes?” he said.
The cleric had already started to walk to the door as he said, “Leave that to me.”
Madjid was mesmerized, almost dumbfounded, and said, “How did he reverse his edict?”
Akbar-Agha took hold of a sugar cube and dipped it in his tea and said, “He simply stood before the congregation with a glass of tea, dipped the cube from the Imperial Sugar Company of Persia in it, and proclaimed it cleansed.”
To Keep the Sun Alive Page 12