Descendants of Cyrus

by Thornton, Christopher;

  The nighttime walk and experience of the last few days had taught me an old lesson anew: the Persian identity didn’t begin with Hafez and the great poets, and it didn’t begin with the Arab-Islamic invasion. Those are certainly integral parts of an identity that today we call Persian, but they are still mere strands, however substantial, interlaced into a fiber that contains many others. If the story of a people is like the weaving of a carpet, it is not a pattern that simply repeats itself with never-ending monotony. It acquires more colors and designs as it develops, and over time the initial weave can barely be detected. These were the kind of thoughts better saved for the comfort of the Jacuzzi back in my room, which I plunged into before dropping off into a sound and listless sleep.

  The next morning Aydin was ready and waiting for me at the entrance gate before I had finished breakfast. Punctuality was his forte. After we had been traveling for a week he had learned that if we agreed to meet at ten o’clock, I wouldn’t appear until at least ten after, but every morning he was ready and waiting at the appointed time. We repacked his Saipa, shifting luggage here and there, and in less than an hour we were back in Tabriz. This time we bypassed the city to head north along the Jolfa Road, which ended at the Aras River, the border between Iran and Azerbaijan. As we neared the junction where the road ended, another ridge of mountains appeared directly in front of us. Beyond the ridge were more mountains, and tucked between the valleys were snowfields shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  “That’s Armenia,” Aydin said, pointing to the distant snowcapped peaks. The other side of the river, close enough to reach by throwing a stone, was Azerbaijan.

  The landscape of northern Iran offers a history lesson in the many invasions that the country has endured. After the Mongols poured across the northeastern border, razing cities and slaughtering thousands, the forces of the waning Ottoman Empire invaded, in 1914. It was a battle of weaklings. The Turkish Ottomans and the Persian Qajar dynasty were both on their last legs, though the two had fought numerous wars in their tussle for control of the Caucuses and the eastern end of the Anatolian Plateau. Long periods of Turkish occupation of northern Iran had left their imprint—much of the region, including the major city of Tabriz, was largely Turkish speaking. It was Aydin’s first language, though he was also fluent in Farsi and English, and his German was competent enough to guide tourists from Munich and Berlin. But he had a cultural affinity for Turkish, which the Turkish pop music and traditional classics he had downloaded on an MP3 to play on the car stereo clearly showed.

  The battles with the Ottomans were only a prelude to the next invasion—by British and Russian forces in 1941, to seize control of the country’s oil fields, which the Allies feared would aid the Axis powers despite Iran’s declared neutrality in World War II. During the interwar years Iran cultivated its ties to Germany, partly due to a distant and historical connection. The word Iran is derived from Aryan, and the Farsi language originated in central Europe before migrating across the Balkan peninsula, Anatolia, and finally down into Iran. But the main reason for Iran’s favorable take on Germany was that, unlike the Russians and the British, Germany had no history of colonial domination. Still, the racial philosophies and antisemitism of the Nazis caused Iran to hold Germany at arm’s length. More than 1,500 European Jews were clandestinely given Iranian citizenship by local embassies throughout Nazi-controlled Europe and then safe haven in Iran.

  The tipping point came in midsummer 1941, when the Allied forces invaded Iran, the Red Army entering from the north and the British attacking from the Persian Gulf. Rasht, Tabriz, and Ardabil were pummeled by Soviet bombers. The British scattered leaflets over Tehran and Qazvin, urging the Iranian government to surrender. Victory for the Allies was quick.

  The rationale for the invasion was twofold: Iran had refused to expel its approximately one thousand German expatriates, and the Allies needed Iranian territory to serve as a corridor for the transfer of military supplies to the Soviet Union. When it was all over northern Iran was divided, with the British controlling the territory south of Hamedan and the Soviets ruling the far north. Food was rationed to feed the occupying troops, which resulted in widespread shortages, hunger, and starvation. On September 16, 1941, Reza Shah was forced to give up power.

  All this was now in the past. Aydin and I headed west on the two-lane road that hugged the Aras River until we reached a restored caravansary, now a restaurant in the tourist season. It was closed, but while we strolled the grounds Aydin told me about his ventures to the border as a boy in Soviet times, when the river was not the watery ribbon dividing Iran from culturally friendly Azerbaijan but from an atheist, monolithic, communist state.

  “In the spring and summer, when the weather was good, our family would drive here for an afternoon on the weekends, but we didn’t even look at the mountains. The Russians were not to be trusted. We thought that if they saw us they might attack us, take us prisoner. We actually believed that. We didn’t know what might happen.”

  I asked him what kind of relationship Iran had with the Soviet Union during the dark days of the Cold War.

  “It wasn’t very good. There was constant tension. It was the same before the revolution and after. The revolution didn’t change anything, and it was worse than the relationship between the U.S. and the Russians, and even the Russians and the Europeans, because we were right on the border. We don’t have a good history with Russia, and we didn’t have anything to protect us.”

  A journalist friend of mine from Tehran also recalled going to the border as a young boy, but without the fear and trepidation that filled young Aydin.

  “We liked to drive up to the border,” he told me. “It was exciting. “We knew the history wasn’t good, but this was a chance to stand right at the border and look across it—there was the Soviet Union.”

  Both were right. The historical relationship of Iran and the Russians—Soviet or otherwise—has been miserable. In the nineteenth century the Persian Empire extended beyond the Aras River, placing present-day Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan under its control. But in the early part of the century a series of wars between an ascendant imperial Russia and the hapless Qajar rulers resulted in Iran having to cede territories, piece by piece, in subsequent treaties, to the czars. This was quite a comedown, for at the end of the eighteenth century Mohammad Khan Qajar had expanded Iran and consolidated its territory by taking control of Mashhad to the east, and the region comprising modern-day Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan to the north. But much further north, the czarina Catherine the Great also had her sights set on Georgia due to its strategic location bordering both Iran and the Ottoman Empire. After successive losses, Iran was forced to sign two treaties in 1804 and 1820, which resulted in a new Persian border being drawn at the Aras River and put the entire Caucuses region under Russian sovereignty. The Russian Revolution of 1917 drew the three tiny Caucuses republics into the arms of the newly formed Soviet Union, further frosting relations with Iran. Only an implosion of the communist state seventy years later allowed generally friendly ties to be established, but on the Iranian side of the border distrust still lingers.

  What this history demonstrates, more than the constant battles for territory and geopolitical power so common in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, is the uncomfortable relationship Iran has had with Russia reaching back two hundred years. Even today, rather than allies, the two would be better described as “partners of mutual interest.” In describing Iran-Russia relations, trust, candor, and confidence are not qualities that come quickly to mind.

  We had a little further to go. Our destination was another fifteen minutes up the road, so we got back in the car and headed further up the valley, its steep walls narrowing into jagged plunges on both sides of the river, until we arrived at a sign that pointed the way up a narrower, windier side road that ended at the parking lot of the St. Stepanos Monastery, or Maghardavank in Armenian.

  I had long thought that the Armenian presence in Iran dated b
ack a hundred years, to the genocide that occurred during the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. But no. Armenians, and Christianity, have been present in Iran for more than a thousand years, since the beginning of Christianity itself. The apostle St. Bartholomew established a church on the present site of St. Stepanos in 62 CE. Six centuries later it was expanded into a monastery. Over the succeeding centuries it was damaged in wars between Seljuk Turks and the forces of the Byzantine Empire in Constantinople, then restored and rebuilt. In time it became an important center for the spread of Christianity in southwest Asia, disseminating liturgical artwork and sacred texts on Christian philosophy.

  A turning point came in 1604, when Shah Abbas drove the Christian population out of northern Iran, reputedly to protect them from threats from the Ottomans. To ease the transition, he established an enclave in Esfahan and named it New Julfa, after the northern Armenian city of Julfa. After Iran lost the Caucuses region to the Russian Empire in the nineteenth century, what remained of the Armenian population migrated to Russia-controlled Armenia. By moving to Esfahan the Armenians may have lost their cultural and ancestral foothold, but rather than being ghettoized in the north they were integrated more fully into Iranian life. Their aptitude for business made them movers and shakers in the development of Iran for centuries beyond the reign of Shah Abbas and through the modernizing period of Reza Shah.

  One of the Armenians with economic prowess was Yeprem Khan, born in present-day Azerbaijan, who had joined various groups that promoted Armenian nationalism against the overwhelming power of the Ottoman Empire. Under Russian rule these contacts earned him exile to Siberia, where he escaped and then fled to the Armenian-friendly city of Tabriz. There he rallied other Armenians to join the Constitutional Revolution to protest the rule of then shah Mohammad Ali.

  The Constitutional Revolution, which took place between 1905 and 1909, was Iran’s ill-fated attempt to usher in political rejuvenation by rebelling against Russian and British colonial power and the growing corruption and usurpation of wealth by the ruling class. During this time Iranian society entered a period of widespread political education and civic awareness, driven by the expansion of a free press and lively debate that drew in all levels of society.

  At the beginning of the revolution Iran was ruled by Mozaffar ad-Din. Aging and sickly, the shah had run up massive foreign debts by selling off Iran’s assets to Russian and British interests, including its oil profits, and negotiating uneven tariffs that crippled Iran’s production of textiles and other goods. The country received little investment, and the bazaar merchants, the backbone of the economy, were suffering.

  The revolutionary forces, centered in Tabriz, had had enough. A new constitution was drawn up that would create a parliament to have final say over all financial concerns, including foreign concessions and the national budget. The appointment of all ministers would be delegated to a special committee, which would also oversee the implementation of all new laws. Mozaffar ad-Din agreed to the revolutionaries’ demands. Iran was on the verge of becoming a constitutional monarchy, with the shah remaining solely as titular figurehead holding little real power.

  Before the ink was dry, Mozaffar ad-Din died and was replaced by his son, Mohammad Ali, who promptly abolished the constitution. In 1908 Yeprem Khan was a leader of a force from Tabriz that marched to Tehran to demand the ousting of Mohammad Ali and the seating of his eleven-year-old son Ahmed as shah. Mohammad Ali fled to Odessa, where he plotted a return to power, but he was ultimately beaten back by forces allied with Yeprem Khan. Meanwhile, Russian and British powers divided Iran into spheres of control, with the Russians taking the north and the British the south. Parliament ultimately dissolved, and Russian forces seized Tehran. Khan’s victory was short-lived. In 1925 he died in battle in Shurchah at the hands of allies of Mohammad Ali, who sought revenge for the ousting of their favored leader.

  Aydin and I wandered the grounds under a steely grey sky that occasionally brightened to allow the conical steeples—signatures of an Armenian church—to cast lengthy shadows across the stone floor of the inner courtyards. An adjoining museum displayed chalices, processional crosses, and illuminated Bibles written in Armenian. A large sign at the entrance, with text in Farsi, Armenian, and English, stated that the entire complex, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was also registered as a symbol of the religious cultural heritage of Iran. Despite the significance of St. Stepanos in both Iranian and Armenian history, it is not the oldest church in Iran. That honor goes to the Monastery of St. Thaddeus near the town of Chaldiran, near the border with modern-day Azerbaijan. In Armenian it is known as the Qara Kelisa, or “Black Church.”

  Thaddeus may have beaten St. Stephen in bringing Christianity to northwest Iran, but not by much. The church that bears his name was built in 68 CE, but time has proven to be a great equalizer. Both churches, along with the Chapel of Dzordzor, perched on a promontory west of St. Stepanos, form a trio that make up the Armenian Monastic Assemblies of Iran.

  By the time Aydin and I arrived back in Tabriz it was late afternoon, too late for any of the local museums, but time enough to take a long walk around El Goli Park, the city’s postcard-perfect artificial lake and surrounding greenery. In the middle of the lake stands a former summer palace from the Qajar era that is now a restaurant. Picturesque balconies look out over the water. The sun had already dropped behind the spindly, barren trees on the western side of the lake, and the winter air had turned chillingly crisp. The broad walkway around the lake was crowded with Tabrizis strolling and mingling on the benches. Young families had toddlers in tow, and the health conscious worked their muscles on the exercise machines along the par course that began at the entrance. Yet the scene was not all straining and sweating in the cold winter air. Lining the walkway and running track were more Tabrizis gathered at cheap eateries behind thick sheets of plastic that formed a protective cover to shield them from the nighttime chill. There they sipped glasses of sweet tea, puffed on galyoons, the traditional water pipes, and finished off plates of grilled meat and cholo kebab in relative seasonal comfort.

  It was Wednesday evening, beginning of the Iranian weekend, but still I was surprised by the number of people out enjoying the frosty air. In a few months, as soon as the mountain paths were clear of snow and the longer days of spring would begin to melt the icy buildup in the high valleys, the hiking trails would be filled with adventure-starved pleasure seekers.

  I liked Tabriz at first sight—the clean, well-kept streets, the air of liberalism, Iranian-style, that pervaded the clean, well-kept streets, the prim storefronts and neatly tended parks sprinkled across the city. Even the traffic, though clogged at rush hour, flowed in an orderly way that put to shame the manic chaos of Tehran. Every morning, in the breakfast room of the towering five-star El Goli Hotel where I slept each night, I watched a girls’ sports team mingle over the extensive buffet, headscarves barely covering their tumbling locks, baggy sweatshirts reaching only a few inches below their waistlines—“Islamic attire” that in many parts of Iran would have challenged the definition.

  In the evenings I trotted from the hotel down to pedestrian-filled El Goli Park to jog four circuits of the pathway that circled the lake, passing the giant snowman statue at the entrance. Darkness had settled in along with the nighttime chill. Children licked plumes of cotton candy as they rammed their tricycles and scooters into the guardrail that surrounded the lake. There was no “purpose” to any of it, not the strolling, nor the muscle pumping, not even the sharing of dinner plates among the diners hunkered in thick jackets around the cafés’ cranking space heaters. The only purpose, if it could be called that, was to be out among human company on a chilly winter night, and that was what made it so delightful.

  On my last night in Tabriz I had dinner at a combination pizzeria and café, just a short walk from the park. With its bright, inoffensive décor and midrange prices it was the place to go for middle-class families from the neighborhood as well as dating couples out for an ev
ening—in other words, everyone and just about anyone in liberal Tabrizi society. The menu was solely in Farsi—no English translation to aid the odd traveler—but the hostess recruited the help of one of the prep cooks to coach me through it. This aroused the interest of the group at the table next to me, a couple and two children—a little girl with a pink headband in her hair and a boy of about eleven sporting crystal-clear horn-rimmed glasses. They paid their check and were donning their jackets to leave when the boy came over and stood ramrod straight at the end of my table. He adopted the pose of a head waiter announcing the presentation of the next course.

  “Thank you for coming to our country,” he said with all formality. “We are very honored to have you.”

  3

  The Caspian Shore

  Rice and Spice and Other Things Nice

  A newlywed bride wanted to make fluffy steamed rice but did not know how, so she turned to her mother-in-law for help. “First you wash the rice,” the mother-in-law instructed. The bride nodded and said, “Yes, I know.” “Then you soak the rice in lightly salted water for a couple of hours.” “I knew that too,” said the bride. “Then you cook the rice until the grains are tender.” “Yes, I knew that as well.” The mother-in-law decides to teach the bride a lesson: “Last, put an adobe brick on top of the rice, cover it, and cook for an hour.” The bride prepares the rice as instructed and the disintegrated brick ruins the rice.

  —Persian fable

  It was closing time, and most of the diners had left, but the rain was still pounding on the canopy that covered the café patio adjacent to the pizzeria next door. The rain was welcome and long overdue. The fields and hills around Ramsar, and all of northwest Iran, had endured years of drought, so a good, heavy dousing couldn’t have been more welcome.