Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn

by Jamie Maslin

  Even the CIA itself has admitted that Iran has no nuclear weapons program, by noting that Iran is ten years away from developing nuclear weapons. The importance of this timeframe cannot be overstated, for it means Iran has no such program whatsoever, or, as former UN weapons inspector Scott Ritter put it in a recent speech, “Ten years, ladies and gentleman, in this modern day and age, means Iran is not doing anything! Any nation in the world today is ten years away from developing nuclear weapons!” In 2007, much the same was concluded when America’s collective intelligence agencies produced an authoritative National Intelligence Estimate (NIE) on the current state of Iran’s “nuclear intentions and capabilities.” This report rubbished claims that Iran is trying to obtain a nuclear weapon and concluded with “high confidence” that as of 2003 Iran had abandoned its nuclear weapons program and had not restarted it.

  Another oft repeated distortion used to demonize Iran is that the country’s president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has stated that he wants to “wipe Israel off the map.” My personal opinion of President Ahmadinejad is that he’s an odious little twat, but when translated correctly, his alleged remark, which took place during a controversial speech in 2005, actually says something very different. According to American professor of modern Middle Eastern history, Juan Cole, as well as other Farsi language analysts, the correct literal translation of the remark is, “The Imam said this regime occupying Jerusalem must vanish from the pages of time.” No reference to “Israel” or to a “map.” And a regime is very different to the landmass of a country and its people.

  In Farsi, the remark is “Imam ghoft een rezhim-e ishghalgar-e qods bayad az safheh-ye ruzgar mahv shaved,” which I put here not for the benefit of those who can understand it, but due to the significance of the fourth word in, “rezhim-e.” This is the “regime” bit, which is pretty much pronounced the same way as the English version but with a bit of a throaty “eh” at its end. Ahmadinejad had actually been quoting from a speech given by the late Ayatollah Khomeini back in the early 1980s, so the words attributed to him are not even his original prose. Khomeini’s earlier remarks had expressed a hope that one day the Israeli regime mistreating the Palestinians would be replaced with a fairer, more equitable one.

  Also generally unknown is that Ahmadinejad compared the downfall of the regime occupying Jerusalem to the demise of the Shah in Iran. Jonathon Steele makes the following observation in an article for one of Britain’s leading newspapers, the Guardian:

  The fact that he compared his desired option—the elimination of “the regime occupying Jerusalem”—with the fall of the Shah’s regime in Iran makes it crystal clear that he is talking about regime change, not the end of Israel. As a schoolboy opponent of the Shah in the 1970s, he surely did not favour Iran’s removal from the page of time. He just wanted the Shah out.

  When Pedram, the lads, and I arrived back in Tehran there was a street carnival of some sort kicking off in the north of the city. After weaving our way through the hectic traffic and animated revelers, we headed over to Pedram’s place. This would be the last time I’d get to see them, because I was leaving for Esfahan first thing in the morning. We all embraced and shook hands vigorously as we wished each other well. I was gonna miss these crazy bastards.

  Once inside, Pedram and I had the unfortunate prospect of trying to act completely sober in front of his parents and not just in passing, but over a meal that they had prepared for me. The fact that Iranians eat their evening meals very late was our saving grace, as we managed to get a full two hours sleep before dinnertime. The snooze did the trick, and we both managed to hold it together, although it wasn’t easy.

  At the meal were both his parents, his sister, and his brother-in-law, who had come over especially to eat with me. His mother put on a wonderful spread, which was a mixture of traditional Iranian foods, like kebabs and crispy rice cake fritters, along with more Western culinary delights, like fried chicken. After being asked what I thought of Bush and Blair, I asked my hosts the same question, to which Pedram’s brother-in-law came up with a novel reason, and possibly the only reason, to like the prime minister. “I like Mr. Tony Blair,” he said. “He wear nice suits.” When I asked them what they thought of their government, they were restrained and seemed reluctant to answer.

  After dinner, Pedram presented me with an English translation of the poems of Hafez. “In Iran, there is a saying that every house should have two books, first the Koran and second Hafez.” And from my experience, I might add a third—an English-to-Persian translation of the lyrics of German rock gods, Modern Talking.

  Since I would be visiting Shiraz soon, which is home to Hafez’s tomb, Pedram asked me to visit it and read some of the book there. I thanked him for the gift and his parents for the meal and their hospitality. Before going to bed, Pedram and I sat up with his father and drank several cups of sweet tea together as a sort of goodbye gesture. As a result, I awoke in the middle of the night in dire need of the bathroom.

  Before getting out of bed, I recalled something Ricardo had told me about the reaction of a middle-aged Iranian man to his Turkish travel book. The man had casually thumbed through its pages until he came across a picture of a man in swim trunks on the beach. On seeing this, he looked embarrassed and gave the book back in a hasty way, as if handling illicit contraband. With this in mind, I considered putting my pants on in case I bumped into Pedram’s parents in the hallway and they were similarly appalled by my unshapely hairy legs and knobbly knees. But as it was about three in the morning, I just couldn’t be bothered; surely they were both tucked up in bed and away with the fairies.

  I quietly got up and started the long dark walk to the bathroom, wearing nothing but my “smalls.” I stalked across the creaking floorboards as if on some covert Special Forces op, trying to detect the slightest sound or stirring coming from Pedram’s parents’ room. All was clear on the western front. I reached the toilet door with a sigh of relief, and slowly began to open it whilst continuing my reconnaissance behind me, looking back in the direction of their room. I got the fright of my life when I now turned around and looked into the bathroom itself, where to my horror was Pedram’s father, not a foot away, with his pants around his ankles taking a dump on the squat toilet. I quickly slammed the door with an, “Oh my goodness, I’m awfully sorry!” and made a tactical retreat back to Pedram’s room.

  Thank God it hadn’t been his mother was all I could think. I lay in the darkness straining to hear his father return to his room. I heard him leave the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived; just to make matters even more embarrassing, he came into Pedram’s room and started to apologize repeatedly for not locking the door. I didn’t want to have a drawn-out discussion on this one, so apologized back in the hope he’d leave it at that and we could just forget all about it. It took a while, but eventually, after several more cringeworthy apologies, he left. I waited for a tense ten minutes or more before I tried to go back to the bathroom again.

  I was far more agitated this time, and on reaching the toilet door, I cupped my ear against it to check it was vacant. After a fraught moment, I made the decision it was clear and quickly slipped inside. After taking a leak, I got myself ready for the journey back again but as I opened the door to leave, I had the fright of my life as there in the hallway in a tablecloth-like veil was Pedram’s mother. I quickly shut the door again, my veins now awash with adrenaline.

  I prayed fervently that this conservative Muslim woman hadn’t seen me in my underwear. This was total madness, and I couldn’t get my head around what the hell they were both doing up wandering around the house at this hour. I didn’t dare exit for another fifteen minutes. In the end, I took a deep breath, turned off the bathroom light, then quickly opened the door and sprinted for Pedram’s room. Next time, I decided I’d sure as hell be wearing my pants, a shirt, and if need be a tie as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Traveling in Style with the Single-Handed Man


  Pedram and I awoke at six o’clock sharp when his alarm went off. We were greeted by a delicious breakfast prepared by his wonderful mother who must have got up especially early to make it before I left. I was quite touched at her generosity. After breakfast, Pedram phoned a cab and then had a word with the driver in Farsi, telling me the correct price to pay so I didn’t get ripped off. We hugged, wished each other well, and parted.

  The taxi was driven by a kindly old chap who spoke good English. He explained that the office had given him the job because Pedram had mentioned when he phoned that the lift was for an Englishman. As he was the only English speaker in the office they gave it to him, so I would have someone to talk to.

  “How nice,” I thought.

  On hearing I was going to Esfahan, he recommended that I not only visit Esfahan’s famous mosques but also the wonderful churches there and, in particular, Vank Cathedral. I said I would, and mentioned my visit to the Church of St. Thaddeus near Maku. He told me he’d been there as well. I asked him then if he was a Christian, and his answer was very interesting: “I am Muslim, but when I pray, I pray to Jesus to help me.”

  He went on to tell me that he thought all religions were the same in that they all said essentially the same thing, namely to “be good person, help others, and believe and pray to God. The lamps are different but the light is the same.”

  He told me he’d read a good book about this by an American woman, which had been translated into Persian. He struggled to remember the title and said it was called something like “Come into the Light.” I immediately knew the book he meant, and asked if it was Embraced by the Light. “Yes, that’s it!” he exclaimed. Having read the book myself, I double-checked it was the same one by describing it in detail. I told him I’d cried reading the last chapter of the book and he told me he had too. Call me anything you want, but I really believe we were meant to meet each other that morning.

  One story he shared with me was a real testament to his faith and character. After the revolution, he had been arrested and accused of being a supporter of the Shah, but he told me this was untrue—he liked neither the Shah nor the current regime. He had been imprisoned, held in solitary confinement, and tortured for years. During this time, his torturers tried to get him to sign false confessions and admit to being against the government and for the Shah. He never did this and said it was his faith that got him through it. After a number of terribly hard years inside, he reached his breaking point. That night he got onto his knees and prayed like never before for four hours straight for God to help him. When he finally got to sleep, he had a dream in which a tremendous peace descended all around him and God spoke to him. He was told not to worry, that God would look after him and that soon he would be released—two weeks later he was. Goose bumps popped up all over me as he told me this, and writing it down many months later, I’m experiencing the same thing. I can’t begin to imagine what hardships this courageous guy must have been through. I thought he was a real inspiration.

  He went on to discuss the government’s general lack of support among Iranians, and he said the problem was that if ten people dissented then the government could just kill all ten of them—therefore, no one dared do anything. However, he said that the people arrested at the recent demonstration that Leyla had mentioned would probably not be killed. “There is a lot of attention on the government at the moment and they wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks,” he said.

  We reached the airport as the sun was breaking the horizon. I told him what a pleasure it had been to meet him, and he said it was a pleasure for him as well. We shook hands, and I gave him a tip several times the fare, which he tried to refuse but I insisted. I stepped out into the glorious morning sun and headed to the terminal.

  It felt very strange to board an airplane after all the hitching and overland travel but it was far from unpleasant; in fact, it was fantastic. I got a window seat and the view was superb with rolling desert and rugged mountains below, which looked to me now quintessentially Iranian. I took a break from the sightseeing when breakfast was handed out. Whilst I tucked into my food, one of the staff kindly brought me an Iranian-English language newspaper, which was a strange read to say the least. It had the predictable anti-American rhetoric although it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But what I found really interesting and weird was a section described simply as “Anecdote,” which told a tale called “The Single-Handed Man.” It went as follows:

  He lived in a city wherein the hands of thieves were cut. Since he was a single-handed man, all thought he was a thief! But he had stolen nothing. He was just a man with one hand! He decided to go to another city. While traveling, there came a whirlwind and his eye went blind. But he had reached a city wherein the eyes of thieves were blinded. Everybody called him a bandit, though he had not had a hand in a robbery. So he was forced to leave that city as well! On his way, while crossing a river, his leg was stuck between rocks and was broken. The doctors had to amputate one of his legs because of infection. But he had got to a city wherein the legs of murderers were cut! Upon seeing him, the people started whispering. The poor man could take no more and decided to go to a city wherein no guilty person is punished! But to his surprise, he was caught and guillotined in that city! You know why? Because there, they beheaded those who did not have a hand, an eye and a leg!

  And the moral of the story . . .? Your guess is as good as mine.

  Whilst waiting for a taxi at the airport, I met a French guy, and after a brief chat we decided to share a cab to the center of Esfahan. He was visiting Iran as a tourist for a staggeringly brief three days and was in the city only until this evening when he flew back to Tehran. I initially thought this a little stupid but then he explained that his girlfriend was an air hostess and periodically offered him strange and quirky free flights. A few days ago, he had been in Paris when she had offered him a three-day trip to Iran. He took it, and under the circumstances, I’d have done exactly the same.

  I got off at the Amir Kabir Hostel, which was the most popular hotel for backpackers and where I’d arranged to meet Ricardo. The guy behind the reception spoke good English and I asked about the price of a single room. He said there were none available until someone checked out but I could pay now and reserve one. I decided to go for this and we settled on IR60,000, which I didn’t have exact change for, so handed over IR70,000, along with my passport. He didn’t have change either, so he agreed to give me the money in a few minutes time.

  When Ricardo turned up, we went through the whole long lost buddies routine with handshakes and back pats. I asked Ricardo if I could dump my pack in his room so we could go out and make the most of the day. He said that there wasn’t really any space in his room for my backpack. I thought this was a tad far-fetched, but when we went up a few minutes later I saw he was right.

  It was literally a windowless closet with a bed squeezed inside. On top of the bed lay his backpack, clothing, and other bits and pieces, leaving no space whatsoever for anything else. It was minuscule. Forget about not being able to swing a cat in there—you couldn’t even swing a dwarf mouse. I decided there and then that no way was I staying here. As we walked back to reception, Ricardo added that the room’s single feature, the bed, had a rather unfortunate aromatic stain on it.

  I demanded my passport and money back at reception. The guy there capitulated immediately and said quietly, “I give you double room instead, but please, you no tell anybody.” He passed me a key so I could look at it, and off Ricardo and I went to check it out. It was perfect, with two beds overlooking an internal courtyard. Ricardo couldn’t believe he’d been fobbed off with such a terrible room for the last couple of nights, but if you don’t complain you don’t gain.

  I left my gear, locked up, and headed down to collect the change that I still hadn’t received. The crafty geezer now tried to explain that he was charging me more for this because it was a double room. I just couldn’t be bothered to argue the point as it was still a good deal. I
did, however, state that I thought he was very crafty. He smiled and took it as a compliment.

  Ricardo and I went outside into the sunshine where he told me about Esfahan and I taught him the limited Farsi I had picked up from the lads in Tehran. Having already been in Esfahan for a few days, Ricardo had seen most of the more obvious tourist sites, so suggested we go to the more obscure ones and that I then go to the others after he’d left. We consulted the map and worked out a plan.

  The main highlights of Esfahan are without doubt its elaborate blue-tiled mosques, which are masterpieces of architecture and craftsmanship and some of the finest, if not the very finest, in the Islamic world. The best of these are situated around the Imam Khomeini Square, known to the locals by its original name of Naghsh-e Jahan Square, meaning “image of the world,” which contains the Imam Mosque and the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque. Ricardo had seen the Imam Mosque but not the Sheikh Lotfollah, so we decided to start off here.

  The walk to the square was through bustling and crowded streets that seemed nearly as busy as the ones in Tehran. The square itself was an oasis of calm, measuring a whopping 1,640 feet by 520 feet, making it the world’s second-biggest square after China’s Tiananmen Square in Beijing. It was far more peaceful than the chaos we passed through to get there, and in its center lay a grassy park containing a huge tranquil pool. Running around the exterior of the square were hundreds of beautiful archways leading to cool and shady shops. But the jewels in the crown of the square were three spectacular buildings. These were the two mosques with their huge exquisite tiled domes, and a strange six-story building with a vast elevated terrace and wooden roof, called the Ali Qapu Palace.