by Lois Pryce
Sun streamed in through a huge stained-glass window scattering a multicoloured light show across the floor, and outside, through a row of perfectly formed archways, I could see lines of cypress and beyond, pomegranate trees, their shiny red fruits catching the sun and reflecting in more pools of water. The garden layout, the design and proportions of the pavilion, the ingenious bâdgir, all of it was a triumph of Persian ingenuity, but I couldn’t help look at the beauty around me and be bewildered by the contrast not just to the chaotic scenes of Iran’s street life and its homicidal highways, but also to the brutality meted out by the people in charge of this nation over the centuries. How could a people who are capable of inventing and creating to this level of perfection also be responsible for so much cruelty and carelessness? I was standing in one of the most exquisitely designed places I had ever seen, in a country that pollutes its air to lethal levels, litters its countryside, crushes artistic endeavours and executes more people than almost anywhere else in the world. It was as though there was no middle ground; both ends of the spectrum of the human condition represented, both taken to the extreme.
After my experience in the desert petrol station, Mr Yazdani unknowingly continued to restore my faith in the Iranian male. A gentle soul, he insisted on becoming my unofficial guide to Yazd. I wasn’t sure if he felt sorry for me being alone, or if this was a form of ta’arof, but there was no mention of a fee and when I tried to establish a financial arrangement, he protested so vehemently that I ended up leaving banknotes secreted around the interior of his car. The most important thing for me, he said, was to come to his home to meet his wife, but on the way we had to stop off at the Zoroastrian Temple of Fire.
‘Here the flame has burned for fifteen hundred years,’ he assured me.
I was dubious about that claim but I kept quiet. Surely in fifteen hundred years, I thought, someone would have nodded off on the night shift and let it go out. I imagined a lackey hastily relighting it the next morning and hoping nobody had noticed. The temple was small and unassuming and only the Zoroastrian symbol, a winged figure above its entrance, gave a clue to its significance. I realised that I had seen this image all over Iran, sometimes worn by people as a pendant or carved into the walls of buildings, or even used in company logos.
‘This is the Faravahar, the symbol of Zoroastrians,’ said Mr Yazdani. ‘But Reza Shah, he made it the symbol of all Iran. Now people use it for many purposes, even people who are not Zoroastrians.’
I asked him what it symbolised. It comprised an emperor-like figure in profile with a fanned tail and wings.
‘A Faravahar, it is, how would you say?’ He thought about the English word for a moment. ‘Soul. Your soul. Always there is a battle between good and evil, between light and dark, this is what Zoroastrians believe. This is why fire is important.’
‘Are you a Zoroastrian?’ I asked him. He shook his head.
‘No, but my brother’s wife, she is Zoroastrian.’
‘Is that unusual, for her to marry outside of the religion?’
‘No, not so unusual now because there are not very many Zoroastrians left in Iran, but some people, they do not think it is good. And their children cannot be Zoroastrian because it is only through the father, so his wife’s family, they were not so happy about this. My brother met his wife in Tehran, but they come to live here in Yazd. There are many Zoroastrians in Tehran too, maybe more than Yazd, but here, there is the fire temple. This is very important.’
I mentioned the Bahá’ís I had met on the train from Turkey and their tales of persecution and discrimination, but Mr Yazdani seemed dismissive of them, as if they were a bunch of newcomers, trouble-making upstarts. The Zoroastrians, he assured me, were greatly respected in Iran because it was the original religion of the nation, and even though they were prevented from taking certain positions in government and universities, they did not suffer harassment or abuse in the community. The way he described it was as though they were regarded as the venerable, if slightly quaint, elder statesmen of Iran. Although, he was quick to point out, it had not always been this way. For centuries the Zoroastrians had been victims of oppression and massacres and forced conversions to Islam, he said, looking pained. He had a particularly expressive face and every story or opinion was amplified by a glint or squint of his eyes, the raising and furrowing of his eyebrows, and a whole range of frowns and smiles. A quiet dissenter, he was a vocal admirer of the Pahlavis, and put the change in the Zoroastrians’ fortunes down to Reza Shah and his enthusiasm for a unified Persian identity.
‘He understood it was important to honour the ancient Persian kings like Cyrus. He knew the Zoroastrians were important to Iran, to all Iranians. He brought the country together. Now many young people in Iran, they are thinking this way too, they wish to convert to Zoroastrianism,’ he said, ‘because they do not like Islam, because they are angry with the Islamic Republic. But you cannot convert to Zoroastrianism, you can only be born into it. But the young people, they see that it is the real Persian religion, Zoroastrians are their ancestors, before the Arabs came.’
Despite the fact that the Arab invasion of Iran had happened nearly fourteen hundred years ago, he uttered the word Arabs in a tone of voice that made his opinion on that topic clear, and I recalled the gentleman in Tabriz who had invited me to eat with his family on my first day in Iran, and his words of advice for my onward journey: ‘Whatever you do, you must never call an Iranian an Arab!’
On our journey across town Mr Yazdani expanded on the merits of Zoroastrianism. ‘Good thoughts, good actions, good words,’ he repeated, and I got the feeling he would have liked to have converted if it had been allowed. At one point he stopped the car, causing a minor traffic jam while he exchanged a few words with a priest he knew from the temple, but nobody seemed to mind being held up, or at least there were no more honking horns than usual. ‘And you know, in Zoroastrianism, that women can also be priests,’ he added with a proud nod as he set off again, effortlessly rejoining the tangle of cars. ‘Not like Islam.’
At the next junction he saw a group of his taxi-driver friends, waiting for fares, and called out a greeting to them, holding up the traffic once more, but again it was of no particular concern to the other drivers. Mr Yazdani insisted on taking us through the centre of the city, to see the Amir Chaqmaq Square and its mosque. Here, among the promenading families and groups of boys messing about on sun-bleached, clapped-out mopeds, there were several men dressed altogether differently to anyone I had seen in Iran, bearded and sandalled, in flowing white shalwar kameez. A few of them were lounging in the alcoves that surrounded the square, escaping the mid-afternoon heat, while others walked the streets by the bazaar.
‘These are Baluchi, traders from Baluchistan,’ said Mr Yazdani when I asked him about them. ‘From near the border with Pakistan, they come to Yazd to sell many things, food and clothing. And they take Iranian goods into Pakistan. It is a very poor part of Iran, life is difficult there, and there are many people smuggling oil and drugs, but these men, I know them. They are good men.’
One of the Baluchi men was standing on the pavement outside a hardware store, rolling out a bolt of patterned pink cloth for two women in black chadors, who fingered the fabric, running appraising eyes over it. If it hadn’t been for the tower of Chinese plastic storage boxes behind them, it could have been a scene from any time in the last thousand years.
‘In this area,’ said Mr Yazdani, pointing down a nearby street, ‘there are also many Afghans living, and Iraqis too; they came during the Imposed War and they stay since then.’ I asked Mr Yazdani if there were any problems with the Afghans and Iraqis being Sunni Muslims, but he just shrugged and shook his head and said, ‘No problems, no.’
In the southern desert areas I had seen many more Afghans than in the north of Iran, and their lot was not generally a happy one. The men were viewed by many Iranians as a source of cheap labour, but out on the highways it was more common to see the women, always with children in
tow. They stood out from the Persians with their darker skin and traditional dress of brightly patterned, wide skirts. But despite their colourful appearance they made for a pitiful sight, often to be seen begging for food and money outside truck stops and petrol stations. They were usually shooed away in no uncertain terms by the proprietors before they could get anywhere near me, and when I asked the men at the truck stops about them, they dismissed them quickly as pests or worse, often accompanying their comments with a look of disgust and a dismissive gesture. This was their lot out on the rough, tough gritty highways; but Mr Yazdani took a more generous view of all visitors to his country. He was notable as one of the few people who did not speak disparagingly about the Afghan refugees when I asked him about them.
Mr Yazdani’s kind heart meant it took a while to arrive at his house as he kept seeing people he knew, resulting in frequent stops to exchange pleasantries, enquire after the well-being of family members, diagnose a mechanical fault in a colleague’s taxi and commiserate with all about the state of the economy. The car windows remained open to necessitate this mobile socialising, and as we drove through the streets the city drifted into our cab on the warm desert air; wafts of kebabs, dust, exhaust fumes, blasts of horns, snippets of conversation and the occasional sweet hint of an unidentified flower, the scents and sounds of Yazd. Mr Yazdani, true to his name, had taken on the character of his city: calm and reserved but warm and accepting. He did not speak much about himself, and I wondered about his bad leg and his auto-didactic English learning, and whether he drove a taxi through financial necessity or as a way to stay connected with his city and its people. His wife, Sara, he told me with a glow of pride in his voice, was a researcher at the local hospital, so I assumed she earned enough to keep them both, but he struck me as someone who felt the need to keep both brain and body active.
Like many middle-class Iranian homes, Mr Yazdani’s stood behind a high wall that gave little clue as to what lay beyond. The electronic gates slid open to reveal a small courtyard for car parking and a modern block of ten storeys. A sleepy doorman rose to his feet when we entered the building and greeted Mr Yazdani like a prodigal son. There was much hand holding and touching of each other’s arms as they exchanged greetings and enquiries as to each other’s health. I noticed the doorman was also injured and moved slowly with an awkward gait. As we stepped into the lift, Mr Yazdani said: ‘He was also in the war. He lost a foot. This is why we are like brothers, it is the same for all soldiers who fought.’
Outside the door to each flat were collections of shoes, neatly lined up, giving clues as to the inhabitants. Mostly they illustrated the Iranian nuclear family; one pair of men’s, one women’s and two children’s of varying sizes, sometimes including the scuffed, worn-down trainers of a teenager. Only one door had a single pair of men’s shoes outside, and as we passed by, a familiar smell seeped into the hallway from underneath the door. Mr Yazdani wafted the air and wrinkled his nose.
‘He is always smoking opium,’ he said, shaking his head sadly rather than disapprovingly. ‘He lives alone,’ he added, as if this was the unhappiest situation imaginable for a man. Then quietly, almost as if a reminder to himself, he said, ‘I will visit him tomorrow.’
Outside the Yazdani residence the more socially acceptable line-up of family shoes greeted us and the only smell seeping out under the door was the unmistakable aroma of ghormeh sabzi, the classic Persian green stew. Mr Yazdani aligned his black leather slip-ons and I dutifully placed my incongruous dusty motorcycle boots alongside.
16
Half a Million Martyrs
I GUESSED MR Yazdani had forewarned his wife, Sara, of my arrival, as she welcomed me like an old family friend with much ado about what a delight it was to host me. I was immediately invited into the kitchen where preparations for an elaborate dinner were already underway. Whether this was business as usual or related to my visit I wasn’t sure, but from what I had seen in other Iranian homes, the rigmarole of cooking an enormous multi-course meal each night was standard procedure. The kitchen buzzed with levels of multitasking that would have sent me into a panic but that Sara orchestrated with effortless calm. Huge bunches of herbs were being chopped for ghormeh sabzi. Garlic and onion sizzled in an iron pan, a bowl of tiny dried limes awaited their fate and a mountain of rice was steaming away in butter under a cloth to achieve tah-dig, the typical Persian style made by crisping it ever so slightly on the bottom of the pan. Slices of fresh watermelon appeared, then little bowls of dried fruits and nuts to keep us busy until the main event. There was no alcohol in the Yazdani residence; instead we drank chilled doogh, a salty yoghurt drink flavoured with mint. I sat at the kitchen table, next to their youngest son, eleven-year-old Amir, chirpy, polite and fluent in English, who was busy alternating between his maths homework and sketching the fascinations of a contemporary Iranian boy: luxury sports cars, the BMW roundel and masked gun-toting terrorists.
‘These are the speciality of Yazd,’ said Sara.
For a moment I thought she was referring to her son’s artwork, but was relieved to find her presenting us with a plate of tiny decorated sweets and pastries. ‘And this is also why in Yazd, we have the highest rate of diabetes in Iran!’ she laughed. ‘I work as a dietitian so I see this problem every day, many overweight people, eating Yazdi sweets all the time!’
Their flat was decorated in a mixture of western and Iranian styles. The main living area, like every home here, was dominated by a large Persian rug. A few cushions were placed around the edges but also a squashy leather sofa facing a wide-screen television. Here we flumped, in post-prandial, pre-diabetic stupor. Or at least I did. My hosts were obviously accustomed to ingesting such vast amounts of calories, although they somehow remained trim. I, on the other hand, after a month of Persian food and sitting on my bike every day, was struggling to fit into my jeans. I surreptitiously undid the top button and, for once, wished I was still wearing my shapeless manteau. Mr Yazdani had made a big deal about me removing any Islamic-imposed clothing as soon as the door had shut behind us, insisting that my headscarf and manteau were exchanged for loose-flowing hair and a T-shirt. He didn’t say as much, but I sensed this was not merely a desire to make his guest comfortable but also his own quiet way of showing me his opinion of the regime. As a fifty-something war veteran, with his reserved, old-school demeanour he seemed an unlikely spokesman for women’s rights, but he talked with great pride about Sara’s career and studies and, as ever, I was reminded how it was impossible to pigeonhole any of the Iranians I had met. Whenever you thought you had a handle on them, they came out with an unexpected opinion, thought or statement. It was one of the most intriguing elements of my journey; I never quite knew what was going to happen next.
Amir was talking me through the display of family photos. ‘This is Mehdi, my big brother,’ he said. ‘He has gone to university now.’
‘I had Mehdi when I was very young,’ said Sara. ‘This is him when he was ten years old.’ She was showing me a picture of Amir as a baby in the arms of his older brother. ‘Now Mehdi is at university in Tehran. I began my studies when he was a baby and qualified when he was five.’
‘That must have been hard work,’ I said.
‘I looked after him while she studied,’ said Mr Yazdani with a hint of pride in his voice.
‘Yes,’ said Sara, ‘and my family helped a lot and most of my tutors and colleagues were very understanding. But you know, nothing is easy in this country, especially for women.’
She said this as a plain fact, with no self-pity. After being in her company for just a few hours, I was already impressed by her quiet strength of character and intelligence and, like so many of the Iranian women I had met, this resilience, which would have been impressive alone, was accompanied by a natural warmth and kindness. You could see it in her face, her easy welcome and her affectionate interactions with her family. She smiled a lot, laughed easily and listened intently when others spoke. She had been battling the system he
r whole life, but it had not made her bitter. To me she was the epitome of the modern Iranian woman – a generous heart and an inner core of indefatigable strength.
‘At university we would be harassed all the time,’ she said, offering me another plate of Yazdi sweets. ‘After I qualified I also worked at a university in another city in Iran, but the universities, they are controlled by the state, and when Ahmadinejad became president everything was much worse. He did not think it was good that more women go to university than men, he wished to see women in the home, only having children. For the first time in many years, maybe even since the revolution, they tried to segregate the classes and they stopped women from studying certain subjects. But, you know, women in Iran are very educated, they did not like this.’
‘Even Khomeini wanted women to be educated,’ added Mr Yazdani.
‘Under Ahmadinejad it has been terrible,’ said Sara. She shook her head in distress. ‘First, they tried to segregate the students, and even the faculty. But this was not possible, they had to give up, because the staff, we have to speak to each other! It was crazy, it could not work. But it was not only this problem; they would come to me, asking me to tell them about my colleagues’ behaviour, to inform on them.’
‘About what kind of thing?’
‘Un-Islamic behaviour, maybe if they drink alcohol at home. Or if they said things against the government, this kind of thing. I said I would not do it, they are my colleagues and my friends too, and then they tried to make me leave my job. They followed me, they disciplined me for wearing jeans under my manteau. Ah, it was a very bad time. Now I have a new job at the hospital.’ She fell into silence for a moment, then continued. ‘But it means you never know,’ she said. ‘You can never really know about other people, the people you work with, people you may think are your friends. How can you ever know? Who is watching, who is listening?’