Shah of Shahs

by Ryzard Kapuscinski

  But there have also been calmer periods, and then Iran became the refuge of all the oppositionists in the Muslim empire, who arrive from all corners of the world to find shelter, encouragement, and support among the plotting Shiites. They could also take lessons in the great Shiite school of conspiracy. They might, for example, master the principle of dissembling (taqija), which facilitates survival. This principle allows the Shiite, when he finds himself up against a stronger opponent, seemingly to accept the prevailing religion and acclaim himself a believer as long as doing so will save him and his people. Shiism also teaches kitman, the art of disorienting one's enemies, which allows the Shiite to contradict his own assurances and pretend that he is an idiot when danger threatens. Iran thus becomes a medieval mecca of malcontents, rebels, strange varieties of hermits, prophets, ecstatics, shady heretics, stigmatics, mystics, and fortunetellers, who pour in along every road to teach, contemplate, pray, and soothsay. All this creates the atmosphere of religiosity, exaltation, and mysticism so characteristic of the country. I was very devout in school, says an Iranian, and all the kids thought I had a radiant halo around my head. Try imagining a European leader who writes that once when he was out riding he fell over a cliff and would have died except that a saint reached out a hand to save him. Yet the last Shah described such a scene in a book of his and all Iran read it seriously. Superstitious beliefs, such as faith in numbers, omens, symbols, prophecies, and revelations, have deep roots here.

  In the sixteenth century the rulers of the Safavid dynasty raised Shiism to the dignity of official religion. What had been the ideology of mass opposition became the ideology of a state in opposition—for the Iranian state opposed the Sunni domination of the Ottoman Empire. But with time the relations between the monarchy and Shiism grew worse and worse.

  The point is that Shiites not only reject the authority of the caliphs; they barely tolerate any lay authority at all. Iran constitutes the unique case of a country whose people believe only in the reign of their religious leaders, the imams, one of whom, the last, left this world (according to rational, if not to Shiite, criteria) in the ninth century.

  Here we reach the essence of Shiite doctrine, the main act of faith for its believers. Deprived of any chance to win the caliphate, the Shiites turn their backs on the caliphs and henceforth acknowledge only the leaders of their own faith, the imams. Ali is the first imam, Hassan and Hussein his sons the second and third, and so on until the twelfth. All these imams died violent deaths at the hands of caliphs who saw them as dangerous rivals. The Shiites believe, however, that the twelfth and last imam, Mohammed, did not perish but disappeared into the cave under the great mosque at Samarra, in Iraq. This happened in 878. He is the Hidden Imam, the Awaited One, who will appear at the appropriate time as Mahdi (The One Led By God) to establish the kingdon of righteousness on earth. Afterward comes the end of the world. The Shiites believe that if the Twelfth Imam were not a living presence, the world would cease to be. They draw their spiritual strength from their faith in the Awaited One, they live and die for that faith. This is the simple human longing of a wronged, suffering community that finds hope and, above all, its sense of life, in that idea. We do not know when that Awaited One will appear; it could happen at any moment, even today. Then the tears will cease and each will take his seat at the table of plenty.

  The Awaited One is the only leader the Shiites are willing to submit themselves to totally. To a lesser degree they acknowledge their religious helmsmen, the ayatollahs, and to a still lesser degree, the Shah. Because the Awaited One is the Adored, the focus of a cult, the Shah can be at best the Tolerated One.

  From the time of the Safavids a dual authority, of the monarchy and the mosque, has existed in Iran. The relations between these two forces have varied but have never been overly friendly. If something disturbs this balance of forces, however, if, as happened, the Shah tries to impose total authority (with, to boot, the help of foreign backers), then the people gather in the mosques and the fighting starts.

  For Shiites, the mosque is far more than a place of worship. It is also a haven where they can weather a storm and even save their lives. It is a territory protected by immunity, where authority has no right to enter. It used to be the custom that if a rebel pursued by the police took refuge in a mosque, he was safe and could not be removed by force.

  There are marked differences in the construction of a mosque and a Christian church. A church is a closed space, a place of prayer, meditation, and silence. If someone starts talking, others rebuke him. A mosque is different. Its largest component is an open courtyard where people can pray, walk, discuss, even hold meetings. An exuberant social and political life goes on there. The Iranian who has been harassed at work, who encounters only grumpy bureaucrats looking for bribes, who is everywhere spied on by the police, comes to the mosque to find balance and calm, to recover his dignity. Here no one hurries him or calls him names. Hierarchies disappear, all are equal, all are brothers, and—because the mosque is also a place of conversation and dialogue—a man can speak his mind, grumble, and listen to what others have to say. What a relief it is, how much everyone needs it. This is why, as the dictatorship turns the screws and an ever more oppressive silence clouds the streets and workplaces, the mosque fills more and more with people and the hum of voices. Not all those who come here are fervent Muslims, not all are drawn by a sudden wave of devotion—they come because they want to breathe, because they want to feel like people. Even Savak has limited freedom of action on the grounds of the mosque. Nevertheless, the police arrest and torture many clerics who speak out against the abuse of power. Ayatollah Saidi dies during torture, on "the frying pan." Ayatollah Azarshari dies soon afterward, when Savak agents throw him into a pot of boiling oil. Ayatollah Teleghani emerges from prison with only a short time to live because of the way he has been treated. He has no eyelids. As he watched, Savak agents raped Teleghani's daughter, and when the ayatollah closed his eyes, they burned his eyelids with cigarettes so he would have to watch. All this goes on in the 1970s. But in his policy toward the mosque, the Shah entangles himself in no small web of contradictions. On the one hand he persecutes the clerical opposition and, on the other—always courting public favor—he declares himself a fervent Muslim, perpetually makes pilgrimages to the holy places, immerses himself in prayer, and solicits the blessing of the mullahs. How, then, can he declare open war on the mosques?

  The Shiite also visits the mosque because it is always close, in the neighborhood, on the way to everywhere. Teheran contains a thousand mosques. The tourist's uninstructed eye spots only a few of the most impressive ones. But the majority of them, especially in the poorer neighborhoods, are modest buildings difficult to distinguish from the flimsily constructed little houses in which the underclass lives. Built of the same clay, they melt into the monotonous faces of the lanes, back alleys, and street corners, resulting in a working, intimate climate between the Shiite and his mosque. No need to make long treks, no need to get dressed up: The mosque is everyday life, life itself.

  The first Shiites to reach Iran were city people, small merchants and craftsmen. They would enclose themselves in their ghettoes, build mosques, and set up their market stands and little shops next door. Craftsmen opened workshops nearby. Because Muslims should wash before they pray, baths appeared as well. And because a Muslim likes to drink tea or coffee and have a bite to eat after praying, there were also restaurants and coffee shops close at hand. Thus comes into being that phenomenon of the Iranian cityscape, the bazaar—a colorful, crowded, noisy mystical-commercial-gustatory nexus. If someone says, "I'm going to the bazaar," he does not necessarily mean that he needs his shopping bag. You go to the bazaar to pray, to meet friends, to do business, to sit in a café. You can go there to catch up on gossip and take part in an opposition rally. Without having to run all over town, the Shiite finds in one place, the bazaar, all that is indispensable for earthly existence and, through prayer and offerings, also ensures his ete
rnal life.

  From the Notes

  Mahmud Azari returned to Iran at the beginning of 1977. He had lived in London for eight years, supporting himself by translating books for various publishers and writing copy for advertising agencies. He was an older, solitary man who liked to spend his leisure time walking and talking with his compatriots. During such meetings the conversation centered around purely English problems; Savak was ubiquitous, even in London, and wise people avoided talking about the problems of their homeland.

  Near the end of his sojourn he received several letters, through private channels, from his brother in Teheran. The brother wrote that interesting times were coming and urged him to return. Mahmud feared interesting times, but since his brother had always held the ascendancy in their family, he packed his luggage and returned to Teheran.

  He couldn't recognize the city.

  The onetime desert oasis had become a stunning overcrowded metropolis of five million people. A million cars strained in the narrow streets, immobile because a line going one way would meet a line going another way, while other lines of traffic were cutting across, slicing through from left and right, from northeast and southwest, forming giant smoking, roaring, stellar coils stuck in narrow cagelike lanes. Thousands of car horns blared from dawn to dusk, without purpose.

  He noticed that the people, once quiet and courteous, now quarreled at the slightest provocation, burst out angrily for no reason at all, jumped down each other's throats, screamed and cursed. These people seemed like weird, surrealistic bifurcated monsters whose upper half would bow obsequiously before anyone important or endowed with authority, while at the same time their hind parts were trampling on anyone weaker. This apparently led to an inner equilibrium that, however mean and pitiable, made it possible for them to survive.

  He found himself dreading the thought that, when he came face to face with such a monster, he would be unable to tell which of its functions, the bowing or the trampling, would come first. But he found soon enough that the trampling reflex predominated; it naturally presented itself and withdrew only under the extreme pressure of grave circumstances.

  During his first days he went to the local park, sat down beside a man on a bench, and tried to start a conversation. But the man stood up without a word and walked briskly away. After a time, he approached another passer-by, who gave him a look of terror as if he had run into a lunatic. So he gave up and decided to return to his hotel.

  The gruff, petulant man at the desk told him he had to report to the police. For the first time in eight years he felt true terror and realized instantly that such terror can never be outgrown: It was the same touch of ice against the bare back, the same heaviness in his feet that he remembered so well from years gone by.

  The police occupied an obscure, foul-smelling building down the street from the hotel. Mahmud took his place in a long line of sullen, listless people. On the other side of the railing, the policemen were sitting reading newspapers. Total silence reigned in the big, crowded room: The police were reading, and no one in the line dared so much as whisper. Then, the station suddenly opened for business. The police scraped their chairs back and forth, rummaged through their desks, and began cursing their waiting clients with the choicest obscenities.

  Where does this universal boorishness come from? wondered the frightened Mahmud. When his turn came, the police gave him a questionnaire and told him to fill it out immediately. He kept hesitating over each item and noticed that the whole room was watching him suspiciously. Terrified, he began writing nervously and awkwardly as if he were semi-illiterate. He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead, discovered he had forgotten his handkerchief, and began perspiring all the more.

  After handing in the questionnaire he hurried out into the street and, walking along distractedly, ran into another pedestrian. The stranger started cursing him. Some passers-by stopped to gawk and in this way Mahmud committed a crime—his behavior had provoked a gathering. The law forbade all unauthorized assemblies. A policeman showed up and Mahmud had to explain that it was all an accident and that not a word had been spoken against the Shah during the whole contretemps. Nevertheless the policeman took down his name and address and pocketed a thousand rials.

  Mahmud returned downcast to the hotel. The police had already written his name down—twice, in fact. He started thinking about what would happen if the two entries were brought together somehow. Then he consoled himself with the thought that it might all vanish in the bureaucracy's bottomless confusion.

  His brother came by in the morning and Mahmud told him, as soon as they had greeted each other, that the police already had his name twice. Wouldn't it be wiser, he asked, to go back to London?

  Mahmud's brother wanted to talk, but he pointed to the light fixture, telephone, electrical outlets, and night lamp; let's take a ride in the suburbs, he said. In the brother's old, beat-up car they headed for the mountains. When the road grew deserted they parked. It was March, with a keen wind and snow piled all around. They hid behind a tall boulder and stood there shivering.

  ("It was then that my brother told me I had to stay because the revolution had begun and I would be needed. 'What revolution? Are you mad?' I asked. All disturbances frightened me, and in general I can't stand politics. Every day I practice yoga, read poetry, and translate. What do I need politics for? But my brother told me I didn't understand anything and proceeded to explain. The starting point, he said, was Washington. That was where our fate would be decided. 'Right now, Jimmy Carter is talking about human rights. The Shah will have to pay attention. He has to stop using torture, release some prisoners, and create at least the appearance of democracy. That will be enough to get us started!' My brother was becoming excited, and I hushed him even though there was no one around. During this meeting he handed me a typescript of more than two hundred pages. It was a memorandum by the writer Ali Asqara Jawadi—an open letter to the Shah. In it, Jawadi wrote about the current crisis, about the subjugation of the country, and the scandals of the monarchy. My brother said that the document was circulating secretly and that people were making more copies of it. 'Now,' he added, 'we are waiting to see how the Shah responds. Whether Jawadi goes to jail or not. For the time being he is getting threatening telephone calls but nothing more. There is a café he comes to—you'll be able to talk to him.' I replied I was afraid to meet someone who was surely under surveillance.")

  They went back to the city, where Mahmud locked himself in his room and spent the night reading the memorandum. Jawadi accused the Shah of destroying the moral foundations of the country. All thinking, he wrote, was being annihilated, and the most enlightened people were being silenced. Culture found itself behind bars or had to go underground. Jawadi warned that you could not measure progress by the number of tanks and machines. Man, with his sense of liberty and dignity, was the measure of progress. As he read, Mahmud listened for footsteps in the corridor.

  The next day he worried about what to do with the typescript. Not wanting to leave it in his room, he took it with him. But as he walked down the street he realized that such a bundle of paper looked suspicious, so he bought a newspaper, which he folded around the typescript. Even so, he was in constant fear of being stopped and searched. It was the worst in the hotel lobby, where he was certain the package attracted attention. So he decided to limit his comings and goings, just to be on the safe side.

  Mahmud tried gradually to find out what had happened to his old friends, his university classmates. Some, unfortunately, had died, many had emigrated, and a few were in jail. At last, though, he managed to track down several current addresses. At the university he called on Ali Kaidi, an old companion on mountain excursions. Kaidi had become a professor of botany, a specialist in sclerophyllous plants. Cautiously, Mahmud asked him about the situation in the country. Kaidi thought for a moment and said that for years he had devoted all his time to sclerophyllous plants. He went on to develop the topic, saying that sclerophyllous plants were to be found i
n areas with specific climatic conditions: rain in winter, summers hot and dry. In winter, it was ephemeral species like the therophytes and geophytes that flourished, while in summer it was the xerophytes, which had the ability to limit their transpiration. Mahmud, to whom these words meant nothing, asked his friend in a general way whether major events could be expected. Kaidi again fell to musing and began after a while to talk about the splendid crown of the Atlantic cedar (Cedrus atlanticus). "And yet," he added, warming to the subject, "I have examined the Himalayan cedar (Cedrus deodora), which grows in our country, and I must say that it is even more beautiful!"

  Another day he came across an old friend with whom he had tried to write a play at school. Now this friend had become mayor of Karaj. The mayor invited Mahmud to dinner at a good restaurant, and near the end of the meal the latter asked about the mood of society. The mayor did not want to go beyond the affairs of his town. In Karaj, he said, they were asphalting the main roads. They had begun to build a sewer system, which even Teheran lacked. The crushing avalanche of numbers and jargon convinced Mahmud he had asked the wrong question. But he made up his mind to press on and inquired of his old schoolmate what was the most common subject of conversation in his city. "How should I know? Their own problems. These people don't think. Nothing matters to them. They are lazy, apolitical, and they can't see past the ends of their noses. The problems of Iran, indeed! What do they care?" And he went on talking about how they had built a new paraldehyde factory and were going to cover the country with their paraldehyde. Mahmud felt like an ignoramus, a relic, because he didn't even know what the word meant. "And, generally speaking," he asked his friend, "don't you have any bigger problems to worry about?" The other man replied, "And how!" He leaned over the table and whispered, "The output of these new factories is only fit to be thrown away. Trash and scrap. People don't want to work, and they don't give a damn about what they produce. Everywhere there's the same listlessness, some kind of vague, sullen resistance. The whole country is stuck on a sandbar." "But why?" Mahmud demanded. "I can't say," his friend answered, sitting up and beckoning to the waiter. "It's hard for me to say"—and Mahmud watched as the frank soul of the sometime schoolboy dramatist, having emerged for a moment to voice some unusual words, swiftly disappeared again behind a barricade of generators, conveyors, relays, and control keys.