by Rick Steves
Why was Iran letting us in? They actually want to boost Western tourism. I would think this might frighten the Iranian government, since tourists could bring in unwanted ideas (like those that prompted the USSR to restrict tourism). But Iran wants more visitors nonetheless. They also believe that the Western media have made their culture look menacing, and never show its warm, human, and gracious side. They did lots of background research on me and my work, and apparently concluded that my motives were acceptable. They said that, while they’d had problems with other American network crews, they’d had good experiences with PBS film crews.
Not that we were planning to glorify Iran. While I was excited to learn about the rich tapestry of Iranian culture and history, I also recognized that I couldn’t ignore some of the fundamental cultural differences. I felt a responsibility to show the reality that women face in Iran, and to try to understand why Iranians always seem to be chanting “Death to America.” We wanted to be free-spirited and probing, but not abuse the trust of the Iranian government.
Our “welcome” included building-sized anti-US murals showing American flags with stars of skulls and dropping bombs painting the stripes.
As the plane touched down, I felt a wince of anxiety. This was a strange land for me—and therefore frightening. We had considered leaving our big camera in Greece and just taking the small one. Nervous even about the availability of electricity, I had made sure all my electrical stuff was charged up before leaving Greece. And there were questions: How free would we actually be? Would the hotel rooms be bugged? Was there really absolutely no alcohol—even in fancy hotels? Would crowds gather around us, and then suddenly turn angry?
I was about to set foot in what just might be the most surprising land I’ve ever visited.
Tehran: Iran’s Mile-High Metropolis
By my first night in Tehran, it was already clear that Iran was an intriguing and complex paradox: playful Revolutionary Guards, four-lane highways intersecting with no traffic lights, “Death to America” murals, and big, warm, welcoming smiles.
Tehran, a youthful and noisy capital city, is the modern heart of this country. It’s a smoggy, mile-high metropolis. With a teeming population of 14 million in the metropolitan area, its apartment blocks stretch far into the surrounding mountains.
I stepped out onto the 15th-floor balcony of my fancy hotel room to hear the hum of the city. I enjoyed the view of a vast, twinkling city at twilight. Fresh snow capped the mountains above the ritzy high-rise condos of North Tehran.
As I looked straight down, I noticed the hotel’s entryway buzzing with activity, as it was hosting a conference on Islamic unity. The circular driveway was lined by the flags of 30 nations. Huge collections of flags seemed to be common in Iran—perhaps because it provided a handy opportunity to exclude the Stars and Stripes. (The only American flags I saw during the trip were the ones featured in hateful political murals.)
A van with an X-ray security checkpoint was permanently parked outside the entrance, carefully examining the bags of each visitor. It was interesting to see that Iran, a country we feel we need to protect ourselves from, had its own security headaches.
Back in my room, I nursed a tall glass of pomegranate juice. My lips were puckered from munching lemony pistachios from an elegantly woven tray—the best I’ve ever tasted (and I am a pistachio connoisseur). I cruised the channels on my TV: CNN, BBC, and—rather than shopping channels—lots of programming designed to set the mood for prayer. One channel showed a mesmerizing river with water washing lovingly over shiny rocks. Another featured the sun setting on Mecca, with live coverage of the pilgrim action at the Kaaba. I was a long way from home…and ready to explore.
Freedom to Film, or to Connect with Locals
The nuts and bolts of filming in Iran were challenging. Our 12-day Iran shoot included Tehran, Esfahan, Shiraz, and Persepolis. I traveled with my typical skeleton crew of three: Simon Griffith (director), Karel Bauer (cameraman), and me. We also had the help of two Iranian guides: One was an Iranian-American friend who lived in Seattle. The other was appointed by the Iranian government to be with us at all times. This combination was interesting…and tricky.
Traveling through Iran as a film crew presented us with some unique hurdles. On the first day, we dropped by the foreign press office to get our press badges. A beautiful and properly covered woman took mug shots for our badges and carefully confirmed the pronunciation of our names in order to transliterate them into Farsi.
The travel agency—overseen by the “Ministry of Islamic Guidance”—assigned us what they called a “guide,” but what I’d call a “government minder.” Our guide/minder, Seyed, was required to follow our big camera wherever it went—even if that meant climbing on the back of a motorcycle taxi to follow our cameraman as he filmed a “point-of-view” shot through wild traffic. When he wasn’t holding on for dear life, Seyed slipped a tiny camera out of his pocket and documented our shoot by filming us as we filmed Iran.
Our guide Seyed was expected to follow our camera at all times. Hang on tight and follow that taxi!
While this sounds constraining, Seyed proved to be a big help to our production. Whenever we filmed a place of commercial or religious importance, a plainclothes security guard would appear. Then we’d wait around while Seyed explained who we were and what we were doing. No single authority was in charge—many arms of government overlapped and made rules that conflicted with each other. Seyed made our filming possible…or told us when it wasn’t.
Permission to film somewhere was limited to a specific time window. Even if we were allowed to film a certain building on a given day, it didn’t mean we could shoot it on a different day, or from the balcony of an adjacent tea house (where we didn’t have permission), or from an angle, for instance, that showed a bank (since banks cannot be filmed).
My critics back home skeptically predicted that our access would be very limited—to only the prettiest sights. (Meanwhile, Iranians I met were convinced that I’d doctor our footage to make Iran look ugly and dangerous.) In reality, it was far less restrictive than we’d expected. Some subjects were forbidden for reasons of security (banks, government, military) or modesty (“un-veiled” women). But because we weren’t filming an “exposé,” we were allowed to shoot all that we needed to—including some provocative subjects, such as anti-American or anti-Israeli murals (more on these later).
We were free to talk to and film people on the street, but this was a bit difficult. When our camera was rolling, it reminded me of my early trips to the USSR, when only those with nothing to lose would risk talking openly. At other times, such as when the crew was busy setting up a shot, I was free to roam about on my own and have fun meeting the locals. I have never traveled to a place where I had such an easy and enjoyable time connecting with people. Iranians were as confused and fascinated by me as I was by them.
Routinely I’d look up from my note-taking and see Iranians gathered, curious, and wanting to talk.
Bombast and the “Axis of Evil”
Even from the first moments of this trip, it was clear that the people of Iran would be the biggest joy of our visit. Iranians consider visitors to be a gift from God…and treat them that way.
People greeted me with a smile. Invariably, they asked where I was from. I often said, “You tell me.” They guessed and guessed, running through five or six countries before giving up. When I finally told them, “America,” they’d be momentarily shocked. They seemed to be thinking, “I thought Americans hate us. Why would one be here like this?” The smile left their face. Then a bigger smile came back as they said, “Welcome!” or “I love America!”
Welcoming travelers is a traditional Muslim value…and being an American makes you the most popular kid in the village.
In a hundred such interactions in our 12 days in Iran, never once did my saying “I am an American” result in anything less than a smile or a kind of “Ohhh, you are rich and strong,” or “People and people together no problem, but
I don’t like your Mr. Bush.” (It seemed that Iranians liked our president as much as Americans liked Iran’s.) I found it ironic that during the Bush years, Americans found they were better off keeping a low profile in most foreign countries. But in a country I was told hated me, my nationality was a real plus absolutely everywhere I went.
The disparity between the warm welcome I received and the “Axis of Evil” and “Death to America” bickering of our two governments got me thinking about bombast and history.
The word “axis” conjures up images of the alliance of Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito that our fathers and grandfathers fought in World War II. People in these countries now believe that each of these leaders helped maintain his power with his ability to stir the simplistic side of his electorate with bombast. Today, such exaggerated rhetoric still hogs the headlines, skewing understanding between the mainstream of each country.
During my visit, Iran’s president was Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who had achieved a kind of Hugo Chavez notoriety around the West for his wild and provocative statements and actions: calling for Israel to be “wiped off the map,” denying the existence of the Holocaust, insisting on Iran’s right to nuclear arms, and persecuting gay people in Iran. Ahmadinejad was an ideologue, and Americans who found him outrageous were fully justified.
But, much as we might viscerally disagree with Ahmadinejad—or other Iranian rulers—it’s dangerous to simply dismiss them as madmen. To these people, and to their followers, their logic does make sense: If Germany killed the Jews, why are Palestinians (rather than Germans) being displaced to house the survivors? Everyone in Iran seemed to understand—better, perhaps, than we foreigners—that Ahmadinejad was more extreme than the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. And, crucially, the Supreme Leader is more powerful than the president. Many locals I talked with discounted Ahmadinejad’s most outrageous claims as overstatements intended to shore up his political base. While that doesn’t justify the hateful images and slogans I couldn’t avoid as I explored his country, it might help explain them.
Meanwhile, Iranians get just as fired up about the rhetoric of American politicians. During our visit (in the summer of 2008), Iranians were buzzing about the potential presidencies of John McCain (who jokingly rewrote the lyrics of the Beach Boys’ classic song, “Barbara Ann,” to become “bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran”) or Hillary Clinton (who said she would “obliterate” Iran if it attacked Israel). For Iranians, hearing high-profile representatives of the world’s lone superpower talk this way was terrifying. Unfortunately, that fear enables people like Ahmadinejad to demonize America in order to stay in power.
Iranian government propaganda depicts the US and Israel as sinister partners in a quest for global domination.
Like our children start each school day pledging “allegiance to one nation, under God,” Iranian kids are taught their nation’s values. Rather than marketing products to consume, billboards sell an ideology. Some are uplifting (Shia scripture reminding people there is wisdom in compassion). Many others glorify heroes who died as martyrs, taunt the US, cheer for Hezbollah, trumpet “Death to America” and “Death to Israel,” and so on. These murals mix fear, religion, patriotism, and a heritage of dealing with foreign intervention.
Most Iranians genuinely like Americans.
Many things I experienced in Iran fit the negative image that I’d seen back home. But the more I traveled there, the more apparent it became that the standard, media-created image of Iran in the USA was not the whole story. I simply couldn’t reconcile the fear-mongering and hate-filled billboards with the huge smiles and genuine hospitality we received on the ground.
Ask anyone who has lived in a country where they disagree with the leaders: Attention-grabbing bombast does not necessarily reflect the feelings of the man or woman on the street. Throughout my visit, I kept thinking: Politicians come and go. The people are here to stay.
Death to… Whatever!
Traffic is notorious in Tehran. Drivers may seem crazy, but I was impressed by their expertise at keeping things moving. At some major intersections, there were no lights—eight lanes would come together at right angles, and everyone just shuffled through. The people are great drivers, and, somehow, it works. (It inspired me to drive more aggressively when I got home.)
Cars merge through major intersections without traffic lights as if that’s the norm. Surprisingly…it works.
While the traffic is hair-raising, it’s not noisy. Because of a history of motorcycle bandits and assassinations, only smaller, less powerful (and therefore quieter) motorcycles are allowed. To get somewhere in a hurry, motorcycle taxis are a blessing. While most Iranians ignore helmet laws, I was more cautious. While being handed a helmet with paint scuffed onto it, I was warned, “It’s better to leave a little paint on passing buses than a piece of scalp.”
Adding to the chaotic traffic mix are pedestrians, doing their best to navigate the wild streets. Locals joke that when you set out to cross a big street, you “go to Chechnya” (the region of Russia infamously torn by civil strife). I was told that Iran loses more than 30,000 people on the roads each year (in cars and on foot).
While in Tehran, we were zipped smoothly around by Majid, our driver. Majid navigated our eight-seater bus like a motor scooter, weaving in and out of traffic that stayed in its lanes like rocks in a landslide. To illustrate how clueless I was in Iran, for three days I called him “Najaf.” And whenever a bit of filming went well and we triumphantly returned to the car, I gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. But finally Majid patiently explained that I’d been confusing his name with a city in Iraq…and that giving someone a thumbs-up in Iran is like giving them the finger.
While the traffic is enough to make you scream, people are incredibly good-humored on the road. I never heard angry horns honking. While stalled in a Tehran jam, people in a neighboring car saw me sitting patiently in the back of our van: a foreigner stuck in their traffic. They rolled down their window and handed Majid a bouquet of flowers, saying, “Give this to your visitor and apologize for our traffic.” When the traffic jam broke up, we moved on—with a bouquet from strangers on my lap.
But traffic can be aggravating, too. Later, as we struggled to drive along a horribly congested street, Majid suddenly declared, “Death to traffic.” This outburst caught my attention. I said, “I thought it was ‘Death to America.’” He explained, “No, right now, it’s ‘Death to traffic.’” I asked him to explain. He said, “Here in Iran, when something frustrates us and we have no control over it, this is what we say. ‘Death to traffic. Death to…whatever.’”
The casual tone of Majid’s telling aside made me think differently about one of the biggest concerns many Americans have about Iranians: Their penchant for declaring “Death to” this and that. Did Majid literally want to kill all those drivers that were in our way?
The experience made me wonder if Iranians’ “Death to” curses are not so different from Westerners who exclaim, “Damn those French” or “Damn this traffic jam.” If we say, “Damn those teenagers,” do we really want them to die and burn in hell for eternity? No. Just turn down the music.
Don’t get me wrong: All those “Death to America” and “Death to Israel” murals are impossible to justify. But they seemed so incongruous with the gregarious people I met. Do the Iranians literally wish “death” to the US and Israel? Or is it a mix of language barrier, international road rage, fear, frustration—and the seductive clarity of a catchy slogan?
In this mural (filling the entire wall of a building), martyrs walk heroically into the sunset of death for God and country.
No Credit Cards, Alcohol… or Urinals
While pondering weighty issues can be thought-provoking, the little everyday differences you encounter while traveling are vividly memorable. As I journeyed through Iran, my notebook filled with quirky observations. One moment, I’d be stirred by propaganda murals encouraging young men to walk into the blazing sunset of martyrdom. The next, a
woman in a bookstore served me cookies while I browsed. Then, as I was about to leave without buying anything, she gave me—free of charge—a book I’d admired.
In a bookstore, a clerk patiently showed me fine poetry books. As we left, she gave me a book for free.
While English is the second language on many signs, and young, well-educated people routinely speak English, communication was often challenging. The majority of Iranians are ethnically Persian. Persians are not Arabs, and they don’t speak Arabic—they speak Persian (also called Farsi). This Persian/Arab difference is a very important distinction to the people of Iran. I heard over and over again, “We are not Arabs!”
The squiggly local script looked like Arabic to me, but I learned that, like the language, it’s Farsi. The numbers, however, are the same as those used in the Arab world. Thankfully, when I needed it, I found that they also use the same numbers we do.
Iran is a cash society. Because of the three-decade-old American embargo here, Western credit cards didn’t work. No ATMs for foreigners meant that I had to bring in big wads of cash…and learn to count carefully. The money came with lots of zeros. One dollar was equal to 10,000 rial. A toman is ten rial, and some prices are listed in rial, others in toman…a tourist rip-off just waiting to happen. I had a shirt laundered at the hotel for “20,000.” Was that in rial ($2)—or in toman ($20)?
While Washington made it on our one-dollar bill, Khomeini made it on every denomination in Iran.
People in Iran need to keep track of three different calendars: Persian (for local affairs), Islamic (for religious affairs), and Western (for dealing with the outside world). What’s the year? It depends: After the great Persian empire—some 2,500 years ago; after Muhammad—about 1,390 years ago; or after Christ—just over 2,000 years ago.