I WENT TO talk with Ahmad Ghazi, editor of Sirwe, which means “word.” The first and oldest continuously published Kurdish magazine in Iran, Sirwe was founded in 1985, and Mr. Ghazi became editor one year later. Prior to becoming editor, during the time of Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi, Mr. Ghazi was also imprisoned for four years for his political activities.
Sirwe’s offices filled several airy upstairs rooms on a side street in downtown Urumieh. When I arrived, I found a small, round-faced man in his sixties waiting for me. Dressed in pants belted high on his waist and a button-down shirt, Mr. Ghazi spoke excellent, British-inflected English, perfected during his first career as a teacher.
The Iranian Kurds lived mostly in three provinces in northwestern Iran, Mr. Ghazi said, welcoming me with a glass of tea, which most Iranian Kurds drink Persian-style: through a sugar cube in the mouth. In the northernmost province, Western Azerbaijan, to which Urumieh belonged, Kurds spoke the Kermanji dialect and shared their territory with the Azeri Turks, a Turkic people with whom the Kurds often do not get along. The central province, Kurdistan, with its capital of Sanandaj, was almost 100 percent Kurdish, and its people spoke the Sorani dialect. And the southernmost province, Kermanshah, was again only part Kurdish and part other ethnic groups, most notably Lur and Persian. Most Kurds of Kermanshah also spoke Sorani, but at the edge of the province, bordering Iraq, lived the Hawraman, a “small and special colony” who spoke Gorani—a non-Kurdish Iranian dialect. They lived much closer to their traditional ways than did most other Iranian Kurds.
Another large group of Kurds lived separate from the rest in the Khorasan province of eastern Iran. They were the descendants of the tens of thousands of Kurds brutally deported from their homelands by the Safavids in the 1500s, to prevent them from siding with the Ottomans.
As in Iraq, most Iranian Kurds were Sunni Muslim, and of the Shafiite school, one of the four branches of Sunni Islam, which set them apart from the Arab and Turkish Sunnis in the region, most of whom were Hanafite. However, like the vast majority of Iranians, at least one-third of Iranian Kurds were Shiite, while others were Ahl-e Haqq. Both the Shiite and Ahl-e Haqq Kurds lived mostly in Kermanshah and neighboring Ilam.
“One-third of Iranian Kurds are Shiite?” I asked, surprised at the large number.
“At least, and one of the difficulties we have is that the Shiite Kurds don’t join the Kurdish movements—cultural or political,” Mr. Ghazi said. “This is beginning to change, but historically, the Shiite and Sunni Kurds have kept apart.”
About two-thirds of Iranian Kurds now lived in large towns and cities. But even for those who remained in the villages, life had changed dramatically over the past twenty years. “Even the most rural areas now have schools, roads, electricity,” he said. “There’s a satellite television in almost every village. Illiteracy is going down, and we have universities in Mahabad, Sanandaj, Kermanshah, and other Kurdish cities.”
Some tribal pockets did still exist, especially in the far northern and southern Kurdish lands, where the terrain was exceptionally mountainous—i.e., out of reach of the central authorities—and well suited for animal husbandry. A few genuine nomads could even be found. “But fortunately, these pockets are few,” Mr. Ghazi said.
“ ‘Fortunately’?” I was puzzled at his word choice.
“The breakdown of the tribes has been very good for the Kurdish people,” he said. “The tribals were very traditional and fanatic. They were a great obstacle to our unity, governments played them easily off against each other. Fifty years ago, we weren’t a nation, we were tribes, and the leaders of our nationalist movements were heads of big families, like Barzani and Qazi Mohammed [leader of the 1946 Kurdish Republic in Mahabad]. But now, everyone feels our nationalism. We are learning from each other, getting stronger. And the same is true for the Kurds in Iraq and Turkey.”
I’d heard similar thoughts expressed in Iraqi Kurdistan, but only now did their full irony hit home to me. How strange that traditional Kurdish culture, or at least an important aspect of traditional Kurdish culture, has to be destroyed in order for modern Kurdish culture to flourish.
“Do you think the Kurds will have their own country one day?” I asked.
Mr. Ghazi hesitated. “The time for fighting is finished,” he said, echoing another statement often heard in Iraq. “We must now work for Kurdish rights through politics and other ways. But life is changing rapidly in the Middle East altogether. We have satellite TV and the Internet, we are in contact with others all over the world. . . . And I believe that a hundred years from now, borders will be regarded as a small thing.”
I then asked Mr. Ghazi to compare the situation of the Iranian Kurds before and after the 1979 Islamic revolution. Before the revolution, Iran had been ruled by Reza Shah Pahlavi and his son Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi, both strong-armed authoritarian kings. After coming to power in 1923, Reza Shah had dragged the then-undeveloped nation into the twentieth century at a relentless clip, not only settling its nomadic peoples and establishing a strong central government, but also brooking no dissent and banning the wearing of the hejab, or Islamic covering for women—much to the horror of traditional believers. Mohammed Reza Shah, though a milder version of his father in some ways, had continued Reza Shah’s policies of modernization, repression, and the denigration of Islam, while also forming a close alliance with the United States, establishing a powerful secret police known as SAVAK, and spending millions of petro-dollars—much needed elsewhere—on a sophisticated military arsenal.
By the late 1970s, many Iranians had had enough. Taking to the streets by the hundreds of thousands, they forced Mohammed Reza to flee Iran, to be replaced by the pious Shiite leader Ayatollah Khomeini, called back from exile in France. Representing all that the shahs were not, Ayatollah Khomeini and his supporters established the world’s first Islamic Republic, to be governed in accordance with sharia. Women were forced to wear the hejab, an Islamic school curriculum was established, strict religious observance was expected, and all Western influences, including alcohol and music, were outlawed.
As a people who had been brutally repressed by the Shahs Pahlavi, the Kurds initially supported the revolution, seeing a chance to gain autonomy. During the 1970s, several dissident mullahs hid out in Kurdish territory and when in exile, Ayatollah Khomeini expressed sympathy for the Kurdish cause. But after the revolution, these quasi-promises were quietly forgotten. Khomeini cracked down on Kurdistan as early as August 1979.
“During the time of the shah, we could say we were Kurds, but we couldn’t publish a book, or read a Kurdish poem in public,” Mr. Ghazi said. “And many were in prison because of their political activities. I was in prison because I talked about autonomy, nothing more. It was a very bad time for the Kurds.
“With this Islamic regime, we have fought politically also, and after the revolution, conditions were very bad. There were many shot, many fled, it was unbearable. But now, especially culturally, things are much better. We have many publishing centers, we have about twenty representatives in parliament, we can vote freely. In the time of the shah, the Kurdish language and culture was being forgotten little by little, but now, it is blossoming.”
“Did this happen before or after President Khatami?” I asked, referring to the moderate leader elected by a surprise landslide vote in 1997. Though much thwarted by the conservatives who largely control the Iranian government, Khatami has ushered in a period of some reform.
“The process began in the mid-1980s, but hastened in the time of Khatami. Since his election we have many more cultural publications and can speak more openly. Our faction in parliament is pressuring the government for more Kurdish rights . . .
“Of course, we still suffer much discrimination. We are not allowed to speak of the destiny of Kurdistan or criticize too much. But I believe our situation is improving.”
OTHER IRANIAN KURDISH intellectuals I met did not have as rosy an outlook as did Mr. Ghazi. After all, Kurdish political parties
were still illegal in Iran and demonstrations were forbidden—although they took place. The Kurds had little administrative control over their own districts and, despite many parliamentarians, had no governors or ministers. Kurdistan was significantly poorer and less developed than was most of Iran, with few large factories or businesses, and extremely high rates of unemployment. The regime’s Revolutionary Guards also kept a close eye on the Kurds, quick to throw into prison anyone suspected of political activity. Hundreds of Kurds were said to be languishing in Iranian jails, and three Kurdish activists were executed in the year before my visit.
Among the more pessimistic intellectuals I spoke with was Bahram Valadbaigy, director of Tehran’s Kurdistan Cultural Institute. Only established in 2001, the institute was widely regarded as an important step forward for the Iranian Kurds—their first formal cultural institute.
The institute had four basic objectives, Mr. Valadbaigy told me through a translator on the afternoon we met. One was to develop a standardized written Kurdish. Another was to strengthen relationships with the Kurds of Iraq and Turkey through such things as student and cultural exchange programs. In addition, the institute advised and supported various Kurdish student publications, and published its own magazine.
Serious problems with the Islamic regime had already arisen over this last venture. The first issue of the magazine had run several political essays, and so the government had suspended its publication and was threatening to close the institute.
“There are many Kurdish publications in Iran now, but it makes no difference,” Mr. Valadbaigy said with bitterness. “We still can’t write about anything except folklore and culture. Tradition, only tradition . . . How does this help the Kurds? Our country has not improved. Khatami has done nothing. We were in the Islamic revolution and expected to gain our part. But all we have gained is war, fighting, poverty. . . .”
“But isn’t the situation better now than during the time of the shah?” I asked, remembering Mr. Ghazi.
“Yes, but only because now they allow us to breathe!” Mr. Valadbaigy said. “But that is not enough! You cannot compare now to then. And why do we have a better situation? Because we fought for it! Many died for it. It was not a gift.”
Nonetheless, Mr. Valadbaigy did agree with Mr. Ghazi on one important point. “Fighting has failed,” he said. “And the world has changed. We must now use other ways to achieve our goals.”
MAHABAD, ABOUT A ninety-minute drive south of Urumieh, was prettier than I expected. Perhaps because of its volatile political history, I’d imagined the place to be flat, harsh, and scraggly. Instead I found a clean, orderly town, population about two hundred thousand, surrounded by wide rolling hills, with fields and orchards in the foreground, smoky whipped peaks in the distance. Many streets were lined with trees, while here and there stood traffic circles and plazas, marked by statues and the occasional shrine. Mahabad had its share of Internet cafés as well, and an all-pedestrian street bustling with families and shrouded women in the late afternoon, boys and men after the sun went down.
Showing me around Mahabad my first afternoon there was Rojeen, a striking Kurdish woman in her mid-twenties, whom I met while traveling in a collective taxi from Urumieh. Rojeen didn’t share my opinion regarding her good looks, however. She planned to get a nose job as soon as her life calmed down a bit. Try as I might, I couldn’t see any way in which her looks could be improved—her nose, straight and of average size, seemed perfect to me. But I had read that nose jobs were all the rage in Tehran, and Rojeen was a fashion-conscious Tehrani.
Rojeen, who spoke some English but no Kurdish, was in Mahabad for only a few days, on one of her biweekly trips to take care of her family’s estate. Her father, the son of a leading Mahabad family, had died of a heart attack three months before, and her mother was in no condition to look after anything. As the eldest of five daughters, it was up to Rojeen to make sure that the family’s orchards were running smoothly.
As Rojeen and I talked more, I realized that she came from an unusual family. Two of her great-grandfathers had been powerful Kurdish aghas, one living in Mahabad, the other in nearby Bukan. When her grandmother married, they laid out a red carpet all the way between the two towns—well, at least some of the way, Rojeen amended. But her grandmother had moved to Tehran when Rojeen’s father was seventeen or eighteen, and all the rest of her ten children had grown up there, learning only rudimentary Kurdish. Most had also married Persians, while their mother had become “very up-to-date,” learning how to read and write, and becoming a film buff. “My grandmother is eighty years old, but always improving herself!” Rojeen said, laughing.
Rojeen’s father had also been unusual. When his wife bore no sons, he was pressured to take a second wife, but he refused. He loved his wife and daughters deeply and felt no need for a son. “When I was born, my father took me in his arms,” Rojeen said. “And some in my family said, ‘Why are you doing that? You are an important man, and she is only a girl.’ But my father was happy, he never cared I was a girl.”
“Do people still care so much about having boys today?”
“Some people care,” Rojeen said, “but not like before. And for the new generation, it’s very different. We don’t care at all. Some have only one child, no problem. Some have no children, no problem.”
“What about honor killings?” I asked somewhat hesitantly, but wanting to take advantage of the turn in the conversation.
“What?” Rojeen had never heard of honor killings, and neither had any of the young urban Kurds I met later in Sanandaj and Kermanshah. Middle-aged Kurds knew what I was talking about, but except in the traditional Hawraman region, most told me that they hadn’t heard of an occurrence in years.
“No one kills a woman for sex before marriage,” Rojeen said after I had explained, “but women are expected to be virgins when they marry.”
Rojeen herself had already been married and divorced. Her husband had been a handsome Kurdish doctor, but he hadn’t liked the way she dressed—she’d shown too much leg. Also, he didn’t enjoy going to parties, which Rojeen adored. She’d felt trapped and unhappy. Her parents had supported her in her decision to divorce, and now she was “very okay. I have a boyfriend, I am free.” She did not intend to marry again for at least three or four years.
Hardly a typical Iranian woman, but then again, not altogether atypical either. On my earlier visit to Iran, I had met many strong and independent women pushing the envelope of traditional Islamic society, especially in Tehran.
Our tour of the downtown finished, we headed out of the city, to Rojeen’s family orchards, passing hills so shiny they seemed plated with gold. From the tape deck came the music of Kamkar, a family of musicians from Sanandaj, whose songs are known around the world. Rojeen drove— women drivers were accepted in Mahabad, she said. It was a relatively liberal city, though nowhere near as open as Tehran, of course.
“Why are you wearing black?” Rojeen asked me, suddenly changing the topic. “I must, because of my father, but why are you?”
“What do you mean?” I looked down at my shapeless black manteau— the French word for “coat” usually used in Iran—that I’d purchased on my first trip to the Islamic Republic in 1998.
“No one wears black anymore,” Rojeen said.
Strictly speaking, that was not true. Most of the women on the streets still wore black. But now I knew what she was talking about. My manteau was badly out of style. Arriving in Tehran about two weeks earlier, I’d been shocked to see the amorphous black manteaus of my earlier visit replaced by tight, tunic-length coats of maroons, greens, and tans. Despite all the discouraging news that had come out of Iran since 1998—including crackdowns on the liberal press and arrests of liberal politicians—the atmosphere on the streets had lightened up. People were depressed over the failure of the moderate President Khatami to institute as much reform as they’d hoped, and yet, in some intangible way, they also seemed more buoyant— or perhaps the word was brazen—t
han they had before. Suddenly, it seemed, everyone had cell phones, everyone was on the Internet. The Tehran streets had been cleaned up, many of the once-ubiquitous murals of Iran-Iraq War martyrs removed, and more Westerners were in town.
Rojeen’s family orchards grew apples and apricots as far as the eye could see. Her father had been a wealthy man who, like many prominent members of tribal families in Iran today, had operated as an absentee landlord. But Rojeen and her sisters had inherited only fifty of his hectares, in accordance with Islamic law, because the family had no sons. The other fifty had gone to male relatives. “It is still good because we have enough, but it is bad psychologically,” said Rojeen.
Not far from the orchards was the FARHRIGAE STONE MASOLEUM, as a nearby sign read, though “Faqraqa” was a closer transliteration. It was one of Mahabad’s must-see attractions, and yet when I went to visit it the following evening—with other companions, as Rojeen was working—at first there seemed to be nothing there. Parking our car on a silent dirt road, we walked at least a half-mile through an empty field bristling with sharp, pointy grasses. The crescent moon was rising, and I cursed under my breath as I stumbled in the semidarkness up an increasingly steep slope riddled with depressions and boulders. Then, the ancient tombs suddenly appeared, three black holes separated by columns yawning above—tantalizingly, mysteriously, just out of reach. The tombs probably dated back to the early period of the Medes, a people who lived in the region from about the 800s to the 500s B.C. Once, the Medes controlled an area that extended from the Caspian Sea in the north to the Zagros Mountains in the south to the ancient Assyrian capital of Niveneh in the west—in short, the land of the Kurds. Many Kurds believe the Medes to be their direct ancestors, perhaps making the Faqraqa tombs one of the oldest of Kurdish sightseeing attractions.
A Thousand Sighs, A Thousand Revolts Page 33