I'm Writing You from Tehran

by Delphine Minoui

  In this great labyrinth, I took refuge in the words of the journalist Emadeddin Baghi before he wound up behind bars: “Don’t trust appearances.” He was the first one to have encouraged me to come to Qom. He said that it had become a hotbed of dissidence against the very theocracy that the city had bred. He said that you had to take your time, circumnavigate the facades to unveil the enigma. For it was there, in the shadows of the minarets, that the real duel between the reformists and their conservative adversaries took place. One side called for tolerance; the other wielded the sword of obscurantism. A war of religion, or, rather, of interpretation of religion. Islam against Islam.

  Ironically, the cleric best positioned to talk to me about all this was also behind lock and key, under house arrest. Forbidden from having visitors. Cut off from the world. His name was Ayatollah Hossein Ali Montazeri. This high-ranking religious man possessed the prestigious title of marja’ taqlid, “authority to follow,” the highest level in the Shiite religious hierarchy. Though I was unable to meet with him, his son, Ahmad, a friend of Baghi’s, granted me the discreet privilege of an interview in his office, which was attached to his father’s home.

  Nestled in a cul-de-sac, guarded by plainclothes cops, and under surveillance, the residence of the old cleric was bleak. As if the city’s moroseness had bled into its walls. Head lowered, face half-covered, I passed through the barrier incognito. Ahmad opened the door at the first ring. He was wearing baggy pants and a white shirt. He knew exactly why I was there and dispensed with the customary greetings. His office served as a reception area. Antiquated decor, strictly minimal: a library, a table, two chairs. Hardly had I sat at the table when Montazeri’s son immediately began the conversation. He clearly wanted to talk.

  “Our country is veering toward religious fascism!” he exclaimed straightaway, a clear allusion to the most recent events.

  Now I better understood why this man was so close to Baghi. With shameless sincerity, he expressed himself without affectation. A man of conviction, one who had learned the price of words so many times that he no longer scared himself into self-censorship. While talking, he let his gaze linger tenderly on a photo of his father. A small man with a round face split by thick, black-rimmed glasses, Ayatollah Montazeri was smiling. What a contrast with the austere portraits of Khamenei. And to think that a single partition separated this modest office from the family apartments where, cloistered, the dissident cleric lived. And to think that he was probably there, not far from us, behind the thick wall that constrained him to complete silence. Could he hear us? What did he do with his days? Did he regret this Islamic Republic after being one of its principal architects in 1979? It was a strange feeling to imagine this religious authority, former heir apparent to Ayatollah Khomeini, today a prisoner of a system that he had contributed, body and soul, to conceptualizing.

  Ahmad Montazeri handed me a cup of tea. Then he continued in the same determined tone:

  “My father thinks that we have to change with the times. Modernity is an intellectual defiance. Not a test of strength. For him, we can’t continue to use an archaic interpretation of religion; in doing so, we destroy its original meaning … The only way for the religious to save their reputations is to get out of politics.”

  Hearing this, I understood that no other person better symbolized the evolution of postrevolutionary Iran in the making than Montazeri. A native of Najafabad, twenty-seven miles west of Isfahan—they say he still has a bit of an accent from there—Hossein Ali Montazeri studied theology in Isfahan before heading to Qom, where Khomeini became his mentor. A real bond rapidly formed between the two men. The faithful disciple, once a prisoner in the shah’s jails, would even make a detour through the Parisian suburb of Neauphle-le-Château during the exile of the man who would become the icon of the Islamic Revolution. Together they would write the constitution. It defined Iran as a rule-of-law country, with a parliamentary system. Democratic in appearance, with its legislative and presidential elections, the Islamic Republic as they envisioned it was also ambiguously overseen by a divinely inspired authority: the famous concept of velayat-e faqih, or “Guardianship of the Islamic Jurist,” which, until the reappearance of Mehdi, the Twelfth Shiite Imam, grants the Supreme Leader responsibility over matters concerning the faithful. According to the legislative text, the exercise of velayat-e faqih had to be entrusted to “the just and pious faqih who is fully aware of the circumstances of his age; courageous, resourceful, and possessed of administrative ability; and recognized and accepted as leader by a decisive majority of the people.” But it was this redundancy in conformist adjectives that ultimately made abuses possible. According to varying interpretations, the power of the leader was, for certain people, absolute. For others, elective.

  Named “Friday prayer imam” and president of the Assembly of Experts, Montazeri was first presented as the intended successor of Imam Khomeini. The son of peasants, a man of the people, speaking simply, in common parlance, he had the skill to draw crowds and shared his mentor’s vehement hatred of “Western imperialism.” But over time, the honeymoon fizzled out. While the Iran-Iraq War was dragging on, Montazeri was the first to denounce the authorities’ justification for it. Too many lies, too much propaganda, too many deaths provoked by a conflict that, according to him, should have been brought to an end much earlier. Then, once the peace treaty was signed—once “the cup of poison” had been drunk, in Khomeini’s own words—Montazeri had dared rise up against the mass liquidation of thousands of the regime’s opponents. “Your secret police are no better than the shah’s were!” he wrote to Khomeini. It was one criticism too far. His mentor would never forgive him.

  When the Supreme Leader died, in 1989, another cleric would be named successor: Ali Khamenei, the president of the Islamic Republic since 1981. However, this mid-ranking religious man did not possess the attributes the post required. He hadn’t drafted the famous Risalat al-Huquq, the Treatise on Rights that permitted him to attain the title of “ayatollah.” His nomination quickly created unease among clerics. For many of them, Ali Khamenei had neither Khomeini’s aura nor his skills. An unprecedented debate on the essence of the role of Supreme Leader, taboo until then, had begun to rise quietly in certain Qom seminaries—progressively undermining Khamenei’s authority.

  Fallen from grace and ousted from power, Ayatollah Montazeri did not lay down his arms. After a brief silence, in 1997 he harnessed the winds of freedom roused by Khatami’s election to attempt the unimaginable: to call into question, through his writings, the arbitrary origin of the Supreme Leader’s absolute power. This was the ultimate offense in the eyes of his adversaries. A few months later, they pillaged his library and put him under house arrest.

  “According to my father,” Ahmad continued, “the velayat-e faqih has no divine legitimacy.” The faqih, or Islamic jurist, “must be democratically elected for a limited, revocable term. Election or divine authority? That’s the whole debate. For those at the center of government, this questioning was seen as a declaration of war. That’s why Papa was condemned to isolation.”

  The man may have been confined within four walls, but he had opened a breach. His ardor would rapidly inspire a whole new generation of mullahs. Without the zeal and support of Montazeri, who was idolized by the youth, the protesters in July 1999 might not have dared to chant publicly, “Death to Khamenei!” For, as hated as he was by the extremists, his status as marja’ taqlid gave him carte blanche to give advice, or fatwas, to his numerous followers.

  “If my father dares to criticize the system so fiercely, it’s because he has all the necessary legitimacy to do so … Because of his cultural and religious knowledge, he knows how it all works. He is thus able to reveal its paradoxes better than anyone else. Therein lies his danger to those in power,” his son continued.

  When viewed under a magnifying glass, the contradictions in the Iranian system are numerous. On one side, the democratic institutions, such as municipal councils, a parliament, an
d a president elected through popular vote (albeit one preselected by the Guardian Council, one example of the regime’s control). On the other side, a Supreme Leader with unlimited power. His direct control over the justice system, the police, and the powerful Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution made a “potential tyrant.” Which of the two sides will end up winning out?

  “We are in an unprecedented period of debate, but also of uncertainty. The foundations of the regime have never been so contested. The diversity of viewpoints is exploding in broad daylight. It’s a new experience. For now, the powers that be get by with the semblance of a vote. But could they stand up to a truly democratic election? In other words, can the velayat-e faqih coexist with democracy? “I really fear that if this situation arises, our leaders will favor force over the ballot box,” Ahmad whispered.

  Ten years later, in June 2009, his words would come back to me after the almost certainly rigged victory of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, supported by the Supreme Leader against the will of the people. Meanwhile, at the first signs of a discreet closing of conservative ranks, Ahmad Montazeri persisted in spreading his father’s progressive ideas. He was devoted, through thick and thin. Baghi was right. You had to look past appearances. Now that cracks had started to appear in the wall, it suddenly felt easier to breathe in the holy city.

  With the echo of the midday muezzin, I took my leave of Montazeri’s son. Before letting me go back to Tehran, he asked me to wait a second. I saw him disappear behind the door and return with a giant envelope.

  “These are my father’s ‘memoirs,’” he said, handing me the packet. “In them you’ll find the essence of his ideas.”

  The voluminous collection, thick with more than two hundred photocopied pages, had been censored, strictly forbidden from being published. But Montazeri’s followers distributed it secretly. I thanked his son with a nod, immediately making the imposing document disappear beneath my black veil. Then, without anyone noticing, I rushed into a taxi.

  Sometimes, the chador has its advantages.

  YOU, WHO VENERATED poets more than God, would have made fun of me: after my trip to Qom, I developed a fascination with mullahs.

  I wanted to know everything about them. I had every last one of their lectures translated. I kept an eye out for their gatherings. I memorized the names of the most progressive among them. One day, when I confided in a Swiss colleague about my new obsession, she gave me the contact information for a young cleric in Shahr-e Rey, a working-class suburb of Tehran. At twenty-six years old, Mehdi J. had just graduated from a religious seminary. Perfectly Anglophone, addicted to new technology, he had the incongruous dream of opening an Internet café right near his mosque.

  “Come see me before the hour of the prayer,” he had suggested in a jovial tone when I called.

  I hurried to my meeting without worrying about what would happen next.

  His modest brick-and-cement mosque was thick with people. The faithful arrived in scattered clusters from the four corners of the neighborhood. I immediately recognized Mehdi J. in the crowd by his white turban. He waited for me at the entrance, palm on his heart by way of welcome.

  “I’ll let you join the women upstairs,” he announced right away, gesturing toward an outside staircase.

  Surprised, I nodded my head. I had thought I would have time to speak to him before the prayer. Now I had to go join the women’s prayer room, on the upper floor, sheltered from male gazes. In single file, a dozen young girls quickly climbed the steps. The call of the muezzin had just started. Before disappearing to the men’s side, Mehdi J. simply added:

  “I told them you were Shiite. I hope that is okay with you?”

  Shiite? I was irreversibly Shiite. In Iran, religion is passed down through the father. Impossible to free yourself from it. From the moment I was born, unbeknownst to me, I had inherited that denomination, a branch of Islam that had broken away from Sunnism in the seventh century over a difference of opinion on the succession of Muhammad. Better, I was sadat, daughter of seyyed—in other words, a descendant of the Prophet. It was written in my Iranian passport. In black and white. Raised in a secular household, I had never questioned it. In France, God had deserted the schools a long time ago. Maman, raised by the nuns of the Couvent des Oiseaux, had distanced herself from religion after an overdose of Catholicism. For me, religion was just a game. As a young girl, I thought only of the “chips” eaten in church during the interminable communions of my French cousins. Or the sessions of leapfrog when, passing through Paris, Mamani occasionally unrolled her prayer rug in our living room to bow down toward Mecca at the hour of the azan. That day, in the middle of a Tehran suburb, even a little bit of religious background would have saved me from embarrassment.

  I followed the young Iranian women up the stairs. At the top of the steps, a wall hanging served as a door. On the other side was a narrow room, illuminated by a yellow lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The women were wearing ornate prayer veils. Like dragonflies clustered in tight formation. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” A concert of deep voices rose from the floor below. The echo from the women followed. “God is great, God is great.” A hand escaped from a veil to stroke my arm. A woman handed me a chador and a prayer stone. I had been invited to join the collective prayer! Without warning. Impossible to withdraw. I smiled and positioned myself behind the unknown woman who had invited me to participate in this ritual. I didn’t have a choice. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…” Caught off guard, I tried my best to follow the rhythm. Both eyes on the back of my hostess, I started to imitate her. On my knees. Head to the ground. Upright. Arms toward the sky. A real exercise. I was soaked with sweat. Eaten away by the fear of committing the tiniest faux pas.

  “Is your throat sore?” one of the worshippers asked me at the end of the prayer.

  “No, I pray to myself,” I responded, hoping to conceal my ignorance of the Quran.

  As I was leaving, Mehdi J. was already at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You did very well!” he exclaimed, winking.

  I was enraged at having been trapped. It was the first time in my life that I had prayed. And in Iran! The young mullah owed me an explanation. As soon as the door of his office was closed, he apologized profusely.

  “The fanatics keep an eye out for even the slightest irregularity. Many times, the neighborhood Basij has tried to block access to my mosque. They accused me of blaspheming Islam, of presenting a skewed image of it. A young mullah who speaks English—they don’t like that. So imagine if they learned that I had a meeting with a Western female journalist in my mosque.”

  Mehdi J. signaled for me to sit down before sitting down himself.

  “Are you upset?”

  “Uh, no,” I replied, still breathless from the tedious improvised exercise.

  I had a hard time masking my embarrassment. He could have warned me at least.

  “You know, here, it’s not just the extremists who keep an eye on me,” he continued, as if to excuse himself. “When I started preaching, only one man and a young girl came for the prayer. The teenagers sulked at me. They would cross to the other side of the street when I passed. The taxi drivers refused to take me in their cars because I wore a turban.”

  “That’s not surprising. Everyone knows that mullahs are unpopular,” I replied, quickly regretting my directness.

  He continued:

  “It’s true that these days, the religious aren’t very well liked. But rest assured that I am the first to criticize the religious zealots. People are sick of this joyless Islam that’s been imposed on them from on high for years. They’re right! Religion isn’t just about restrictions.”

  I said nothing. I waited for him to back up his words.

  “I know that in France, you lump us all together,” he said. “For you, Shiites, Sunnis—they’re all the same! In reality, Shiite Islam is a lot less rigid than it seems. At least, assuming it’s followed correctly. That’s the principal of ijtihad, the interpretation of
the sacred texts. We even have a term for it: sacred doubt, shak-e moghadas. We doubt everything. We question everything. Is smoking halal? Is polygamy legal? Nothing is fixed. We even have a principle called osroharaj, which means ‘the one that is the exception to the rule.’ For example, if you are lost in the desert and you only have wine to quench your thirst, it’s not a sin to drink it!”

  My frown did not escape him. His examples had piqued my interest.

  “It’s true, it’s true! I promise you!” he insisted. “In Shiite Islam, each believer has a marja’, an ayatollah, to whom he can ask any question that comes into his head. No matter what your concern is, he will respond to you by mail.”

  “And how does your Internet café factor into all this?”

  “Oh, that, that’s my baby,” he said. “For a little while now, they’ve had me do public relations for our four thousand mosques. I’m also working on the computerization of five hundred places of worship. Doing all that gave me the idea to open a small center near here. The youth would be able to access the Internet. The problem is that there’s not a lot for them to do. So they’re tempted by drugs, alcohol … I believe in the principle that we, the religious community, should be there to help them, not to terrorize them.”