by Terence Ward
Acclaim for Terence Ward’s
Searching for Hassan
“Who had a childhood like this? Other than Nabokov …”
—Esquire
“The publication of Searching for Hassan could not have come at a more opportune time.”
—USA Today
“Searching for Hassan should be required reading for U.S. foreign policy makers.”
—BookPage
“A nostalgic, harrowing pilgrimage.”
—The New Yorker
“Ward hooks the reader with his unique past and observant eye.”
—Detroit Free Press
“A heartening testament to the enduring power of friendship and human connection, and to how bonds of loyalty and love can survive the ravages of history and time, and can bridge the deepest and most perilous divides created by politics, culture, and religion. … Ward’s book yields telling details, revealing incidents, and deeply personal experiences, and he introduces us to men and women who are more complex and sympathetic—and more like us—than we might have imagined.”
—Francine Prose, Elle
“A powerful memoir that plumbs the depths of Iranian culture and tradition. … Remarkable for its vivid prose and depth of information. … A memorable journey.”
—Library Journal
“Ward’s impression of Iran is far more subtle than most Westerners know. Describing a more intricate image of a nation caught in a tug of war with itself, he shows the country in all its complexity. Most Westerners would hardly recognize it.”
—Los Angeles Times
“In Ward’s telling, the journey becomes a search not just for Hassan but on discovering how much of the old, aesthetic Persia remains beneath the surface of the new, ascetic Iran. The typical form of Hafez’s poetry is a ghazal, or song of praise. In a sense, Searching for Hassan is itself a kind of ghazal, an unexpected ode to Iran … and seems almost to have received a kind of divine blessing.”
—New York Times Book Review
“In a time where nationalism and xenophobia are reaching alarming proportions, a novel so dedicated to transcultural exploration and integration is more relevant than ever. By revealing the humanity of a culture the West finds so threatening, Ward allows even the most bigoted among us to see past the exotic names, the political clashes and the cultural differences, to the deeper values that all cultures share: family, history and respect. Humane and even-handed, Searching for Hassan is a plea for pluralism, narrowing the cultural divide that separates the West from the Islamic World.”
—Birmingham Weekly
“A true bridge-builder between East and West. This book could not come at a better time! Searching for Hassan can only lead to a better understanding of this complex, misunderstood part of the world, promoting, at the same time, the noble art of conversation between peoples. This is an enlightening work, in culture and history. Ward’s revealing account reflects a profound understanding of Iranian traditions and ways of life through real human experiences.”
—Prince Hassan bin Talal of Jordan
“Searching for Hassan blends wide ranging literary allusions with endearing family interactions. For something very unusual happened in that Persian garden more than 30 years ago: the family of an American Christian oil company executive and the family of an Iranian Muslim cook became one.”
—Gelareh Asayesh, Washington Post Book World
“As an admirer of Iranian culture, I have taken immense pleasure reading this beautifully written tale of love and hope and nostalgia. Thank you for this journey into the soul of a great people.”
—Dominique Lapierre, author of The City of Joy, Freedom at Midnight, and Is Paris Burning?
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To Donna, Patrick, Idanna, my three brothers and the Ghasemi family
Neither fame nor fortune guided us to this gate, we approach as refugees, here guided by fate.
—HAFEZ
Preface
Many moons have passed since the first edition of this book. When I put pen to paper, I hoped to shed light on a beguiling culture and people that Western media had widely demonized since 1979—the year of the Iranian Revolution. In narrating this chronicle, I delved into the country’s millennial history and culture, citing those timeless poets who so often spoke truth to power over the ages.
“Iran” means many things to many people. For most Americans, the hostage crisis remains a fixed obsession, an open wound. Forty years later, this event still shapes views from Washington.
Yet, here in Florence where I live, people speak differently about Iran. One often hears the words l’antica Persia, “ancient Persia,” mentioned in the same breath with Cyrus the Great and mythic Persepolis. Here, people talk about Isfahan and its turquoise cupolas, gardens, cypresses and fountains. They know that three Zoroastrian high priests crossed deserts from Iran to find the young Messiah and how this epiphany served as a potent symbol for Cosimo de’ Medici and Renaissance artists to evoke the wisdom and wealth of the East. Florentines will also remind you that Isfahan is a twin city with their adored Firenze. And enthusiastic cineasts will tell you that Iran boasts one of the world’s most important film industries, heavily influenced by Italian neo-realist cinema.
Yes, there are strong similarities between Italy and Iran. Both countries are blessed with a proud past and a problematic present. Both bear the heavy weight of clergies, mafias and corrupt politicians, while possessing immense architectural treasures and artistic legacies. As Italian culture civilized Europe, Iranian culture illuminated the Middle East and Central Asia. Enough to know that Persian was the official court language of both the Ottoman and Mughal empires.
What to do, then, with the simplistic and darkly myopic view that many Americans hold of the people of Iran? Perhaps Oscar-winning director Asghar Farhadi explains it best: “For Americans, it is not attractive to hear what the similarities are between them and the Iranian people. It is attractive to hear how different the Iranians are.”
Not surprisingly, adrenaline-driven media across the United States has kept fear-based clichés fixed in place. Anyone who presents a nuanced reality runs the risk of walking across a minefield. But, then again, I was not raised in America. I grew up in the foothills of Tehran. So, my view is personal—formed through direct experience.
Across the West, borders are closing. Walls are being erected. International treaties broken. Nuclear agreements dismissed. Sanctions and travel bans imposed, even for artists. Donald Trump has capitalized on this zeitgeist by stoking fears of immigrants, feeding Islamophobia and fueling nationalist sentiment in Europe and America. Populists are forging a much more dangerous world.
Tense relations between the United States and Iran blare loudly across the news cycles. America now stands at the precipice, facing yet another ruinous Middle Eastern conflict. Recent history shows that U.S. leaders are extremely capable of starting wars but quite incompetent at ending them. We must be very wary.
Thankfully, there are those who believe that these growing divisions can be bridged though culture and art. Lee Hamilton, former chair of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs once asked me to speak at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars in D.C. “Politics today is so emotional,” he said, “that serious debate is in danger of bein
g drowned out by hysteria. What people need now are personal stories. Stories that resonate and show the way.” In this light, our quixotic journey in search for a lost friend becomes far more meaningful.
Author Gelareh Asayesh describes in the Washington Post: “The trip back to Iran proves to be a new beginning in the saga of the Wards and Ghasemis. Something very unusual happened in that Persian garden many years ago: the family of an American Christian oil company executive and the family of an Iranian Muslim cook became one. And if they were able to bridge the great divide, perhaps there is hope for us all.”
* * *
Since the revolution in 1979, a dramatic pendulum has swung back and forth in Iran between euphoric hope and deep despair. Moderates and reformists have seen their fortunes rise and fall. Hardliners have held and lost power and then seized it again. Openings to the outside world have been followed by sudden closures. Times of conflict have given way to peace, only to erupt again. Yet art continued to be created along with literature and film under high duress and against all odds. Each year, young Iranians seeking a better future chose to go abroad, while overseas some have been drawn to return. And the diaspora followed their country’s hopes and dramas with rapt attention via family members in Iran and online news.
All these events have occurred in cycles similar to the seasons when the heat of summer gives way to the melancholy rains of autumn, when the bleak snows of winter give way to the burst of spring and re-birth of Nowruz, the Persian New Year.
Listen to the poets, Hassan often told us. Through their words, we transcend tragedies. It is important to remember that the great Rumi—a bestselling poet in America—wrote his miraculous works when the horrors of Genghis Khan and his invading Mongol hordes forced him to flee west as a refugee until settling in Konya, Turkey. The treasured poet Hafez also penned his enduring Divan in the wake of Tamerlane’s slaughter across the Iranian plateau that devastated Isfahan and threatened his own city of Shiraz.
Both poets witnessed hell on earth. Yet, they did not dwell on the nightmares that befell their country. Instead, they focused on the potential divine light that burns within. And they left with us their luminous gifts to help us walk through our own epoch of darkness.
* * *
Near the classical amphitheater of Epidaurus in Greece, long underground tunnels were once used to cure mental illness. The afflicted ancients wandered through this labyrinth in full darkness until they finally reached the center, where suddenly they faced a single beam of sunlight spilling down onto the earth floor. Confronting this luminous ray at the end of their spiritual ordeal provoked catharsis, quieting inner demons, bringing peace.
Two millennia later, Caravaggio dramatically illuminated his religious scenes with similar streaks of divine light. His unique vision sparked an artistic revolution.
Moments of illumination were also honored in the Persian tradition, first by the prophet Zoroaster and later by the Sufi poets who equated spiritual awakening with the nocturnal image of a moth drawn to a flame, or the first glimmer of dawn.
One question I am often asked: What was it that led two aging parents and their four sons to return to a distant country where they had lived for ten years? Grit and resilience, coupled with memories that marked them for life.
Quite simply, we went back chasing light.
Prologue Blood from Pomegranates
Where am I? That’s my first question.
—SAMUEL BECKETT, THE UNNAMABLE
I remember a brisk evening long ago. Fires glow red across the city’s roofline. Explosions of firecrackers break the spring silence. It is March 1963, the last Tuesday night before Nowruz, the Iranian New Year. Snowmelt surges down alpine ravines. Hyacinths pierce through wet clay. Budding plane trees greet the warming season. For two thousand five hundred years Iranian astronomers have scanned the heavens for the sign. When the sun crosses the equator, a fresh year rises, heralding the first day of spring.
Chaharshanbe Souri, the Zoroastrian fire festival, echoes with all-night drumming and chanting. Piles of leaves, broken twigs and branches line the street. Moonlight washes over snowcapped mountains. A breeze blows through our Persian garden. Hassan prepares us for the ceremony. Brushing back our hair, he repeats Farsi phrases. Tonight, he says, we will leap over bonfires.
Older than Islam, this festival is interwoven with Zoroaster’s sacred flame. Sins collected over the year are burned away under the night skies. Just leap. And you become clean.
Celebrations start at twilight. Hassan, our housekeeper, our cook, our young “Persian father,” emerges from the shadows, swaying a glowing Coleman lantern and twitching his proud mustache. With the physique of a gymnast, he moves fluidly. His strong chin juts out with dramatic effect. He strides toward us, eyes flickering under the streetlamps. He bears the quiet nobility of an actor taking the stage.
My three brothers, Chris, Rich, Kev, and I watch mesmerized as he reaches down and sets each dormant pile alight. Before us, seven bonfires rage along our narrow street, grandly named the Alley of the Brave. An odd number for good luck. The flames crackle in the darkness, illuminating the mud-and-brick walls that line the alley. Neighborhood friends assemble, twittering nervously before the bright corridor of light.
Our runway is marked by the hypnotic dance of the fires. Hassan pats my head. “Be careful pesar, little boy. Don’t slip like last year.” Slowly, he starts chanting, “Sorkhi-ye to az man o zardiye man az to. Give me your healthy red glow and take away my sickly color.” These will be our words for the fire. “Sorkhi-ye to az man … ,” we repeat. My older brother, Kevin, impulsively pushes forward. Curly-haired Chris stands ready; little bow-legged Richard holds his hand, eyes wide open.
One by one, children of the neighborhood, their grandparents and the young men gather up courage as they move toward the bonfires. Shouts and laughter erupt. Songs and dancing break out, sudden blasts of firecrackers thrown by mischievous kids send mothers into squeals of fright. The jumping is about to begin.
Hassan, curling his eyebrow, gives me a quick wink with boyish delight. This is his sign! Loud yelps fill the air as we all scamper toward the blazing pyres with our adrenaline surging. Fatimeh, Hassan’s wife, and the neighborhood women swarm like moths around the flames, clapping. I chase Hassan toward the burning bonfires. My three brothers trail close behind. My heart is pounding, my ears ringing. Then, in a startling moment, I see Hassan soar and vanish in the blinding light. “Sorkhi-ye to az man …” I inhale and jump too.
Sizzling branches, scorched leaves, wafts of smoke. Heat sears my bony knees. I smell singed hair. My feet hit the earth again, still churning. I open my eyes. In the darkness I see Hassan’s silhouette. Again he disappears into a blazing wall. I jump. Flames lick at my legs. I mustn’t lose him. Another fire, another breath. Again.
In the garden of our Tehran home, Rich, Chris and I sit with Fatimeh and her children, Ali and baby Mahdi, and a brood of newly born puppies.
In the dream, somewhere on Tehran’s high plateau, under the rugged Elburz peaks and a dizzying canopy of stars, I chase after Hassan’s vanishing heels. Across chessboard squares of darkness and light, I run with my brothers in hot pursuit long into the night as the sacred flame washes over me.
* * *
Leaping over fire always marks the first act of this magical eve. As the flames die down, we all scurry back inside our gate and Fatimeh quickly dresses us in black shroud costumes. Hassan hands me a copper soup ladle. Out on the verandah, my father casts an approving glance at our commotion, lifting his eyes from his book, puffing on a pipe. He beckons to me. Jazz tunes float around us in the evening air, mixing with classical Persian santur and tar music drifting over the vine-covered wall from a garden party next door. Out into the night pours Louis Armstrong’s silky gravel voice in “When It’s Sleepy Time Down South,” followed by Leonard Bernstein’s hit musical of gritty rhythms from Manhattan’s West Side.
Back in the kitchen, Hassan counsels my brothers and give
s Chris a spoon. “Now you must pray to God. It is time for spoon-hitting. Go to the houses around the neighborhood and bang on your bowl. If somebody gives you something, it means that God will also give. But if nobody gives you anything, then God will give you nothing.”
He tells me to put a key in my shoe. Stumbling out in the dark, we head for the alley again. Our red gate swings open and we creep under the lamplight up to a neighbor’s wrought-iron door. Chris nervously presses the bell. We bang on our empty bowls with our spoons. Copper on iron rings loudly. When the door opens, we quickly cover our faces and thrust our bowls forward. My face is hidden, yet through the black veil I watch an elegant long hand with gold rings reach out in a clenched fist.
In that hand lies the prophecy. If empty, all wishes are lost. Then it opens, and with God’s blessing, ajeel—assorted nuts, seeds and dried fruits—drop into our bowls like promises for the New Year. We run home thrilled, but I remember there is one more thing to do.
Stopping before the gate, I hang back in the shadows of the alley, feeling the sharp teeth of Hassan’s key in my shoe. The night air is still. Now I must listen to those who pass by, as Hassan said. An older couple shuffles home and I overhear their words: “Praise God. She and Ahmad will be well together.” With that cryptic message, I slip through the gate and rush up the drive to Hassan for its decoding. Interpretation is always left to elders.
“Well, Terry ghermez”—he calls me “Red” for my hair—“these parents were speaking about their daughter and her beloved. This is a good sign. You’ve been a good boy, God is telling you.”
Hassan asks me what I have wished for. Shyly, I stumble and speak of Sara and my hope that she’ll be in my class next year.
“Your wish for Sara will be granted.”