Searching for Hassan

by Terence Ward

  My God, I thought, some things hadn’t changed. Driving in Iran was still a religious experience.

  * * *

  We soon passed a cluster of white flowering almond trees clinging to a narrow ridge above greening rows of grapevines. Arid land folded and buckled uplifts creating sudden rock-slab cliffs striped in amber, apricot and rust. Towering on either side of the Murghab River stood sculpted walls of rock sheared off by time’s hand. Our winding passage climbed along the canyon floor. Black-winged crows dive-bombed our windshield, jauntily riding invisible updrafts. Sandstone hung above in petrified waves, defying gravity. Vaz was tight-lipped now, with Rich seated just behind his shoulder, ensuring his silence. My mother slept, and Kevin chatted with Akbar about Zoroaster in the back. Chris and my father stared at the passing cliffs. It was a geography eerily similar to that in a western. “John Ford country,” said Dad.

  Nasrollah’s track followed the river’s course north through the gorge for over an hour until we burst out of the cliffs’ shadows and onto a vast plain. Big sky country again. The high, treeless expanse seemed harsh and infertile. Then fields of greening alfalfa sprigs flashed by. Riding across the Dasht-e Morghab, or Plain of the Water Bird, we broke from the main road and turned left for the village of Pasargadae. Herodotus, the Greek historian, informs us that when the Persians first entered these lands, they were still nomads on the march. The royal tribe, he says, was the Pasargadae, and this name was given to the capital of the Persians. Only a handful of trees sprouted behind the protective brick walls of the smallish settlement. We drove past the town and back onto the green plain, slowly approaching the tomb of Cyrus the Great, which shone like a white beacon.

  Akbar told us that it was still intact only because of the quick-witted Pasargadae villagers. In the seventh century, invading Arabs bent on destroying all things ancient and pagan rode up to the tomb and asked who was buried there. “Solomon’s mother,” the villagers replied. The holy name from the Koran sent the coarse, illiterate Bedouins galloping on. The bluff worked. Now the resting place of Cyrus II, founder of the Persian Empire, sat starkly alone. His Achaemenian dynasty would not carry his name but that of his family, Hakhamanish, known to Greeks as Achaemenes.

  * * *

  As we walked to the tomb, Nasrollah joined us, leaving Vaz in the minivan. He appeared genuinely interested in the monument. Then he pulled me aside and whispered, loud enough for others to hear, “We must get rid of him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Vaz,” Nasrollah said. “He’s dangerous, and crazy.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sure. Kheli divaneh, very crazy.”

  “Let me speak to the others.”

  “Kheli mamnoun, many thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Perhaps we can leave him here.”

  Nasrollah’s suggestion did not surprise me.

  I spoke to Mom, who took pity. Her work with learning-disabled children gave her insights. Vaz, she insisted, showed the telltale signs.

  “Extreme dyslexia,” she asserted.

  “A clueless contrarian” was Kevin’s assessment.

  “A bozo spy,” said Dad.

  “And what if he’s too spaced-out to be working for the government?” I asked.

  “You may have a point.”

  Akbar was diplomatic. “Vaz is not intellectual. I worry for you.”

  We stopped short of the six tiers of stone, topped with a gabled chamber and its single sealed entrance. Iran’s founding father had lain undisturbed for two and a half thousand years. As we gazed at his tomb, I was struck by its simplicity, unlike the grandiose ruins of Persepolis, which I had seen only in pictures. In the limitless vista that spread in all directions to the horizon, the humble monument stood solitary. The ancient capital, with its palaces, gardens and temples, had been dusted away from view. The only structure that had defied the ages belonged to Cyrus. Powdery white, without ornate carving or embellishment, it offered a philosophical perspective on power in the face of eternity. Shaped deliberately to human scale, it drew the eye to an inscription, weathered away by time. This was Cyrus’s message to posterity. Akbar recited it from memory.

  Welcome, pilgrim,

  I have been expecting you.

  Before you lies Cyrus,

  King of Asia, king of the world.

  All that is left of him is dust.

  Do not envy me.

  Robert Byron, in The Road to Oxiana, considered by many to be the finest travel book ever written, described Cyrus’s tomb as “a sarcophagus of white marble on a high, stepped plinth, standing by itself among the ploughed fields. It looks its age: every stone has been separately kissed, and every joint stroked hollow, as though by the action of the sea. No ornament or cry for notice disturbs its lonely serenity.”

  I stared up at the white-worn tomb, silhouetted against the landscape, raised high to the azure sky. I touched the stone—the texture felt soft, hand rubbed over centuries, the object of veneration. Chris pulled out his sketchpad and began to draw.

  Antiquity’s ruins strewn throughout the Near East—whether it be Petra, the Great Pyramids, Hatshepsut’s temple or Ephesus—have spawned generations of dubious dragomans, hucksters and hustlers. Like fishermen, they wait for the daily catch. In Iran, however, their absence has thankfully left Achaemenian sites pristine. Only two aged bearded farmers hovered nearby, as curious about us as we were about Cyrus’s tomb. They waved their spades. I waved back. White puffy clouds passed overhead. A cool wind blew from the west where, on the horizon, circling snow-crested summits sealed off any western approach to the vast plain.

  When Robert Byron wrote that “Alexander was the first tourist” to visit Cyrus’s tomb, he was, of course, exercising poetic license. Generations of pilgrims had flocked to the site long before the Macedonian prince knelt in devotion here. Byron, in his subtle style, was signaling Alexander’s worship of Cyrus, his classical hero. On his conquests, we know that Alexander carried Xenophon’s book Cyropaedia (The Education of Cyrus) along with Homer’s Iliad, which lay under his pillow with a dagger. Cyrus embodied the attributes of the ingenious general and compassionate conqueror, both powerful and merciful. Xenophon, the famed literary general, described the Achaemenian king: “Cyrus was the most handsome in person, most generous in his soul, most fond of learning, most in love with honorable fame, so that he would bear all suffering and all the dangers for the sake of praise.”

  Xenophon’s portrait of the “ideal ruler” is inescapable. His Cyropaedia reads like a leadership guide for the ancient world, decidedly more humane than Machiavelli’s guide for Renaissance rulers. We are given a full account of strategies and cunning. A lightning campaign across Anatolia. The swift defeat of the wealthy Lydian king Croesus of Sardis. Then his electrifying welcome at the gates of Babylon, the ancient world’s metropolis. Cyrus possessed an uncanny psychological hold over his soldiers.

  His management style was the dream of every general. Long night vigils at the bedside of his wounded men built fierce loyalty and love. “When the rest went to dinner at the usual time, Cyrus stayed [among the wounded] with his aides and doctors, for he would not leave anyone uncared for.” Diplomatic touches and lightning assaults were not enough. “On the campaign the general must show he can bear better than his men the heat of the sun in summer, the cold in winter and hardship on a difficult march,” Xenophon advised. In conclusion, he wrote, “All these things go to make [Cyrus] loved by those he leads.”

  Uniting the tribes of the Medes and the Persians into a formidable army in 547 B.C., Cyrus rode over the Zagros ramparts, off the Iranian plateau and onto the world stage. His empire was described by Xenophon as “the greatest and most glorious of all the kingdoms of Asia … bounded on the east by the Indian Ocean, on the north by the Black Sea, on the west by Cyprus and Egypt and on the south by Ethiopia. And although it was of such magnitude, it was governed by the single will of Cyrus; and he honored his subjects and ca
red for them as if they were his own children; and they, on their part, revered Cyrus as a father.” Quite simply, he broke all the rules.

  * * *

  Akbar stood in quiet meditation. A graduate of the University of California, Santa Barbara, he lived in nearby Shiraz with his wife and two daughters. His black hair spun in the breeze. The curious farmers drew closer; rain clouds covered the snowy peaks. His head straightened, then he spoke. “You see, Cyrus is not just the father of Iranians, but also father to the free peoples of the world. He brought human thinking to a higher level. Talking about human rights is easy now, but it is he who began it.”

  “And before Cyrus?” Richard asked.

  Akbar said, “The Assyrian ruler Sennacherib, who bragged that he killed all the men, all the women, even the cats and dogs.”

  “Even cats?”

  “Of course. Then he demolished everything and ordered the harvest to be destroyed. He poured salt on the crops. Because God had told him to do it. That’s what he said. And I haven’t even told you about Nebuchadnezzar.”

  Rich cursed under his breath.

  “Instead, when Cyrus goes to Babylon he orders his people to respect the temples of Jews and of Marduk, the god of the Babylonians. ‘Respect civilians,’ he says. ‘Defend all those who are not fighting. Protect all women.’ ”

  “How refreshing,” said my mother.

  * * *

  As if awakened by a divine vision, Cyrus had marched from this plain at Pasargadae leading his loyal Mede and Persian armies through the Zagros mountain passes and down into the steaming flatlands of Mesopotamia, all the way to the gates of King Nebuchadnezzar’s fabled Babylon. Ingeniously, he diverted the Euphrates in an epic engineering feat that later inspired Leonardo da Vinci to alter the course of the Arno so that Pisa could be subjugated by his Florentine paymasters. “The river should be diminished by leading off many streams, as Cyrus, King of the Persians, did at the taking of Babylon,” Leonardo wrote excitedly in his notebook. Heavy rains and bitter acrimony among Florence’s elders dampened the initial enthusiasm for his bold project. It was abandoned. Where Cyrus succeeded, Leonardo didn’t.

  Herodotus describes that when Cyrus rode into Babylon, it was not as a feared conquering general but as a liberating hero. Nebuchadnezzar’s son Nabonidus, a thoroughly inept and scandalous ruler, had earned the full scorn of his people. During his short reign, Nabonidus had defied the gods, enraged the priests of Marduk, instigated uprisings and provoked a virtual civil war. Cyrus appeared as a savior, and he played his role brilliantly. Welcomed by the priests at the city gates, he promised to honor and restore the temple of Marduk. He had arrived as a protector of their faith.

  A stone cylinder, fashioned by Cyrus in 539 B.C., marks the event. The inscription reads: “I am Cyrus, King of Babylon, King of Sumer, King of Akkad, King of four countries … My great army entered Babylon peacefully and I did not allow any harm to come to the land of Babylonia and its people. Babylonians’ respectful manner taught me … and I ordered that all should be free to worship their god with no harm. I ordered that no one’s home be destroyed and no one’s property be taken.”

  Gusts of wind blew around us.

  “The first declaration of human rights,” Akbar proclaimed.

  “A copy is on display in New York on the East River,” I told my mother.

  “Really, where?”

  “At the General Assembly of the United Nations.”

  “You see,” Akbar said, “Persepolis and Cyrus’s tomb in Pasargadae were destined to remain for the people of the world, not only for us Iranians. Because history is for every person. We are the manifestation of past times, and we give what we are to our children and to the future of the world. So the events of life, you see, are all related. That’s why I love history.”

  We all nodded, quite moved, not expecting his paean to history. He wiped his brow and looked up again at the tomb. I wondered if he had gone too far, whether he was about to reveal personal political beliefs. Vaz had now joined us, and seemed to be listening intently. Akbar kept up his impassioned delivery.

  “For Iranian people, at least for the Muslims, there are two Meccas. One is the Mecca of Saudi Arabia and the other is the Mecca of Pasargadae and Persepolis. If Mecca represents Islamic heritage, the other two speak of the true heritage of being Iranian. But some ignorant people don’t know this. They want to destroy the past. Here is the place where the Aryans chose to settle and live. The state of Fars is the heart of Iran. Geographically, where we stand now, is unique to Iran. It links middle Asia with Mesopotamia.”

  In silence, we stared out at the great expanse and at the passing clouds overhead. Chris had finished his charcoal sketch of the tomb. My mother looked on approvingly. I scanned the encircling mountains to the west, free of rain clouds again. I imagined the euphoria greeting the Persian liberator in the Mesopotamian capital where the tribe of Israel had been enslaved for two generations.

  From “philosopher-king” of the Greeks, Cyrus was elevated even higher by the Old Testament prophets, who described the Persian as a savior-king touched by the hand of Yahweh. Ezra and Isaiah proclaimed him “the Lord’s anointed.” Jeremiah declared, “Yahweh stirs up the soul of the King of the Medes to smite the wicked harlot, Babylon.”

  Antiquity’s rogues, the Assyrians and Babylonians had perfected the wicked arts of sadism, deportation and genocide over three centuries. Massacring innocents far and wide was one specialty, relocating entire populations another. Brazenly, they had appointed themselves God’s punishing hand. And no one was safe. In 586 B.C., when Jerusalem collapsed after the second siege that finally ended the dynasty of David, Nebuchadnezzar ordered the great temple stripped of its riches and then marched the remaining survivors off to exile in sultry Mesopotamia, weighted down with looted gold.

  Almost fifty years later, when Cyrus stood before the gates of Babylon, he appeared as a miracle. Not only did the Persian king liberate the Hebrew people from captivity, but with statesmanlike kindness he did the unthinkable: he restored all the gold seized by Nebuchadnezzar in Jerusalem and sent the exiles back home, with orders to reconstruct the destroyed temple of Solomon.

  Second Isaiah hails Cyrus as a “messiah.” The Persian king is the living sign of God’s redemption—a loving God who has finally forgiven his people, ended their exile and freed them to leave the rivers of Babylon and begin their long trek home to Zion. But that’s not all. Yahweh’s servant Cyrus has been sent to “bring forth justice to the nations … He will not fail … till he has established justice on earth.”

  After liberation, we know that not all of the Hebrews joined the caravan back to their land. Many elected to stay in the wealthy city under their Persian protectors, while others set their eyes east, journeying to the royal capital of Susa, high on a bluff overlooking the immense Mesopotamian river valley. Jewish communities, legend says, also founded the Iranian cities of Isfahan and Shiraz. Generations later, in the imperial palace of Susa, the biblical heroine Esther weds the Persian king Ahasuerus. Another perilous tale of collective survival begins. Young Esther must do battle with Haman, a dastardly Macedonian Greek vizier calling for Jewish blood. Interceding for her people, she tells Mordechai, her foster father, “Go gather all the Jews to be found in Susa, and hold a fast on my behalf.” Then she swoops into action. Employing her considerable charms to influence her husband, Esther outfoxes her adversary and seals for him the same fate he had planned for her people. And in synagogues around the world each year, the feast of Purim celebrates the courageous Persian queen.

  How ironic, I thought, that across the entire Middle East, it was the people of Iran who held the most ancient link with the Jewish people. Theirs was a sacred bond over two millennia old. And how strange now that, in just twenty years, the mullahs had turned Israel into their bête noir, the symbolic enemy of the Islamic Republic. Cyrus, I had decided, could teach them more than a few lessons about moral enlightenment.

  * * *

&nb
sp; Sandra Mackey, in her book The Iranians, speculates on the luck of timing. In “one of those momentous twists of fate on which history sometimes hangs, one of the most significant religious figures of all time and one of the greatest political-military geniuses ever to stride across the human landscape both occupied the cradle of the Iranian nation in the same era. Their creations—one religious, the other political—blended. Zoroaster gave Cyrus’s earthly realm a soul and Cyrus gave Zoroastrianism a body.”

  Zoroaster remains one of the great enigmas of world history. So little is known of the Iranian prophet, called in Persian Zardusht. The average man on a Western street, if asked about Zoroaster, might think fire worshipper, or perhaps mention Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, but after that, all you would get is a glazed look. His birth? Only scant estimates. Suffice it to say that he was born earlier than Confucius, Buddha, Jesus and Mohammad. Zoroaster’s poetry, the sacred Gathas, are the earliest compositions in Persian literature. Written in Avestan—a language closely related to Old Persian and Vedic Sanskrit—the surviving scriptures, prayers, rules and traditional stories anchor the holy book the Avesta.

  Most scholars place the date of Zoroaster’s birth sometime in the sixth century B.C. The place? Some say Azerbaijan, others claim Iran’s eastern province of Khorasan. Yet an amazing coincidence shadows his life. Spiritual masters across Asia were spawned within a generation after his birth: in China, the wise sage Confucius; in India, the prince Gautama, later to be known as the Buddha.