by Terence Ward
Zoroaster’s prophetic vision of an ethical God was shaped by the battle on earth between light and darkness, good and evil, Ahura Mazda and Ahriman. But man does not stand by and watch the cosmic forces. For the first time in history, Zoroaster preached the doctrine of free will. In his powerful new religion, man holds the balance. In fact, he says, we are all “angels” descended to earth to help in this struggle against evil, to save the world. That is why we are here.
On ethical duty, Zoroaster’s message is simple: pure thoughts, pure words, pure actions. At life’s end we return to heaven, but there is one small hurdle: our final judgment. When you cross the bridge, Mithra, god of the sun, greets you and measures your life on his scale of justice. If the scale tips toward the good, then a heavenly angel appears to guide you into the light of Paradise that awaits you. If the scale balances equally, then the destination is the Place of the Mixed Ones, where one leads a gray existence without joy or sorrow. Purgatory. However, if it tips in the other direction, the bridge narrows to a razor’s edge and a witch, haggard and worn, wraps her arms around the soul, pulling it off the bridge, dragging it into the depths of the underworld, where the wicked endure a “long age of misery, of darkness, ill food and the crying of woe.”
Zoroaster’s influence on Western religious thought is decidedly underpublicized. Few realize that his pioneering innovations supplied Judaism with the notion of the messiah. I reviewed a list I had scribbled in my notebook before leaving New York. From the exhaustive Cambridge History of Iran, I had written down beliefs and concepts born on Iranian soil, borrowed from Zoroaster’s faith:
the belief in a savior
the dualism of good and evil, light and darkness
the belief in angels and archangels
Satan as the epitome of evil and the adversary of God
the doctrine of an afterlife and the immortality of the soul
the last judgment
reward and punishment by divine justice
the notion of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise
the resurrection of the dead
apocalyptic beliefs
millennial periods
destruction of the wicked and the renovation of the world at the end of time.
Not a bad list, I thought. Mary Boyce, in her book Zoroastrians, explains that, well before the birth of Christ, “these doctrines all came to be adopted by various Jewish schools in the post-Exilic period, for the Jews were one of the peoples, it seems, most open to Zoroastrian influences—a tiny minority, holding staunchly to their own beliefs, but evidently admiring their Persian benefactors, and finding congenial elements in their faith.”
When Zoroaster’s lips first spoke of Soshyant, “the coming messiah,” who would redeem the world, few of his followers could have expected that his prophetic vision would pass into two other faiths—first the Jewish, then the Christian. Fewer still would have believed that six hundred years later, in Judea, a traveling couple, homeless and exhausted, seeking any lodging, would sleep wedged between a cow and a donkey on a bed of straw. The pregnant mother, we are told, bore her child while curious shepherds lingered outside. Days later, over the eastern hills, regal visitors arrived to view this child, much like Tibetan priests seeking the reincarnated Dalai or Panchen Lama. A divine search.
According to old Iranian beliefs, when a savior is born, a bright sign will shine in the sky. Zardusht’s prophecy was unwavering. For centuries, magi studied the stars. On a mountain in Sistan, there was a special temple where they scanned the heavens. Although Marco Polo insisted that they came from the town of Saveh, Iranian folklore tells us that the three priests who went to Bethlehem first saw the star in high Sistan, then followed the star west.
One paleoastronomer, Mark Kidger, pieced together clues from two-thousand-year-old Roman, Chinese and Korean manuscripts, searching for an unusual astronomical event that would have stood out to the naked eye. To his surprise, he writes in The Star of Bethlehem: An Astronomer’s View, he discovered—in the Asian texts—four unique stellar dramas that lit the heavens.
Beginning in 7 B.C., a strange series of conjunctions occurred in Pisces. First the royal planet Jupiter and Saturn aligned and separated three times, from May to December. A year later, three planets united: Jupiter, Saturn and Mars. But that was not enough. In 5 B.C., a pairing of Jupiter and the moon occurred on February 20. All this would have piqued the curiosity of any astronomer, Kidger suggests. The final sign came with a glowing light.
Asian records describe a bright nova that burned in the dawn sky quite low on the eastern horizon for at least seventy days. New stars such as this carried royal prophecy: the coming death or birth of a king. This would have triggered the attention of the magi astrologer-priests, who saw it hanging in Pisces, long known to be the constellation of the Jews. Did it announce the death of the hated Herod, or did it herald the birth of a new king? “On sighting the nova,” Kidger writes, “the Magi would have known their wait was at an end. … The occultations told them that the new king was indeed the Jewish Messiah.” The journey to Judea would have taken seven weeks. The star would illuminate the sky for another two weeks.
As Zoroaster was the first to prophesy the coming savior, perhaps it is only fitting that his magi paid homage to the child and confirmed this messiah’s arrival. Then, after Christ’s death and resurrection, a freshly converted Saul cast his net for Christian souls in the Mediterranean lands, while Peter planted seeds for the mother church in the heart of imperial Rome. The new religion’s foundation stones were gifts of two ancient faiths: one Semitic, the other Persian.
The Christian faithful have long celebrated their Judaic roots. Yet I can’t help thinking that an unrecognized debt to Iran remains. The Shia mullahs, along with their fundamentalist Christian brethren, are more than happy to keep this quiet. The laws of their holy books do not readily accept new syncretism. And so, in Archibald MacLeish’s badly constructed concert hall of history, this patrimony of Zoroaster still hovers in a dead spot where it can’t be heard. Without a name. Without gratitude. Unspoken.
* * *
This rich legacy seemed so distant as we left Cyrus’s tomb. I looked across green-streaked plains, this heartland of Persia. To the west, snow-clad peaks had faded in the mist. We all boarded the minivan and slowly drove back to the clustered mud-packed walls of the village. After the Revolution, it is said that the mullahs wanted to change the name of this historic place, known for millennia as Pasargadae. The locals simply said no, carrying on their stubborn tradition of loyalty and independence.
Along a dusty street, we passed a large mound of rubble. “That’s the tomb the Shah built for himself!” Akbar said. “It was never finished. People destroyed it. They don’t want him back—better if he stays in Cairo.”
Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the last Shah, had ambitious plans to be buried here, close to his superhero Cyrus. He ordered his own majestic tomb to be erected. As we drove by, Akbar pointed at the inglorious heap, now only an interrupted construction site, covered with sand and broken brick, left in ruins after the Revolution.
In 1971, during his magnificent spectacle celebrating two thousand five hundred years of Iranian monarchy, the Shah, in full regalia, had the temerity to stand in front of Cyrus’s tomb and speak across the ages, surrounded by clicking cameras, foreign dignitaries, visiting royalty and the press. His hand rose to silence the festive crowd, then he proclaimed: “Cyrus, you may rest now. I am awake, standing vigil.”
Today, one thousand miles away, in Cairo’s pulsing human beehive, medieval, befouled and grim, plagued by pollution and endless traffic jams, the last Shah can be found. Within the dust-covered walls of Al-Rifa’i Mosque he lies in state, a prisoner of his own making, trapped far from the original homeland of the Persians. Pasargadae’s broad green plain, it seems, has no room for impostors.
5. Lords and Ladies of Persepolis
There is no nation which so readily adopts foreign customs as the Persians.
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��HERODOTUS, THE HISTORIES
On a street in Shiraz, my mother was struggling with her Islamic rusari, her headscarf, which would not stay in place, when a sudden gust of wind lifted her dark blue cape like a kite into the air, exposing more than just her ears—beyond any acceptable modesty. I cringed. Her hands darted out, trying to control events. My brother Chris blocked her unveiling from public view by flapping his open arms.
“Stoning or cursing,” Chris muttered. “Take your pick.”
“Oh, my God.” Kevin rolled his eyes. Her hair was in full view.
While all her men proved hopeless, a passing young woman stopped to help her. She introduced herself as Mahnaz, a medical student at Shiraz University. “Madam, have a good stay in my country,” she said politely after wrapping my mother up again.
A small crowd, I noticed, had gathered nearby to watch some street performers whose strongman, in a scene out of La Strada, promised to break his chains. They paid no attention to us. Freshly reassembled, we steered clear of the crowd. We had left my mother’s wheelchair in the van. With patience and courage, testing her tender ankle, she walked now arm in arm with my father and, in the waning afternoon light, we all crossed the threshold and passed through the gates of the Vakil bazaar.
Dark shadows swallowed the sunlight. Before us spread a lofty arched central arcade with the vertical spaciousness of a Gothic cathedral. This main pedestrian walkway is where all roads begin and fan out for a mile in each direction. Passing breezes lend an airy feel. Secret courtyard pools and tree-encircled cloisters lie in wait off tributaries for those wanting a break from the rushing action of the bazaar.
Bright cartoon posters of the Shia founding fathers, direct descendants of the Prophet—doe-eyed Imam Ali, sword in hand, and his son Hussein on horseback, bearing the sacred emerald-green flag—all painted in flashy colors, livened up the merchants’ dingy, soiled walls. Where once the Shah’s image hung, now black-and-white government photos of the regime’s bearded leaders adorned the shops. At an intersection of the labyrinth, a huge ayatollah with watchful eyes stared down from the domed ceiling: it was the Supreme Leader, the all-powerful Ali Khamenei. Strings of colored lights drooped underneath his chin like a pearl necklace, ready for future feasts. Richard still couldn’t tell the ruling trinity apart: Khomeini, Khamenei, Khatami. He had given up trying and simply called them “the three K’s.”
Luminous shafts of light slipped through elevated arabesque-carved windows. I touched the thick, cool medieval walls. The rat-a-tat pounding of coppersmiths rang down a corridor to my left. Echoes of bustling shoppers hummed along dimly lit tunnels. Shirazi boys walking hand in hand, mothers and daughters fondling silk scarves, turbaned Afghans with carpets under their arms, a Turkoman haggling over a teapot, Qashqai nomads fresh from mountain pastures, their women wrapped in vibrant-colored finery.
We felt exposed, vulnerable and self-conscious, but the shoppers were completely oblivious of us. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Lamps and light bulbs lit each shop and its dangled wares: hand-stitched lace, silks and cottons; copper trays and serving bowls; tribal weavings, saddlebags and carpets; tea glasses and porcelain; leather shoes and sneakers. All to entice customers. And, of course, there were no price tags.
Memories of our long walks with Hassan in our neighborhood bazaar, hand in hand, to buy fruit and vegetables came rushing back. Each shopping journey, then as now, was full of uncertainty. The national sport of bargaining has a firm code of conduct and is not for the fainthearted. “One should think of it as improvisational theater,” my father used to say. “High drama colors every purchase.” Two words of caution pertain: caveat emptor. The merchants, called bazaaris, are known to be the craftiest of adversaries. I recall how the verbal jousting matches in Tajrish always began with Hassan’s question, “For that, how much?” Followed by the response of an inflated price. After a moment’s pause, Hassan would roll his eyes and flash feigned indignity, as if insulted.
It always surprised me how rapidly these exchanges could deteriorate. Each new offer by Hassan would be countered with a stiff rebuff. The vocal flurry—interspersed with calls to God, pleas of poverty, accusations of being swindled or swearing on ancestors’ graves—moved to a rhythmic beat. Each comment escalated the volume. Finally, before they breached all decency or collapsed in exhaustion, the bout would be declared a draw and, dignity restored, the deal was struck. Hassan would take our newly bought eggplants, tomatoes and plucked chickens and hand me a bag of oranges and pomegranates to carry.
How shortsighted, I thought, to let a simple price tag, rudely scribbled, eliminate all dialogue between buyer and seller. This rapport held the secret of all bazaars. Over a lifetime, one returned time and again to the same stall. Loyalty was rewarded. “Babajan, my dear father, I give this one special, only for you.” And so, friendships are forged.
Obeying his primal instincts, Richard had already plunged in. Chris followed right behind. Silver Baluchi bracelets—for their wives at home—were calling them.
Deep in the shrouded market, my father and I found ourselves before a storefront gleaming with fine engraved metalwork. Behind the window, bronze hammered trays of proud Achaemenian kings and queens and stiff imperial soldiers were displayed next to silver trays of embracing lovers from Omar Khayyám’s wine-drenched Rubaiyat. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” my father whispered. This bacchanalian pageant of parading royals, romantic trysts and belly dancers glowing under spotlights took us aback. Two central taboos of the regime—vainglorious Shahs and explicit love scenes—were openly being flouted. When I asked the heavyset owner about it, he answered, “These designs aren’t for everyone. Some prefer more conservative, just calligraphy.” He pulled out a tray with Koranic script. “Which do you prefer?” He grinned.
I stumbled down an arched colonnade, following my brothers through a portico and out into the sunlight. A courtyard circled by storefronts held a soft green pool and beguiling orange trees. As I blinked in the bright light, a young man with a pompadour sidled up to me.
“Gudday, mate.”
“Hello.”
“ ’Ope you’re enjoyin’ Shiraz. Can I ’elp ya with somethin’?”
“No thanks. But where did you pick up that accent?”
“Sydney, ya know. Down Under. Grew up there until me da decided to bring us back ’ere.”
“How’re you enjoying it?”
“Not so bad. Now it’s home. Met some nice German lassies the other day.”
“Really?”
“Look, if ya need to change your dollahs, I’ll give a swell rate.”
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“No worries, mate. You’ll find me ’ere next to the pond. Gudday!”
His “St. Louis Thirty-niners” basketball shirt, torn-at-the-knee Levi’s and Air Jordans were decidedly hip. As he walked across the courtyard with his homeboy attitude, I realized I was watching a veritable walking billboard for Generation X. It was all a bit confusing. I had expected a much firmer Islamic clampdown on the MTV global culture. This “decadent” American vogue had not been stamped out, as we had been told repeatedly over the years. The heavily guarded borders of this land of taboos seemed as porous as a sieve.
* * *
Shiraz—fabled city of poets, wine, roses and amore—felt more like a Mediterranean port than a landlocked oasis behind stony Zagros citadels. A healthy river ran through the center of town. A break in the mountains, opening a passage out of the city to the north, bore the triumphant name Allah al-Akbar. The other ridge, which Akbar called Sleeping Man, lounged across the city’s western flank with its round potbelly rising to the sky. Adrift in the ocean of desert wastes that stretches from Syria to Pakistan, Shiraz floated on a rare pocket of naturally irrigated green fields.
This region called Fars is the Tuscany of Iran. Epicenter of ancient Persia, it is also the birthplace of the Shiraz wine grape that flourishes now in Australia. And as Fiesole, above Florence, was once a stronghold of the
Etruscans, Shiraz gave shelter to the first Aryan tribes. Over the centuries, it earned a reputation for producing learned scholars, artists and the country’s two most celebrated poets: Hafez and Saadi. Another renowned Shirazi son was Ostad Isa, the architect who designed the Taj Mahal.
I knew we had begun our journey in the right place.
* * *
It was still dusk as we walked up to the Nasir al-Mulk Mosque, the first pink architectural creation I had ever seen. Here, a Qajar Shah of the nineteenth century surely ordered color-mad craftsmen to breathe life into the bland Dutch-blue-and-white porcelain themes of country life. Meticulously hand painted, thousands of glazed tiles mixed hot rose-petaled images with sunflower yellow.
The entrance was chained shut. We searched for the guardian of the keys, and a balding, half-bearded haji popped out of a closed door embedded in a mud wall across the small square.
“Salaam, agha. Peace, sir,” we greeted him.
“Khosh amadid, welcome,” the caretaker said.
“Why is this masjid closed?”
“People don’t come anymore. There are no prayers.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because the mullah has been sent away.”
“Sent away?”
“Maybe he spoke too much devil politics.”
Ecclesiastical struggles pitting mullah against mullah, reformers against hard-liners, had brewed to a boil here.
“Some mullahs have their turbans taken away,” continued the caretaker. “They become like the common people. That’s the penalty. They’re lucky to be alive.”
The mosque was empty. Walking across the courtyard, I felt the tiles offered awkward patterns, ones that did not belong there: country homes, Dutch windmills and northern European riverscapes. Fawning over Western styles spawned such Iranian experiments. Gharbzadegi, intoxication with the West—a term quite popular with today’s regime—clearly was alive and well in the Qajar period. The dominant color was not the cool, sacred turquoise that one normally associates with Iran’s Islamic mosques; rather, it was splashed with warmth—sizzling pink and bright yellow.