Searching for Hassan

by Terence Ward

  * * *

  The fourteenth century was a chaotic and violent age. Hafez watched as warriors on black-clad horses threatened his beloved Shiraz time and again. But only rarely did any of this political turmoil seep into his poetry. Instead, his focus was fixed on his love of God.

  When the Turkic conqueror Timur loomed on the horizon, ready to sack the city—he had just annihilated every living soul in Isfahan, erecting a tower with seventy thousand skulls—legend has it that he confronted Hafez face-to-face. He was known as Timur-e lang, Limping Timur, because of his short leg, and in the West his name came to be Tamerlane.

  Hafez had written in a poem that he would gladly trade away both of Timur’s royal capitals, Samarkand and Bokhara, for the affections of a slender Turkish beauty. The rash warrior-emperor had taken these words as a grave insult against his native cities. Hafez calmly offered this explanation: “Sir, because of my reckless extravagant excesses, you can see how poor I am.” Tamerlane’s rage was defused, and Shiraz was spared. Instead of being decapitated, the poet was rewarded.

  * * *

  “Who’s that?” My father noticed a colorfully clad, shaggy character who had just arrived in the teahouse.

  “Don’t point,” said Chris.

  “That fella. The one with the long white hair and tattered clothes.”

  “He’s darvish, a Sufi,” said Akbar.

  I turned to look. Under his white bushy beard and eagle nose, he beamed a broad grin my way. His torn heavy coat was a hand-woven paisley patchwork in bright orange and deep reds. His lambskin boots had walked many miles. Vaz glanced up for a moment, then slipped back to his hubble-bubble pipe.

  “What an amazing outfit,” my mother remarked.

  “That’s his uniform,” Akbar said.

  “He’s just showing off,” said Vaz.

  “Do Sufis have their own mosques?”

  “No. They have nothing,” Akbar said.

  “They’re nowhere and everywhere. Like your gypsies,” said Vaz.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Akbar said. “This one is an old-style darvish. But today Sufis are no longer wanderers—they’re merchants, farmers, policemen, students and housewives. You may meet a Sufi and never know it.”

  * * *

  On a Sufi journey, the teacher is the guide. He tells parables, riddles and stories to gently enlighten his devotees. The goal is to dissolve the ego. Just as a Zen Buddhist monk seeks to empty the ego completely, a Sufi aims at emptying his inner vessel. But in the world of erfan, the Persian path of mysticism, one empties the vessel so it can be filled with the bliss of divine love. Huston Smith, an authority on the history of religions, wrote, “The Sufis are the mystics of Islam. Every upright Muslim expects to see God after death, but the Sufis are the impatient ones. They want God now—moment by moment, day by day, in this very life.”

  As he poured our tea, Akbar told us that the word divaneh, crazy, has a double meaning in the Sufi lexicon. “It can also mean mad—like madly in love.”

  “I sign all my letters like that,” said Kevin. “Madly.”

  “And our word divaneh is where you get your English word ‘divine.’ ”

  Once touched by the divine, Akbar assured us, one feels the illumination that Hafez described:

  If, like Jesus, stripped of everything, you ascend to Heaven,

  From your lantern a hundred rays will reach to light the sun.

  “And this,” said Akbar, “is exactly what many mullahs don’t want. They say, ‘No, we are the teachers. You have to follow us.’ ”

  I looked up to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

  Akbar went on. “Many people now are turning to the Sufi path. They are looking for a gentler Islam, a softness of the inner heart, for God’s blessing. This is what President Khatami seems to be saying. Many people feel, when they hear him speak, that his words carry that ishraq, illumination.”

  * * *

  Perhaps the simple act of paying our respects to Hafez was more rebellious than we had understood. Our teahouse under the stars, surrounded by honeycomb walls, bustled and hummed with fleeting glances. Couples sipped their sweet tea, students ate pistachios and rosewater ice cream, friends shared tobacco water pipes that burbled steadily away. It felt like a collective act of defiance.

  A young woman with lovely almond-shaped eyes confidently strode over to our table and introduced herself to Kevin. He grinned and chatted away in his usual disarming manner that gave way to laughter. Heads turned to stare. Then she handed Kevin a note. Somewhat befuddled, he took it and she left.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “She invited us to her home. It’s her address.”

  “So you know her a long time?” asked Vaz.

  “No, I met her just now.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” Vaz said. “You work fast.”

  “Her name is Farinaz. She says she’s a med student.”

  We nervously debated visiting our first Iranian home.

  “But how can you trust her?” Vaz said. “You don’t know her.”

  “What if we’re followed?” asked Chris, lobbying for a safe way out.

  “Maybe they’ll rob you,” Vaz added. “It could be a trap. You never know.”

  “I’d love to meet her family,” said Mom.

  An hour later, in the dark, we were lost in a suburb of Shiraz. Driving in circles, Nasrollah cursed while Akbar coaxed him right and then left. Lonely streetlamps dropped small pools of light on deserted sidewalks lined with high brick walls. There was no one to ask for directions. Vaz advised us to turn back.

  “You know … we tried. What if we can’t find it?” Rich asked.

  “No, no,” my mother protested.

  “We can bag it,” Dad said.

  Kevin said, “They may have dinner for …”

  “ …ten people,” my mother added.

  “We don’t want to have the next group be ‘Death to Americans’ because we left such a stellar example in Shiraz,” Chris said.

  “I said no seventeen times,” Kevin insisted.

  “And now we’ve got to go,” my mother concluded.

  “Think it’ll be a big party?” I asked.

  “We won’t know,” Vaz said, “until we get there.”

  Finally we found the alley. Our van pulled over in the shadows and our engine stopped. A dog’s howl sent a shudder up our spines as Kevin found the door and rang the bell. Farinaz opened it and greeted us, smiling, in blue jeans and no chador. My mother and father went in first, then all the brothers followed. Rising from the spacious carpeted floor, the entire family welcomed us.

  We all shook hands before sitting down on the carpet, cross-legged with our backs braced on cushions against the wall. Tea was served. On the wall hung a small picture, silhouettes of a loving couple, cut out of delicate white lace. They were holding hands. We spoke of the warm weather, the gardens of Shiraz and the upcoming U.S.-Iran World Cup match. Instead of skipping over the potentially explosive subject, my dad, an avid soccer fan, pumped Farinaz’s father about Iran’s team. With a few players in Germany’s Bundesliga, he told Dad, it should be a strong side, although his colleagues at the post office weren’t as confident.

  “And who do you want to win?” he asked.

  “Iran, of course,” Dad replied.

  “Or maybe a draw?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Both laughed heartily at their diplomatic answers.

  “Mr. Patrick,” Farinaz said, “you should have been here when Iran qualified for the World Cup! The game was in Sydney, so we were up watching late at night. Then all Shiraz woke up! The streets were full of cars beeping horns, and people danced in traffic. The police could do nothing.” She smiled. “They just watched.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “Our next match, Mr. Patrick, against Amrika, will create big delirium, I promise!”

  A warmth had settled over the room. Rich and Chris befriended the younger children and chatted away, telling
jokes and getting responses. After our third round of tea, santur music with a bouncy rhythm played from a tape deck hidden from view. Farinaz’s precocious little brother and sister, in her Minnie Mouse T-shirt, got up to dance. We clapped softly to the beat until the boy pulled Chris up to join him. Blushing at first, Chris began to dance. He extended his arms with palms turned up. Soon they were flapping like storks in flight. It was his signature piece, perfected from childhood, one that showcased his fluidity.

  Farinaz’s siblings tried hard to mimic him but looked like frantic chickens and fell into giggling fits. Before long, Chris was twirling like a dervish. The children followed suit, spinning like tops before falling to the carpets in hysterics. By then, Kevin too had gotten up and was earnestly trying to teach some Fred Astaire footwork to another enthusiastic little brother. Then Farinaz hopped up and joined in, as if dancing were second nature to her. Each dancer circled the room miraculously missing the parents’ legs. All were surprisingly agile. As I mirrored my own little partner’s movements, I recalled how on feast days Hassan used to guide our feet to dance with abandon.

  Dan is a Sanskrit word for religious behavior. From this root, apparently, the word “dance” entered our language. Sufis often used dance in their rituals to reach a higher state. Our harmless spectacle in Farinaz’s house was anything but sacred, but we all felt a sense of liberation. Our cheeks were flushed red, we were panting, our eyes glowed. Apart from the odd World Cup victory, dancing occurred only behind closed doors, in the privacy of home. I was beginning to understand the country’s two faces: inside and outside, baten and zaher. Intimacy and public face. Levity and austerity.

  Dates as big as plums and more tea were brought out as we caught our breath. I asked Farinaz about her medical studies.

  “Very difficult. We must work very hard. Under the Shah, villages had few clinics or doctors. But now,” she said with emphasis, “everyone has medical care. We know how important it is to serve the people.”

  She represented a new generation, dynamic and idealistic. I asked if many of the students had voted for Khatami.

  “Hameh, all!” she answered. “Especially the women. Our president has promised he will make changes to improve society, and he talks about women’s needs for the first time. He talks about a different Islam. He speaks about the God of love.”

  “Like Hafez?”

  “Yes, exactly. And our president is also very handsome.” She blushed as she filled Kevin’s teacup. I sat down next to Farinaz’s mother, who was discussing religion with Mom.

  “Can you tell me, khanoum,” she asked, “why do Christians and Muslims fight so much?”

  “I don’t know.” My mother sighed.

  “Why do they fight if there is only one God?”

  “It’s politics, always politics.”

  Farinaz nodded and asked, “And what is your religion?”

  A silence filled the room. Then my mother replied, “The same as Hafez!”

  All applauded except Vaz.

  As we stood up to leave, Farinaz offered my mother a gift: a copy of Hafez’s Divan. Moved by the kindness, Mom touched the cover, closed her eyes, whispered his name and opened the book at random. Farinaz read from the page in her melodious Farsi, translating the lines as she went on:

  I have learned so much from God

  That I no longer call myself

  A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim,

  A Buddhist, a Jew.

  The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me

  That I can no longer call myself

  A man, a woman, an angel, or even pure soul.

  Love has befriended Hafez so completely

  It has turned to ash and freed me

  Of every concept and image

  my mind has ever known.

  “Blind luck, Mom,” said Kevin as we stumbled outside into the darkness. We had to wake up Nasrollah, fast asleep in the van.

  * * *

  Back at the Apadana Hotel, I sat down in the empty bar, elated and tired. The lobby was quiet. A lone concierge looked up and offered me a copy of the Iran Daily, a new English-language paper. I read the headlines of April 11:

  Mayor Questioned for Six Hours at Evin Prison

  118 Pilgrims Die in Mecca Stampede

  UN Human Rights Commission Faults Iran: Admits Improvements in the Khatami Era

  Russians Dismiss Israeli Claims over Warheads

  Yeltsin and Nazarbayev Discuss Control of Caspian Sea

  On the back page I found a promising column, “What’s Up,” which contained a number of short news items, including:

  Human Rights Watch called on Iran to hold a fair and public trial for Tehran’s mayor, Gholamhussein Karbaschi, who was arrested on corruption charges. “We feel this is a politically motivated act,” wrote Hanny Megally, director of the group’s Middle East and North Africa division, in a letter to the Iranian judiciary. The issue has polarized the Islamic Regime, with moderates accusing the conservative opponents of seeking to destabilize President Khatami’s Administration.

  The Satanic Verses, which prompted Iran to impose a death sentence on British author Salman Rushdie over its alleged insult to Islam, is to be published in worldwide paperback. The book sold more than 250,000 since it was published nine years ago. The Guardian quoted Rushdie, “While this is, of course, a satisfying final step, it’s really scarcely more than a reprint.” The author has been in hiding since the late Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini issued a Fatwa on the author’s life in February 1989. He later backed up the decree with a $1.6 million bounty.

  The Jerusalem Post reported that Iran “with Russian help will soon pass a critical milestone in developing an engine for a medium-range missile capable of reaching Israel … Israel has been using its friends in the US Congress to press for sanctions against Russian companies participating in Iran’s missile program. The Shahab 3 will reportedly have a range of 1,300 kilometers with a payload of 700 kilograms—capable of carrying conventional or non-conventional warheads as far as Israel.”

  German Foreign Minister Klaus Kinkel said on Wednesday that Bonn had failed to secure a pardon for a German businessman condemned to death in Iran for having sexual relations out of wedlock with a Muslim woman.

  Prayer times were also listed: Dawn, 5:16; Sunrise, 6:43; Noon, 13:07; Evening, 19:52.

  Under a column called “Hotline,” a Mr. T. Shiralilon complained about the absence of a hotel in Masouleh village, a charming spot in the Caspian forest of Gilan that attracts a large number of visitors. Another citizen, P. Mehrjouei, discussed Iran’s “brain drain” and how the lack of facilities and incentives prevented scientists from pursuing careers inside the country. “It is no less than the flight of national treasures,” he wrote, imploring the authorities to learn from countries that successfully attract foreign talent. Yet another reader wrote the paper simply to ask that officials provide more telephones in Karaj, a city near Tehran.

  On the entertainment page, a headline trumpeted: “Hollywood Returns to Iran After Two Decades.” During the two-week Nowruz holiday, it was reported, more than a dozen American films were shown on state television’s five channels, including Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton movies, Steven Spielberg’s E.T., and RoboCop.

  The sports page featured color photographs of Michael Jordan soaring to the basket and Tiger Woods blasting out of a sand trap at the Masters in Augusta, along with reports of the Tour de France and Michael Schumacher’s Formula One victory.

  The Daily offered more entertainment and healthy self-criticism than any other Middle Eastern newspaper that I could remember. Mayor Karbaschi’s arrest and trial were of foremost concern, and several articles described this political litmus test signaling the long-awaited public battle between moderates and conservative hard-liners. One headline advised caution: “Ayatollah Emami Kashani Calls for Keeping Society Free from Tension,” a plea for calm heads after Karbaschi’s arrest.

  I had expected a news blackout of the depraved West, or at
best a tainted journalism with a pro-government slant. Instead, I was reading direct quotes from the Jerusalem Post, the Guardian, the U.S. State Department spokesman James Rubin and his boss Madeleine Albright. Incidentally, the Iran Daily reported that Secretary of State Albright offered a cryptic apology to Iranian wrestlers, invited for a tournament in Oklahoma, for the rude treatment they received from U.S. immigration officials, who fingerprinted the athletes when they touched American soil.

  In the throes of revolutionary change, the press here seemed much more open than I remembered during my years in Sadat’s Egypt after the signing of the Camp David peace accords.

  * * *

  I put down the paper and noticed a man sipping a Zam Zam cola in a corner of the bar. I invited myself over and we began to talk. He was a Frenchman, and his interest was oil. Always oil. Iran’s blessing and her curse. My father walked in, sat down with us and began to speak about the first place in Iran where black gold was struck in 1908, the British camp at Masjid-e Suleiman, in the foothills of Khuzestan. By the site of an ancient Achaemenian temple, later renamed the Mosque of Solomon, lay the unrefined origin of British Petroleum, once known to the world as the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company.

  My father described flying into Masjid-e Suleiman in 1958. “I’d never seen conditions like that in my life,” he said. “Grim and hopeless. Everyone still living in tents like refugees in a bad dream. Brits from India waiting to do their five-year service before getting a paid trip home. They were all out of their minds. A pathetic raj in miniature. Different pay scales for each nationality: the English supervisors on top and then the Indian accountants. The poor Iranian laborers were given nothing. The only incentives they got were tiny bonuses. I remember there was even one for catching rats.”

  “Alors, this is terrible. Rats?” the Frenchman, Philippe, said.

  “The rat catcher’s allowance,” my father told us, “was a bonus given for each dead rat, half a rial. Clever way to keep the place clean, they thought. I remember a bright young Iranian had received the most bonuses by far. I went over to his barrack and discovered that he was actually breeding them in cages behind his tent, just to make a little extra from those cheap Brits. Couldn’t blame him.”