Searching for Hassan

by Terence Ward

  Dearest Pat and Donna,

  Accept heartfelt congratulations for golden wedding anniversary that we send from far away. We hope all moment will be overflowing with love and happiness!

  “Beauty doesn’t produce Love, but love produces beauty.”

  —Leo Tolstoy

  All Ghasemi family, Isfahan

  In April, I finally flew back to Iran, as I had promised Hassan, this time with Idanna. The U.S. embargo on caviar, carpets and pistachios had recently been lifted, and Idanna welcomed the prospect of spending three weeks in a manteau and rusari. “What bliss,” she said, “not to have to worry about fashion.”

  In Isfahan, on Bi-sim Street, we embraced Ahmad Ghasemi’s new bride, Rezvan. Maryam, we learned, had seriously considered running for parliament. “Who will serve me breakfast in bed if she wins?” Rasool Iskander asked with a whine in his voice. Idanna went off with Maryam on her teaching rounds, where scores of women gathered, in private homes, to hear her speak and answer their questions about family, work, daily problems and, of course, the Koran.

  Fatimeh told me that when she passed through Tehran on her way to the Caspian for last year’s summer holidays, she asked Ahmad to drive her to the site of the old house. Seeing the Ward family after such a long time had awoken old memories in her. She was curious to see it all again. When they arrived the gate was open. She looked out on the open pit that once was her home. “I almost cried,” she said.

  During our stay, I worked with Hassan in his garden, puttered around watering the flowers, took naps in the warm afternoons, watched him cook his delicious meals and listened to him recount story after story. On our last day in Isfahan, Fatimeh bade us farewell.

  “I want to say goodbye to my friend and son, and my new daughter.”

  Misty-eyed Idanna hugged her new Iranian mother. Hassan made me promise again to come back soon.

  When we arrived in Tehran, the Canadian political attaché invited us for dinner. A BBC reporter—who was flying down to Shiraz to cover the trial of thirteen Jews charged with treason—joined us. Over coffee, he confided to us his latest dream. “Last night,” he said with a troubled face, “I dreamed I was nailed to a cross, surrounded by a mocking crowd.”

  International observers and diplomatic protests of the trial had little effect. Behind closed doors, with the help of confessions, the court found ten of the defendants guilty, but no death sentences were handed down. The cat-and-mouse game between the hard-liners and the reformers was being played out yet again.

  The night before we left Tehran, an explosive event took place on German soil. Iranian reformist leaders, flush with their election victory, attended a conference in Berlin to discuss their new agenda. It was a disaster. The ill-prepared conference sponsored by the Green Party was hijacked by Iranian protesters, many of whom had sought political asylum in Germany over the years, and who rejected the Islamic regime completely. Shouted insults and catcalls drowned out the reformist speakers onstage. Then, in a bit of shock theater out of the sixties, two audience members rose, stripped naked and danced on their chairs. And it was all caught on film. In the Laleh Hotel we watched the film clips, replayed endlessly on state-run TV, surely to embarrass and discredit reformers. The Berlin event burned across Iran’s political landscape, fueling a crackdown on intellectuals, writers and journalists. Reformist leaders who attended the conference were arrested upon their return for insulting Islam.

  Back in New York, one day in August, I met my friend Manijeh. Breathlessly, she grabbed my arm.

  “Terry jan, did you hear? Googoosh is coming!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Stepping out from her seclusion in Tehran, the Persian singer did the unimaginable. She had flown to North America to perform her first concerts since the Revolution. After twenty years of silence, she was rising like a phoenix.

  From Toronto all the way to Los Angeles, Googoosh’s warbling voice unleashed ecstatic floods of nostalgia and emotion. Crowds wept, cheered and sang along. The thousands who flocked to Long Island’s Nassau Coliseum spanned three generations.

  In an elegant white gown, the mythic Googoosh moved onstage like a vision on the bridge of memory. In the soothing sounds of her music, the multitudes of exiles forgot the pain of separation from their land and loved ones.

  By December, hard-liners in the Council of Guardians had closed down thirty-two newspapers. In just two years, the euphoric Tehran Spring we had witnessed had turned into a Siberian deep freeze.

  * * *

  To greet the new millennium, I sent a letter to Hassan, and a response arrived from Maryam in January 2001:

  Dearest Terry and Idanna,

  We received your affectionate letter from Florence and became very happy. Happy New Year! We hope New Year for you will be a year with happiness, blessedness and coming to Iran and Isfahan again and again! We are all good and we anxiously await you. Why don’t you come? The weather in Isfahan is very good. It seems here is spring. We all wish to see you and all Ward family in Isfahan. By the way: Ahmad and his wife Rezvan will have a baby in July or August!

  We saw a lunar eclipse 3 night ago and we wished we would see you on our side that moment. Come early, soon and quick and make us happy. Give our warm greetings to Donna and Pat and your brothers and their family.

  With all our love,

  sister Maryam and all Ghasemis

  Her letter arrived on an important anniversary, which passed nearly unnoticed. Twenty years before, as Ronald Reagan was being sworn in as president, fifty-two American hostages walked out of the U.S. embassy, ending their 444 days of captivity.

  Several days later, I read that a weeklong fair devoted to women, the first since the Islamic Revolution, drew thousands of women in north Tehran. Fashion models strutted in red, bright green, khaki and blue dresses, freed from their long dark gowns and headscarves. Unwieldy chadors were nowhere to be seen. Curiously, I also read a statement by Mohammad Javad Larijani, a political theorist of the hard-liners, in the daily Aftab-e Yazd. “Dialogue should not be considered a taboo. If our national interests require we should talk with Satan in hell. We should defend our national interest. We should hold dialogue even with our most hostile enemies if necessary.”

  I circled the key word: dialogue. This statement signaled the all-important green light.

  The growing realization that, while preserving the Revolution, Iran must open up to the West had been agreed upon by all political camps in Tehran. The economic crisis was no longer blamed on enemy plots or the collapse in oil prices; Kayhan, the government newspaper, bluntly wrote, “The problem is mismanagement.” The real question was, How much to open up? Inflation was soaring, eating away savings and retirement stipends. Many survived on ration coupons and rice and bread at subsidized prices. Massive subsidies and price controls were burdens on the state-run economy. Unemployment was as high as 30 percent among the educated youth. During all the years of economic hardship, it had been the ingenuity and resilience of the Iranian people that had kept the country afloat. Caught between the pull of tradition and the demands of globalization, a balance had to be struck. Iran had dramatic choices to make.

  As 2001 began, I watched with surprise as a flood of Persian culture crested over established geopolitical barriers. Consider these examples. In March, Yo-Yo Ma premiered his “Silk Road Project” at Lincoln Center, honoring Persian classical music. Kurt Masur conducted the New York Philharmonic in three concerts featuring Blue as the Turquoise Night of Neyshabur by the Iranian composer Kayhan Kalhor, Through the Ancient Valley by Richard Danielpour, an Iranian American, and Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. A week later, at Cooper Union, Shahram Nazeri, Iran’s most popular singer and a master of the Sufi repertoire, mesmerized a packed house, with his son accompanying him on percussion. The event, entitled Drunken Love, was a tribute to that bestselling Persian poet, Rumi.

  Then a new wave of Iranian films crashed ashore. In New York a two-week festival, Iran Through the Eyes of Children, opened. A
month later, at the Museum of Modern Art, Marzieh Meshkini’s The Day I Became a Woman premiered, as did Jafar Panahi’s The Circle, a searing portrait of six single women in Tehran, which won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival. An unheralded release from a then-unknown director, Smell of Camphor, Fragrance of Jasmine, earned high praise from New York reviewers, one of whom called Bahman Farmanara, who directed and starred in the film, “Iran’s Woody Allen.”

  On the political front, the long-awaited presidential elections were held in June. Mohammad Khatami won his second four-year term, with 21.7 million votes and a majority of 76 percent, surpassing his previous victory margin of 1997. The beleaguered reform movement garnered enormous popular support.

  My interest in Tehran’s bitter power struggles, however, had been transformed. The words of Hassan and Akbar, Dr. Safvat and Majid Majidi compelled me to look beyond the predicament of politics—derived from a long history of hardship, exploitation and deception. I was now drawn to the timeless, immutable soul of Iran.

  The great Atlantic waters that once separated me from high Elburz snows had shrunk to a trickling stream. In my dreams, I no longer chased after Hassan’s vanishing heels. Instead, I woke feeling his gaze. And I obeyed my father’s words: “If you listen carefully, my son, you will hear his heart beating on that far side of the world.”

  * * *

  But the predicament of politics returned.

  On a crystal-blue September morning, Idanna called out, “Terenzio, come quickly. A tower is missing.” I found her peering out a window that overlooked the city’s downtown rooftops. We stared in disbelief as a colossal black plume lifted high above New York’s skyline. Then the second tower collapsed.

  In the horrific days that followed, our stunned city reeled from the shock and fear of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Manhattan’s gaping wound cut deep into the nation’s psyche. Phone calls came at odd hours from around the country, asking if we were all right. Then one day I heard a distant voice on the other end of the line.

  “Allo, Ter-ry. How are you, your brothers, your mommy and daddy? Are they safe? We are so worried.”

  “Fatimeh!” I cried. “Yes, we all are OK.”

  “Thanks God! Al-hamdulillah. We are so sorry for the families of people who died.”

  Maryam then took the phone from her mother. “Did you see all Iranian people on television with candles?”

  “Of course, Maryam.” I had seen on the BBC the nightly vigils in Tehran, thousands of people gathered in memory of the fallen.

  “We are all so very sad,” she said.

  I thanked her and then spoke with Rasool and finally with Hassan.

  “I pray for you,” Hassan said. Before saying goodbye, he recited the words of the poet Saadi:

  “Children of Adam are all members of the same body,

  who, in creation, were made of the same essence.

  He who cannot feel others’ pain,

  cannot call himself a son of man.”

  Afterword

  From the Dawn of the first Beginning till the twilight of the last End, Friendship and love have drawn inspiration from one sole pact, one single trust.

  —HAFEZ

  Looking out from my window in Florence, I gaze at heavy rains swelling the Arno River and hear Hassan’s voice repeating Saadi’s poem: “Children of Adam are all members of the same body …” In this Renaissance city that I now call home, many years have passed since I first wrote this book.

  Today, the Persian poet’s wisdom resonates with more urgency than when humanism flowered here in Tuscany five centuries ago. Thankfully, poets endure. Saadi, Hafez and Rumi open our eyes by offering visions of compassion that look deep into our hearts and far beyond our lives. Speaking eternal truths, their insights offer a response to conflict in our world. Today, in the search for answers, one must look beyond the media’s flood of words that churns up fear and drowns out truth with lies. As Hassan says, “Look to the poets.”

  * * *

  After we returned to America, without warning, two losses struck my family like thunderbolts. Both my parents died. First my mother left. In our Berkeley home, with my father and brothers, we said farewell to Donna, whose geography of love knew no boundaries. She fought bravely but could not turn back her illness. I always will remember her luminous eyes staring back at me in Tudeshk. “Terry, they’re here. I just know it. Trust me …”

  When she fell ill, I read to her a flood of emails that had arrived praising her indomitable spirit.

  “But, Terry,” she whispered, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “And who led us to Hassan’s door?”

  She paused in thought. “We were guided by a hidden hand.”

  Four days after her passing, we held her birthday celebration on March 29 surrounded by family and friends. Moving tributes, poignant songs and poetry filled the sun-soaked afternoon as we recalled her life. Later, at dusk, I rang Isfahan to give Hassan and Fatimeh the sad news. They were crushed.

  “Terry, she was such a good mother to me,” Fatimeh said. “I was just a young girl.…”

  “We will pray for her,” Hassan told me, “and please hold your father close.”

  Candles flickered that night in Berkeley. And inside mosques in Isfahan and Saudi Arabia, churches in Florence and Athens, and even a temple in Karangasem, Bali, prayers quietly went to her.

  The following year, I suggested to Pat that we return together to Iran, knowing this would lift his spirits. An emotional homecoming surely awaited us on Bi-sim Street.

  “I’m ready, Ter, let’s go!” he cried.

  Boarding a plane in San Francisco headed to Florence, he decided to stop over in Manhattan and spend a few days in my flat in the National Arts Club on Gramercy Park.

  Lightheaded and full of joy, he strolled about his old New York stomping grounds, greeting his old pals. One evening he dropped in on his Greek buddy Petros, who owned Pete’s Diner on 3rd Avenue and 21st Street. When Petros started to complain angrily about the “criminals in Washington,” Pat grabbed him by his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

  “They’ll all be convicted, my friend! Life’s too short, Petros. Lighten up!”

  Petros reached below the counter and pulled out a bottle of his prized Santorini wine.

  “You’re right, Pat!” he bellowed, filling up two glasses. And with a loud “Yassou!” they toasted each other grandly with roaring laughter.

  That evening, when Pat returned to my flat, he elatedly called friends back in California and reported on his warm New York welcome.

  “They’re treating me like returning royalty, red carpet and all … !”

  These would be his last words. He never arrived in Florence. Nor did he ever set foot in Iran again. That jubilant night, after returning to my apartment, he had a stroke and Pat left us to join his beloved Donna instead.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, on the global stage, America’s tragic invasion of Iraq—on false pretenses—tore apart the country’s fragile fabric, opening up bloody rifts between Sunni and Shia. The United States imposed the democratic rule of the majority. The winners were the long-suffering Shia, along with their Kurdish allies to the north. The embittered Sunnis, who had ruled for centuries, faced a shocking new reality. The seeds of a civil war were planted. Insurgents and bombers shed blood. Rival militias clashed daily in revenge. Chaos in Mesopotamia threatened to spill across the entire region.

  By 2005, in Iran, the dream of President Khatami’s reforms and his opening to the world had vanished. A hardline mayor of Tehran, Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, ascended to power playing his populist, arch-conservative cards. He recklessly spoke words of Holocaust denial and tensions flared between Iran and Israel.

  American and Iranian politicians threatened to bring the countries to the brink of war. The danger was centered not only on Iran’s nuclear program but also flash points in Iraq, Lebanon and the Gulf, where any accidental incident could easily escalate into full-blown conf
lict. For four years, the world watched as Bush and Ahmedinejad baited each other on the global stage.

  By the time Iran faced new elections in May 2009, mass demonstrations poured onto the streets in support of the Green Movement reformist candidates who seemed poised to win. After the fraudulent and much-disputed victory was announced, millions marched across Tehran in protest. A brutal crackdown followed. Horrific scenes of street violence by heavy-handed police and the Basij (one of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps) left people in shock. Thousands were arrested, beaten and tortured in prison. Fear swept the country; intellectuals and academics fled abroad for safety.

  Under Ahmedinejad’s rule, international sanctions crippled the economy. Inflation and prices skyrocketed. Due to the sanctions, millions of aging cars were still on the city’s congested streets, belching out fumes from poorly refined petrol. The newspaper Ebtekar published a large picture of smog-covered Tehran with the headline: “My city has been lost.” The Guardian described the thick cloud of air pollution that gripped Tehran “veiling everything from the 1,427-foot-tall Milad Tower to the nearby Elburz Mountains.” The celebrated filmmaker Dariush Mehrjui told ISNA news agency that he moved out of the capital because “I can’t breathe in Tehran, simple as that. Everyone is choking, look at cancer rates. Who can live here under these circumstances?”

  Environmental disaster also struck Isfahan. Their life-giving river, the Zayandeh, disappeared overnight. Tragically, the water had been diverted 168 miles east to industries in Yazd, leaving the riverbed barren and bone-dry. Livelihoods of Isfahan’s farmers were ruined. Isfahanis lamented this betrayal. One told me, “It used to be like your Arno in Florence. Ahmedinejad has cut out the heart of our city, so his cronies can have factories in the desert.”