Searching for Hassan

by Terence Ward

  Peace in two worlds is the merging of two paths Fairness with friends, fellowship with enemies.

  —HAFEZ

  In the fall of 2009, paradoxically, a new mood surfaced in America. The ascendency of Barack Obama was met with great surprise in Iran. Over the following years, the new president, whose middle name was Hussein, made welcoming gestures symbolized by his annual Persian New Year greetings from the Oval Office.

  By 2013, Iran’s electorate answered with the election of a moderate cleric in a surprise landslide election. President Hassan Rouhani ended the cynical hard-line rule of Ahmedinejad. Many felt a reawakening that mirrored the epoch of President Khatami. The clinging fear gave way. The new leader, Hassan Rouhani, with his savvy Foreign Minister Javad Zarif, began reaching out across the divide to overtures of Obama’s administration. Secret negotiations were underway that would conclude in a nuclear agreement in Geneva. Both countries were pulling back from a looming confrontation. Sanctions were lifted. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. In Tehran, guarded optimists hoped that a new dawn of relations was actually breaking. Perhaps.

  Meanwhile, farther west, ominous chaos grew in Syria and Iraq. Both countries had transformed and mutated, giving birth to the monstrous fundamentalist Islamic State, or ISIS. Inspired and funded by the intolerant sect of Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia, this group attracted disaffected Sunnis and a host of foreign jihadis into its fold. Proclaiming other Muslims as heretics, ISIS targeted Shias, Sufis and Yazidis, and wreaked havoc across the two countries, threatening both capitals of Damascus and Baghdad. The last remaining Christian communities fled for their lives.

  If you are not a traveler, how can you become a guide?

  —HAFEZ

  In February 2014, I received a curious phone call.

  “Hello, Mr. Terry, my name is Arash Nooraghayee. I loved your book and also began my own search for Hassan. I am here now with him in his home. Mr. Ward, I have a question for you both.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “We would like to invite you to the Seventh Annual Convention of Iranian Tourist Guides that will take place in Kerman in one week.”

  “One week?” I was taken aback. “I can’t get a visa in a week.”

  “There’s a new law,” he said calmly. “If you have a European passport, you can pick up your visa at the airport.”

  I was shocked. Normally, Iranian visas were an uphill challenge. This sounded too good to be true.

  “I’ve got an Irish passport,” I replied. “But … I’ll come only if Hassan will be there too.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what he told me.”

  And so, a week later, on February 19, 2014, I found myself standing in the exotic desert city of Kerman for my first reunion with Hassan in eight years. During Ahmedinejad’s rule, I hadn’t returned because I did not want to put his family at risk during moments of high tension. Yet now, with this door swinging open, I couldn’t resist.

  In Kerman, the president of the World Federation of Tourist Guide Associations, Felicitas Wressnig from Austria, opened the convention by greeting the seven-hundred-strong audience that filled the auditorium. I realized that all of the guides served a higher calling. Each was a self-appointed ambassador or emissary who built bridges of respect with foreign guests, while sharing the eternal face of Iran. Then I caught sight of my old friend Akbar, who had been our Shiraz guide years before. He came over and sat next to me. He told me that at the last convention they had awarded him “Guide of the Year.”

  After Ms. Felicitas offered gifts to government officials, a noted poet followed, reciting his work to music evoking the beauties of Kerman. Then the master of ceremonies shifted to introduce the story of Searching for Hassan. The great hall went dark. The poignant echo of a violin filled our ears. On the huge screen appeared an image of our lost garden in Tehran. Then another flashed of Fatimeh and baby Ali sitting on a fountain with two Ward boys. More images followed—the Ward family lost in Tudeshk, Donna shaking Hassan’s hand after thirty years, Chris chatting with Maryam at home, Hassan cooking his kebab, and, finally, both families reunited in front of the house.

  When the lights turned on, I quickly scanned the crowd and could tell that everyone was moved. Some even brushed away their tears. Then Hassan’s name was called out. Loud applause broke the silence. I felt a chill down my spine as he stood and walked up on the stage with Fatimeh, waving to the crowd. Calmly he read his prepared speech while photographers and cameramen captured his image and words.

  Once he finished, the festival host hurriedly grabbed the microphone. “Thank you, Mr. Ghasemi, for transmitting to these American children a love for our culture that endured through time … and also for being such a fine example for our younger generation.”

  The audience rose to their feet in a rousing standing ovation. At that moment, Akbar leaned over and pointed to the front row of government officials who remained seated.

  “They’re very nervous, Terry, because they know that all the kids clapping behind them represent the future of this country. Things are changing!” Meanwhile, thunderous cheers and whistles rocked the hall.

  I couldn’t believe the surreal scene. During all the retirement years that Hassan had spent, secluded in his quiet home, I was sure he could have never imagined such a day—when he would be basking in public limelight as a Persian cultural hero.

  Hassan speaking in Kerman at the 2014 conference with Fatimeh, Akbar, the author and Ali on stage.

  * * *

  Leaving the auditorium, we made our way past the admirers fluttering around Hassan. Fatimeh invited me to join her in the family car with Maryam and Ahmad for the long drive to Isfahan. She said that Hassan insisted I ride with them. He was heading back home on a bus full of tour guides.

  We traveled by night and six hours later, I sat waiting patiently at his house. Fatimeh had gone off to sleep. When Hassan entered, he seemed surprised to see me, as if snapping out of a dream.

  “How was your ride back?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Not really … all those young people kept asking me questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Many things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I began answering. Then they gave me the microphone.”

  “You mean everyone in the bus heard your stories?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long did you speak?

  “Two hours, maybe three …” He broke into a mischievous chuckle. “Then they put on music and started dancing.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Terry jan, it’s the first time I’ve seen such young people—so fun, curious and brave.”

  “So, baba, you had a great time!”

  He nodded with a satisfied smile.

  “Before, I used to hate to go out,” he said. “Now I think I changed my mind. Those kids were great! Who knows, maybe one day we should take a trip together. …”

  He paused, then looked me in the eyes. “You know, years ago a seed was planted in that garden in Tehran. The seed has blossomed and I now have five sons: Ali, Mahdi, Ahmad, Majid … and you!”

  Since the book was published, American friends often called our journey to find Hassan a coincidence, pure chance. Here, in Iran, I heard a different word being used: sarnevesht—destiny.

  One should say before sleeping:

  “I have lived many lives.

  I have been a slave and a prince.

  Many a beloved has sat upon my knees

  And I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved.

  Everything that has been shall be again.”

  —W. B. YEATS

  In the deep of night in Florence, these words of the Irish poet often come to me. In heady moments like these, we often lose sight of the perennial. Over the years, strolling through the medieval streets of Florence, the “Isfahan of Italia,” I’ve stopped to catch my breath along the Arno crisscrossed by
historic bridges like the Zayandeh River. On treks through the Boboli Gardens, my mind has often turned to Isfahan’s Hasht Behesht, the Eight Heavens. Bargaining with tight-fisted Florentine bazaaris gets my blood running as quickly as the sight of Brunelleschi’s cupola that mirrors the grand turquoise dome piercing the skyline of Hassan’s city.

  During our three journeys back to Iran, my wife, Idanna, and I have looked upon new faces of a growing brood of grandchildren. Hassan has confided more stories from his treasure chest of memories. Maryam has gone through a full transformation. Now she proclaims herself a reformist. She’s done away with the color black, sporting pastel blues and greens, playing flamenco music loudly in her car.

  When I asked her why, she recalled how a few years ago, a psychologist had told her, “My dear, if you have moments of depression, black is not the color for you. After all, why did God make beautiful colors, if he did not want us to enjoy them?” She admired his logic. Then he asked her if she listened to music. “Play it when you drive.” he advised, “Why did God make music, if not for us to enjoy?” I also learned that Maryam had honored a promise she made to Donna. She earned her doctorate—a PhD in Comparative Religions. This opened her eyes further. “I pray to your mother for that. You know, I now realize that all the religions are saying the same thing.”

  Among her brothers, Ahmad has married the beautiful Rezvan; Majid also took the plunge. Mahdi has risen to serve as a director of the Esfahan Steel Company, while Ali has retired from the navy. Our captain is now out of harm’s way. Fatimeh’s mother, Khorshid, sadly, has left. She passed away in Tudeshk in the same house that we stumbled into years before. Outliving her husband, she refused any new suitors. Yet she could not bear to move to Isfahan; she loved her village too much.

  Meanwhile, Fatimeh diligently keeps the intricate family web interlinked in her motherly way. And each Friday, the growing tribe converges on Bi-sim Street for Hassan’s daylong feasts. Now there are twenty-two who come—all the sons, their wives, Maryam and her husband and all the grandchildren. While Hassan prepares lunch and dinner for young and old, he has only one rule: he refuses to let Fatimeh help.

  “She has worked too hard in her life,” he reminds everyone. “Now it is her time to relax.”

  * * *

  Over the years, streams of foreigners have also arrived at Hassan’s door. Along Bi-sim Street, strangers often stop neighbors to ask for directions, hoping to meet the man who inspired the journey back. These visits grew more frequent after the story was translated into Italian, French, German and Indonesian and two rival editions in Persian.

  One such visit began with a book presentation in Padua, Italy. After my finale, a feisty activist named Irma Tomassini leapt to her feet with an appeal.

  “I am going to Iran,” she announced. “Who will come with me?”

  Her friend quickly stood up.

  “Irma, I will join you,” she seconded.

  Then another friend rose. And another. In the end, thirteen women agreed to go. Following the itinerary of the story, the eclectic group began in Shiraz and crossed the deserts to Yazd until finally arriving at Hassan’s home. Nervously, under the soft afternoon sun, Irma reached up to ring his doorbell.

  That day when Hassan slowly opened the gate, his jaw dropped. Before him stood a gaggle of ladies straight out of a Fellini film, their colorful scarves blowing in the wind. With his flourish of hospitality, he welcomed them inside. Crossing the threshold, they spent a lovely afternoon chatting, sipping tea and nibbling sweets and ice cream. While Hassan served them, Fatimeh and Maryam kept the women amused.

  We spoke over the phone after they left, and he confessed guilt for not feeding them properly.

  “I feel so bad, I should have given them kebabs and rice and …”

  “Hassan jan, you can’t feed all your visitors,” I said. “In the end, you’ll be bankrupt.”

  “Yes … and Fatimeh won’t like that,” he agreed. “By the way, I gave them a surprise to bring back to you.” And they did. A week later I received Hassan’s life story, written by his own hand.

  Another bright morning, he swung the gate open to find a rather prominent lady from England, the Duchess of Westminster. I first met Natalia Grosvenor over a luncheon at Bona Frescobaldi’s home in Florence. Soon after Natalia wrote: “I am so excited at the thought of going to Iran which was greatly inspired by your book. I will let you know once we (my sister Marita & her husband) have made a plan with Akbar Afkar—who sounds utterly wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for helping me.”

  In May 2016, the duchess set out across the Iranian plateau escorted by Akbar, who had led us so many years before. Opening my email one evening, I found her note with a photo. “It was so sad saying goodbye to dear Akbar this morning. We just now landed back at Heathrow and had the most incredible time! It certainly changes something inside …”

  Below, I peered at the image taken in Hassan’s home with Natalia sitting cross-legged on Fatimeh’s carpet with a beaming Maryam and Akbar to her left and a quite surprised Hassan and Fatimeh on her right.

  And the visitors keep dropping in. Recently, Jerry Brown, the former governor of California, called me to say his youngest sister, Kathleen Brown, and her son Zeke were heading there with some other Stanford alumns. Of course, friends besieged her with countless warnings as tensions had spiked between America and Iran, yet she too met Hassan’s family over Persian New Year in 2019 and was moved by their welcome and all she discovered en route.

  Unexpected visit of the Dutchess of Westminster: Maryam, Akbar, Natalia Grosvenor, Fatimeh and Hassan seated in the Ghasemi home.

  Behold the caravan of civilization has been ambushed.

  Everywhere, fools are in charge.

  —RUMI

  Grim realities now shake the globe. A radical shift in American politics has triggered earthquakes across the planet. Grave uncertainty grips capitals from the Atlantic to the Pacific. U.S. President Trump threatens with hubris and stokes fear. The world has indeed become far more dangerous.

  Kathleen Brown and Maryam Ghasemi.

  A new round of confrontation between Iran and America has begun. Both countries’ politicians seem incapable of ending the enmity that has endured for four decades. Out of seven American presidents, only one ever made an effort to change the paradigm.

  It’s important to recall that when Obama seized the opportunity, America lost an enemy. The Iran nuclear crisis—on the verge of catastrophic war—was resolved peacefully without a single shot being fired. The historic nuclear deal painfully negotiated over twenty months and three missed deadlines was signed in 2015 by Iran and the world’s six major powers—the United States, the United Kingdom, Russia, France, China, and Germany, plus the European Union. Crushing sanctions were lifted and Iranians were buoyant, looking forward to better times and a prosperous economy. Instead, elections in America ended all of that.

  On the 2016 campaign trail, Donald Trump railed at the agreement calling it “the worst deal ever made.” The Associated Press quickly corrected his false claim that $150 billion was given to Iran from the U.S. Treasury. AP stated that no American gift was ever given. Iran had finally gained access to its frozen assets abroad. Funds held for decades were simply released.

  No matter, by May 2018, the die was cast. The United States turned its back on the agreement, although Iran was in full compliance according to the UN monitoring body. The White House declared its new campaign of “maximum pressure” against Iran by officially reinstating all sanctions that were previously lifted before under the nuclear agreement. By April 2019, the United States added the threat to sanction any countries continuing to buy oil from Iran. Exports fell from 3.2 million barrels per day to only 300,000. The doors that the West had carefully lured open with European partners quickly slammed shut. Trump turned his back on his allies, just as he had done with the global climate treaty the year before.

  Again, the Iranian people found themselves plunged into a far worse ec
onomic crisis. The riyal lost its value again. Inflation spiked. Some fathers no longer earned enough to provide for their families. Thousands of students graduated to find no jobs. Youth unemployment stood at forty percent. Runaway inflation was taking its toll. For the first time in years, there was talk of people falling into poverty. When we first traveled to Iran, we found a country free of the grinding poverty we had seen in our youth, but now with American pressure and governmental mismanagement the economy was contracting and imposing hardship on the population.

  Then, in November 2019, the government removed fuel subsidies overnight. Gasoline prices rose fifty percent. Across the country, protests erupted in a hundred cities, filling the streets with angry demonstrators.

  Unrest spread very quickly in a way that nobody had really anticipated. The widespread nature was quite a surprise. These were the biggest protests since 2009. Something had spun out of control. The authorities panicked. It was reported that the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khameini, personally issued orders to stop all demonstrations. Suddenly, all internet traffic was cut.

  When the blackout lifted five days later, the news was shocking. Security forces had opened fire on protesters. In the ferocious crackdown, hundreds were killed. Thousands ended up in prison. The pendulum that had swung to the moderates, now was swinging back to the hardliners.

  Then, three days after the dawn of 2020, an American drone attacked the noted Iranian general Qassem Suleimani as he left Baghdad airport. Trump boasted that he ordered the killing “to stop a war” because of “imminent attacks” being planned. From Britain, the ex-MI6 chief was blunt. Sir John Sawers described the assassination as an “act of war.” Meanwhile the Head of Homeland Security, Chad Wolf, stated that there were “no specific, credible threats” from Iran against the United States. Instead of making Americans “more safe,” the opposite happened. Iran’s leaders spoke of retaliation. Overnight, the State Department urged all Americans in Iraq to immediately evacuate by land or air.