by Soheyl Dahi
[Half memoir, half portraiture and we here at ATKE are damn proud to run this compelling glimpse into your typical autumn in Iran. The swirling fever-pitch of rhetoric in re: invasion, nuclear proliferation, and undecipherable U.S policy in the shifting sands of the Middle East; part taxicab conversation, part fragile mortality, part war and consequence--all courtesy of a painter's personal, restrained, yet very prescient eye for detail. A piece that–as with Guernica and as with any great canvas–makes its scene from wondrous, eye-opening lines and angles. –Eds.]
"Where are Their Guernicas?"
The fall in Tehran is pleasant. Very pleasant. As always, the horrendous traffic defies logic and the smog overpowers the landscape to the point that, some days, the Damavand summit is not visible. But there are days one can easily mistake for spring.
But this past fall in Tehran was like no other: there was talk that U.S. would invade Iran. It was on everybody's minds and tongues. Every fall in Iran also marks the annual anniversary of the end of the Iran-Iraq war. Iranians observe the anniversary with a week known as 'the Holy Defense Week'. The week consists of parades, films, plays and debate about the Iran-Iraq war and this year the Iranian media was especially intense and heated. As the week proceeded the discussions took on a new direction and a life of its own. The issue: the nuclear proliferation. For Iranians the issue is one of security and national pride. Iranians resented the U.S. employing yet another strong-arm approach in the Middle-East regarding Iran's nuclear program. They were more receptive, but still suspicious, of Europeans' gentler approach through diplomacy. Indeed, people were talking. This issue became a unifying force between ordinary Iranians and their government – two parties that often do not see eye to eye.
I met many people in Iran during my stay and something one learns quickly about Iranians is they are never short of opinions. This makes them interesting but also makes them subscriber to all sorts of conspiracy theories. But, as they say, a paranoid is a person with too many facts at his disposal! It is hard to remain level-headed when living in a country where U.S. troops are stationed on each side (Afghanistan and Iraq) - not to mention the U.S. troops permanently stationed in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Qatar (Iran's southern neighbors in the Persian Gulf region).
My principal reason to visit Iran this time was a personal one. My father passed away few months earlier and I went back to pay my respects at his grave. Within days of my arrival, I made arrangement to have a cab driver pick me up early one morning and drive me to Beheshet-e-Zahra (Zahra's Paradise), the largest cemetery in Tehran. Here are the accounts of my encounters:
Cabbie #1: Mehdi
Mehdi is a young man in his 20's. He is clean-shaven and wears a fashionable short-sleeved polo shirt. He wants to know why I am going to Beheshet-e-Zahra. He offers me his condolences. Our conversation began with why he drives a cab. He had failed the university entrance exam three times and finally gave up on higher education in Iran. He still dreamed of pursuing an engineering degree somewhere else – Australia, or Canada maybe–but after 9/11, he gave up on coming to U.S. He later tells me he learned English from satellite TV. Satellite TV is officially banned in Iran but despite that, Iranians continue to enjoy TV programs from all over the world. Mehdi watches Oprah ("Why is she so popular?"), Larry King ("what's with the suspenders?"), is a fan of 'Friends' ('they are all very attractive') broadcast on European stations, and is a regular in various chat rooms on the internet.
The more we talk, the more I suspect that he has no desire to talk about the 'Holy Defense Week.' He is, instead, very eager to tell me about two songs by Pink Floyd ex-front man, Roger Waters; posted on his website and available free to the public. Mehdi says he has heard the songs probably a hundred times. "He is telling our story," Mehdi tells me. He particularly loves the personal attack on George Bush in one of the songs. He laughs hard and hits the steering wheel as he sings along in his delightful accent – not unlike mine:
Are these the people that we should bomb
Are we so sure they mean us harm
Is this our pleasure, punishment or crime
Is this a mountain that we really want to climb*
Are we so sure they mean us harm
Is this our pleasure, punishment or crime
Is this a mountain that we really want to climb*
The sun was barely up when we arrived at the cemetery. The rays were made a wondrous golden glow on the white marble of the headstones. We found my father's grave among the rows and rows of graves, him walking along with me, bending over the grave and saying a short prayer. He then walked away to give me a private moment with my father.
As we drove back through the sections upon sections, and rows after rows of graves, Mehdi asked if I'd like to see the Shahids (Martyrs) section of the cemetery. When the word shahid is uttered in Iran, it is refers to the victims of the eight-year war with Iraq–a war that left thousands dead, and many more dying–after effects of the chemical war Saddam Hussein waged against Iranians and Kurdish-Iraqis.
As Mehdi parked the car he said, "We'll walk from here." Rows and rows of men–boys really – with fresh faces and attempted moustaches seen in the photographs posted on each grave. Strange thoughts go through my head. These boys, what were they thinking at the time the photographs were taken? Could they have imagined their own mortality? Did they know that their days on this earth were numbered? From all accounts, many did know. Many lied about their age so they could get in the army. Many volunteered for the front lines.
'I lost one cousin in the war, but another cousin survived' Mehdi said. "He was a Basiji (Volunteer Army). He is the 'chemical one','' Mehdi says.
"Chemical one"' I asked.
"Yes, he was a victim of chemical attack during the war."
"Where is he now?"
"He is around," Mehdi says shrugging his shoulders. "But he is not very fond me. He thinks I'm too corrupt. He tells me 'you're too much in love with the West.'"
"Can I meet him?"
"I'll try" he said.
Dr. Kazem: 'The Chemical One'
Few days later, Mehdi called. Dr. Kazem, his ex-Basiji cousin, much to Mehdi's surprise, wanted to talk to me directly...by phone first. I agreed and we made contact. He was suspicious of me but nevertheless agreed to meet briefly and without any commitment to talk. He was not surprised in the least that I wanted to interview him. Apparently, over the years, he has had his share of interviews – and most, to his great disappointment, during the 'Holy Defense Week'.
We met over coffee at a local café downtown. He was medium height, with full black hair and beard, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt fully buttoned-up. For openers, we talked about his cousin Mehdi. "Mehdi is a good boy with a good heart," Dr. Kazem said, "but he is lost..." Dr. Kazem, a PH.D. in comparative literature, slowly warmed to me--despite probably not having a very favorable view of someone like me (who lives in the West). Yet, he defied stereotype, and was cordial and even friendly toward me.
Dr. Kazem volunteered for the war when he was 15 against his parents' wishes. He ran away from home, lied about his age, and joined the all volunteer army (Basijis). Once inside, he once again volunteered for the front lines. He is full of memories and anecdotes. He fought the Iraqis for 5 years until that fateful day in Halabja when he got caught in a chemical attack along with over 5000 Kurdish-Iraqi civilians of Halabja who instantly perished. "The rocket landed few feet from me. Almost immediately I smelled garlic, onion and fresh vegetables. Before I realized what had happened, I had breathed in a few times. I put on my mask as soon as I could and ran as fast as humanly possible. Back in our barracks, I took a shower and thought I'd be fine but soon I began to itch all over. I had breathed in mustard gas. My entire body was covered with blisters, some the size of a small frying pan. When I pressed on them, a greenish liquid came out. This was the damage that was visible. Inside, I learned later, about 40% of my lungs were destroyed. Still, I was among the fortunate ones because I eventually recovered. Today, sometimes, I need an oxygen tank to help me breathe and on bad days I cough blood. That's all, really."
"On your bad days, how do you feel about your experience?' I asked him.
"I think I know what you are asking me. You want to know whether I have any regrets or not. I can tell you that I have none. If U.S. attacks us today, I'll pick up arms again and fight," he says without missing a beat.
Cabbie #2: Reza, the Journalist
I met Reza by chance after another cabbie changed his mind and decided he was not going my way after all. I got out and soon found Reza's cab. Reza, it turned out, was a journalist. Ex-journalist. His early career was spent as a gofer at a major daily newspaper in pre-revolutionary Iran. Reza is a proud reformist. His last job at a reformist paper was his third job in the past two years. All three papers were closed down by the government for 'a variety of trumped up charges'. Finally the revolutionary court banned him for life from practicing journalism and he became a cab driver to make ends meet. Reza's first passion is journalism of course but he also has a keen interest in literature – modern American literature to be exact. He has read 'On the Road' and admires Kerouac's sense of freedom in his story and style. I happened to have the perfect gift for him in my briefcase: A signed copy of 'Front Lines' (published by City Lights) by San Francisco's poet laureate Jack Hirschman. The gift was intended for another friend but Reza seemed equally deserving. Reza was genuinely pleased with the gift.
"Hirschman and Ferlinghetti are great poets. What are they up to? Still alive?" I assure him that indeed they are and they are more active than ever. "But what are they doing against the invasion of Iraq?" he asks.
"They are writing, reading, dissenting and giving a voice to millions of Americans who are also against this invasion," I say.
"Good," he says, "but what about the others? Where are the American artists? Where are their Guernicas? Why are they all silent when Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib are happening? Where is the outrage?"
I do not have an answer for him.
Reza and many others like him are in a precarious position these days: they are trying to reform the political system from within, liberalizing a regime that is quick to brand them 'pro-U.S.' – a label that has become a kiss of death in the Middle East. Nevertheless, Reza is hopeful. But he also warns of the dire consequences if U.S. decides to invade another Arab or a non-Arab but predominantly Moslem country like Iran.
"Nobody here believes U.S. wants to give us democracy–as if we were beggars and democracy was a morsel of food!" he says. "They want three things from us: Oil, oil and oil! If they attack I will have to defend my country," he says as he shifts into fourth gear.
Cabbie #3 Jamal, the ex-guard
I got into his car for all the wrong reasons. His car was filthy. He looked unshaven, unkempt and beat. I pitied him and thought maybe he needed the business more the other cabbies. His name was Jamal and all I said to him was "How's life these days?" and he went off for the rest of the ride. It turned out that he was in Shah's guard before the revolution of 1979. He told me how good he had it.
"Sir, we had vacation pay, clothes stipend, health insurance, food subsidies. I was a homeowner, can you believe that? Now, I can't even afford to pay rent. I work 16 hours a day. If my car dies on me, I'll die too. Yes Sir, life is hard in Iran, life is very hard."
"What do you think of the United States? I asked him.
"We had American advisors and trainers in Shah's time. We all liked them. They were good people. Some of them cried when they were forced to leave Iran because of the revolution."
"Do you follow the news these days?"
"Yes, I have a shortwave radio. I am against the invasion. The U.S. doesn't understand Moslems. If Iraq is not their Vietnam, Iran will be. Sir, I listen to radio Israel and sometimes to the BBC."
"Radio Israel?" I asked incredulously.
"Yes, Sir," he replied. "Radio Israel has a Farsi program; they play the best pop songs of pre-revolution–now banned in Iran. I don't care about politics anymore. I just want to survive. Music takes me back to the good old days. I know they're gone forever. But still, I need it. I don't have anything else to keep me going."
He dropped me off at my door. We shook hands. Then, he took off in his cab - clanking and clunking. I stood there until he made the turn and disappeared in the traffic of Tehran.
The following day I was gone too.
Iranian-born poet and artist Soheyl Dahi lives in San Francisco.
* Leaving Beirut © Roger Waters
* Guernica by Pablo Picasso
