Descendants of Cyrus

by Thornton, Christopher;

  For a couple of months Kermanshah simmered, but when antigovernment protests erupted in Mashhad in January 2018 they quickly spread to Kermanshah. Political fault lines are no different than the geologic. A rumbling in one part of the landscape inevitably stirs another. In this case, what Mashhad and Kermanshah have in common is that neither are known as hotbeds of Green Movement activity, adding more fuel to the claim that the protests were fomented by hardliners with the aim of besmirching the administration of President Hassan Rouhani.

  Earthquakes, both the geologic and political, are forever unpredictable, impossible to foresee and to prepare for, but the Kermanshah protests did produce a new, unforeseen weapon for antigovernment protestors to wield—humiliation. One night, in the midst of one of the melees, one of the basijis was grabbed by the crowd just as he was about to swing his baton. Did the crowd kick him to the ground, stomp him to death? No, they pulled his pants off and sent him fleeing back to his comrades, trouserless.

  The major seismic issue that has created off-and-on political instability in northwestern Iran is, euphemistically, the “Kurdish question.” Together with neighboring Turkey and Iraq, and along with Syria, Iran has a significant Kurdish minority. In Iran they number approximately five million, spread across several provinces in the northwest, and the “capital” of an imaginary Iranian Kurdistan is Kermanshah. To make matters worse—and in Iran’s neighborhood anything that can provoke instability is by default “worse”—some Kurds are Shiite and some are Sunni. Thus they straddle the Middle East’s major sectarian fault line.

  First, a little background on the Kurds and the designation Kurdish. In the third-century Sassanid era, the nomads who roamed northwestern Iran were informally called kurds. The term never designated a specific ethnic group, not for a thousand years, when the term Kurdish came to define the nomadic, “kurdish” tribes of the northwest. Whatever they were called, the Kurds, as an ethnic group or a band of roaming nomads, were long a significant presence in the region of Kermanshah, even after they were defeated in a lengthy war between the Kurdish king Madig and the Persian emperor Ardeshir I at the beginning of the third century. As part of the resolution of the war, and in an act of magnanimity, a “kurdish” prince was put in place to rule over Kermanshah.

  Much later, in Safavid times, the Kurds became significant power brokers in the constant battles for control of the region, and the valuable trade routes, between the Persians and the Ottoman Turks. But in the middle of the thirteenth century the Mongol warlord Hulāgu tore through Kermanshah in Mongol fashion, razing the city and slaughtering most of its inhabitants.

  When the Sykes-Picot Agreement of 1916, drawn up by the foreign ministers of Great Britain and France, delineated the modern boundaries of Syria and Iraq, the “Kurdish question” was not in question, or was not one that Sir Mark Sykes and François Georges-Picot wanted to raise. The Kurdish people existed as a people with a distinct language and cultural identity across today’s Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria long before the modern states of Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria appeared on the global map. But as far back as Sassanid times, Persian-Kurdish conflicts had a bad habit of erupting. A thousand years later Kurdish dynasties would bubble up in the region around Kermanshah and eastern Iraq, and a certain Sultan Sanjar managed to establish a Kurdish-ruled region near the present-day city of Hamedan.

  These efforts at homeland building, heartfelt though they may have been, were feeble and short-lived. Once the Safavids came to power in the sixteenth century, things went south for the Kurds. The Safavids weren’t too pleased by the limited self-rule the Kurds had established for themselves in areas of western Iran and tried to rein them in. The Kurds pushed back but lost big. Historic Kurdish towns were razed and the people dispersed. The seventeenth century saw the Kurds’ circumstances spiral further downhill. Their defeat in the yearlong battle of Dimdim in 1610, along with their subsequent dispersal, wasn’t good enough for the Persian rulers. The remaining vanquished were slaughtered, and Shah Abbas gave the order for additional massacres in the towns of Mukriyan and Beradost.

  For about two hundred years tensions cooled, but at the end of the nineteenth century they rose again. This time the instigator was Sheikh Ubaedullah, who led several revolts against the Qajar rulers. These were successfully squashed, but they paved the way for Simko Shikak, a Kurdish nationalist leader who led another series of revolts against Persian rule after World War I. Questions remain over whether Simko’s rebellion was an honest attempt to create a Kurdish homeland or whether he was simply riding piggyback on the Kurdish nationalist wave for personal gain, namely, the pillaging of regional wealth owned by Iranians and even fellow Kurds.

  The Kurds were not alone in navigating the turbulent ethnic waters that have long characterized Iran. Since the medieval era Kermanshah has also had a significant Jewish minority. In the nineteenth century the city had three synagogues and an estimated Jewish population of a few thousand. Most were small tradesmen and local merchants, but some rose to positions of prominence, like Hakim Aqajan, a Talmudic scholar and man of science, and Elyahou Pirnaẓar, one of Iran’s first Jewish lawyers. Shemuel Yehezkel Ḥaim became the editor of Iran’s first Persian-language Jewish newspaper, Ha-Haim, and he was named the Jewish representative in the Iranian parliament.

  But for Jews, like the Kurds, Kermanshah was not always a place of tolerance. In 1919, at the time of the Kurdish uprisings, rumors spread that Jews were using the blood of Muslims in the baking of Passover matzo—the well-known accusation of “blood libel” that also occurred in Christian Europe. The result was that dozens of Jewish homes were razed and many more ransacked. But to their credit, many Kermanshah Muslims took in those who had been rendered homeless and provided food and other aid.

  Simko may have not put the best face on the cause of Kurdish nationalism, but still the cause did not die, even after Simko was killed in an ambush organized by Reza Shah in 1930. Reza Shah had tried the tough approach, exiling many prominent Kurds. The Kurdish leader Mohammad Rashid saw another opportunity to restoke the nationalist cause when the British-Soviet invasion during World War II threw northern Iran into chaos, but he, too, was ultimately repelled. Thirty-five years later another uprising of Kurds was pushed back by forces under the control of Mohammad Reza, who also had little sympathy for the cause of Kurdish nationalism.

  Then came the Islamic Revolution, which the Kurds backed, believing they could fare no worse under Ayatollah Khomeini. They were wrong. The new Islamic government viewed the Kurds, with their separate language, culture, and allegiances with fellow Kurds in Syria, Iraq, and Turkey as unreliable backers of the new ruling order. In short order, Iranian forces were sent out to the Kurdish regions to take control of cities the Kurdish nationalists had seized during the chaos of the revolution. In the process, thousands of Kurdish nationalists were executed, entire villages were flattened, and thousands of civilians killed. Ayatollah Khomeini even declared the fight against Kurdish separatism a holy war.

  In the past ten to twenty years, Kurdish protests against brutality on the part of the security forces have been met with increasing brutality. Kurdish newspapers have been closed and journalists jailed. Two Kurdish political prisoners—Ettam Fattabrian and Fasish Yasemani—were executed on the charge of “enmity against God.” Serious efforts at rapprochement were made during the administration of Mohammad Khatami in the 1990s, with Khatami offering public praise of Kurdish history and culture, but once he left office any notion of Kurdish independence, or even greater autonomy, was roundly denounced.

  Such has been the Kurdish experience in Iran, and it remains, to greater or lesser degrees, similar to that of other Kurds in the areas of the countries that form historic Kurdistan. The obvious question is how any minority could pose not so small a threat to such a large nation like Iran. The answer is the “brushfire” effect. Iran, like neighboring Iraq and Syria, is not a homogenous society. It is composed of many ethnic groups. Granting autonomy to one could spark si
milar movements among the Turkmen, Baluchis, Arabs, Turks, and others, resulting in an unraveling of the national fabric and the definition of national identity. Brushfires must therefore be stomped out before they have half a chance of spreading.

  Then there is the “chink-in-the-wall” effect: The concept of the nation-state, and the kind of supranationalism that might embrace all its members, is quite new in Iran’s neighborhood. In the case of Iran and many of its neighbors, the wall is not only fragile but still in the process of being built. Iran may have never been colonized like the other countries that surround it, but it has long had to contend with ever-feuding, never-complacent minority groups. Ethnic and cultural identities still trump identity by passport not only in Iran but in many parts of the world, so a chink in the fragile wall of national identity runs the risk of not just fracturing the wall but bringing down the entire edifice.

  And then there is the “fear-of-our-own-more-than-the-other” effect. It can be easier for Iranian powers to extend tolerant policies toward religious minorities who will forever be minorities, and therefore never a threat. Muslims who represent the other branches of Islam are another matter. Shiism itself is a minority within the entire Muslim family, and minorities themselves are aware of the threat that they could pose if given the opportunity. In Iran’s neighborhood the various ethnicities and overlapping Muslim identities are many, and the Kurds could, might, and actually may present a threat to Persian inclusiveness, from one of many angles in which tribal allegiances may be spun.

  There is the nationalist card—Kurds representing a “state” without a state; the ethnic card—Kurds seizing on ethnic identity to separate themselves from their Iranian citizenship; and, worst of the worst, the sectarian card—Kurds being mostly Sunnis within an almost exclusively Shiite Iran.

  Even in the murky world of Middle Eastern political and sectarian conflicts there are moments when a flicker of clarity appears. In this case what is clear is that when the modern Middle East was carved up one hundred years ago, the Kurds were dealt out of the game. Efforts to kick the Kurdish can down the road hoping it will one day fall off the horizon have been flights of fancy. Conflicts in the Middle East cannot be diffused over time. On the contrary, they do not wane, they simmer, and the people of the Middle East have long memories. As American novelist William Faulkner said about the American South: “History isn’t past; it isn’t even history.” But Faulkner never spent any time in the Middle East.

  Politics aside, Kermanshah is one of those rare places in Iran that failed to leave me with any lasting impression. The hotel where I stayed was another throwback to the 1970s and the reign of Mohammad Reza Shah, and in typical shah style—a little gaudy and overdone. Driving through the city one passes grocery stores and bland retail outlets, in between local branches of Bank Melli, Etka supermarket, Bank Pasargad, and the discounter Ofogh Koorosh. In search of dinner the first night, I hopped into a taxi and headed toward a local eatery that promoted its “Persian-style buffet.” It did have a “Persian-style buffet,” within a cavernous dining hall where no table seated fewer than twelve, which suggested its primary clientele were wedding parties that numbered into the hundreds. Waiters in black slacks and crisp white shirts easily threaded their way through the maze of tables, serving soft drinks and fruit juices to the few diners who kept them minimally busy between bookings.

  Back at the hotel was where the real action was happening. An actual wedding party was in full swing, in the ballroom just off the lobby. I was fiddling with the internet connection on the computer near the reception desk when the guests began filing in—women whose knee-length skirts and loose headscarves more than pushed the boundaries of regime correctness for dress. All of the men were wearing staid business suits, but many sported neckties, a feature of male dress not seen in public since the days of the shah.

  After the Islamic Revolution, neckties were frowned upon in Iran because they were associated with Western culture, and Western culture was regarded by the new ruling order as the source of all that had ailed Iran for at least a century, through cultural domination and at times flagrant invasion, subterfuge, and internal meddling. And so, for more than thirty years, the open-collar shirt became the politically correct fashion statement for Iranian men up and down the social ladder. Some high-level officials like Foreign Minister Javad Zarif have taken to wearing starched white collarless shirts to inject male garb with a touch of posh. But here in the lobby of the Parsian Hotel were neckties—double-stranded, Western-style neckties—as if the years of Islamic rule were but a dream.

  For an explanation I turned to Shaheen. Shaheen was the desk clerk who had directed me to the hangar-like mess hall for a “typical Persian buffet.”

  “When it comes to weddings and other occasions, things are a little more relaxed,” he told me. In short, the permission of neckties was another example of playing fast and loose with Islamic rules, bending them when needed to keep domestic discontent at bay.

  And did this policy of flexibility extend to women displaying bare calves and forearms, with hardly a nod to the mandatory headscarf?

  Shaheen smirked and nodded. I had seen this many times, which left a question hanging: What were the rules? Were neckties “permitted”? The answer, I knew, could only be given from a true Persian perspective: yes—and no. Or, no—but yes—sometimes. Behavior was dictated by circumstances and had to bend with the ever-shifting, never-stable social landscape. It was a fact of life that the regime had learned over its nearly forty years in power: when, how, and under what circumstances to let air out of the balloon and diffuse the tensions of the masses.

  Iran has no shortage of tensions—social, political, and even some that spill over into the realm of sport. And they have a way of traveling, of not knowing their place. In February 2017 Kermanshah became the host of the Freestyle Wrestling World Cup, with global contenders arriving from Russia, Malaysia, Turkey, Georgia, and the United States. The final came down to a series of matches between Iran and the U.S., which the Iranians handily won, wrestling being Iran’s de facto national sport. The national team, always a powerhouse at the Summer Olympics, has won gold medals in the last six. But the matchup almost didn’t come off. Initially the members of the American team were refused visas, in the customary tit for tat that occurs in diplomatic relations. The Trump administration had denied all visa applications from Iranian citizens, so the Iranians responded in kind, and if it meant nixing the American team from World Cup competition, so be it. But the prestige of the competition was at stake.

  “A World Cup competition without the Americans would not have been a real World Cup,” said Iran’s Wrestling Federation chairman, Rasoul Khadem.

  In the end the visas were granted, and the American team arrived, in the middle of the night, with Iranian wrestling fans at the airport to greet them with roses, and pizzas at the hotel when they checked in. The American loss was not one to be ashamed of, for on the wrestling mat almost no one beats the Iranians.

  I found myself dragged into a wrestling match of sorts with one of the locals, and it happened in the unlikeliest of places—Kermanshah’s Jummah Mosque, or “major mosque.” The midday prayers had just finished, and word had circulated that a foreign visitor, an American, had stopped by the mosque. One of the men edged over. A few others followed. One asked, with help from an interpreter friend, what I thought of the new administration of Donald Trump. A quick thumbs down cast my vote, and earned a handshake from everyone in the group. But these were not limp-wristed pleasantries. This was Kermanshah, so no one, foreigner or Iranian, would go away with a fish-flopping handshake. These were vice-grip tight, manly exchanges of brotherhood.

  When the last of the group stepped forward, he shook my hand but held on just as I was about to let go. There was a standoff. We both squeezed harder, and the handshake turned into an arm twist. He began forcing my fist to the right in a standup arm wrestle. I pushed back. He fought back. I could feel the muscles tighten from his fingers
up through his forearm, upper arm, and on into his shoulder, strained and taut. He pressed. I held. He pressed harder. Our fists were locked. I pushed back. There was only one outcome. A draw. Like tired boxcars after a long journey, our hands uncoupled. There were smiles all around, and more handshakes, again vice-grip tight.

  *

  Halfway between Hamedan and Kermanshah, Sohrab and I stopped in Kangavar to have a look at the Temple of Anahita—named for the Zoroastrian goddess Anahita, the goddess of water, one of the four sacred elements in the Zoroastrian faith. This is the common view about the origin of the site, but it is still speculation. Even among Iranian scholars, debate still bubbles. Ali Akbar Sarfaraz, in the Department of Archaeology at Tehran University, believes that, based on the appearance of the ruins, it was not a Zoroastrian temple at all. Masoud Azarnoush, who unearthed the site, agrees. On the other hand, ancient sources refer to the site as a temple of Artemis, and in Persian terms Artemis was intended to be an indirect reference to Anahita.

  Forget the bickering over the origin of the site—Persian, Zoroastrian, or Hellenist. What I enjoyed most, wandering around the grounds, stepping over the toppled columns, and weaving around the still-standing stumps, was the ambiguity of it all. Here history and science part. Science is about evidence, objectivity, clarity, but what makes history fascinating, I realized, is the exploration of the unknown. Here the special treat was not knowing what the place was all about. It could have been a temple, a palace, maybe a grand reception hall and showpiece of the empire in its northern provinces. Any of these could have been possible, or none. It was a playground for the imagination, and that alone made it worth seeing.

  I had almost free run of the entire site. Two or three other tourists were taking turns selfie-snapping as they assumed heroic poses on the tops of columns. Now and then a car or two passed on the highway, but aside from these fleeting breaks in the stillness there was only radiant sunshine, piles of broken stone, and the aura of the water goddess.