Descendants of Cyrus

by Thornton, Christopher;

  The room was vaguely circular and tapered as it rose to a pinnacle too pointed and angular to be called a dome. The walls were covered with rows of niches that extended to the ceiling. The openings were cut in decorative shapes of vases, flowers, and, of course, musical instruments, which trapped the echoes and allowed the original sounds to swirl through the room, all to the delight of the listeners.

  I didn’t bother to test the effect by whispering, sneezing, coughing, blowing my nose, or making any other sound, because the purpose of the Music Room wasn’t to make sound travel but to preserve its purity. So after a few minutes I left, winding back down the staircase until I reached the third floor, to have a look at the view that Shah Abbas enjoyed when seated on his royal balcony.

  The balcony still presents a royal view—the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque directly across, the dome of the Imam Mosque to the right, the entire square spread out in all its green glory—but what was even more striking were the paintings to the right and left of the entrance. The one to the left showed a tall, willowy woman in a flowing red silken dress, black hair falling down her shoulders. Her figure forms a sweeping curve, passing through her torso from the left and to the right through her long legs. It was painted by Reza Abbasi, Shah Abbas’s personal painter. Other paintings by Abbasi throughout the palace depict animals, birds, and floral patterns. Together, they do more than announce a break with the formal dictates of Islam brought by Arab invaders, which prohibited the representation of living creatures. They affirm the Persian appreciation of sensual beauty that both human and natural life can express.

  Naqsh-e Jahan Square is, after all, a square, and being a square it has four sides. I had covered three and knew there had to be something worth seeing on its southern end. I left Ali Qapu and crossed the lawn that fills the southern half of the square, climbed another narrow, winding staircase tucked inside the entrance arch, and found the café that in Esfahan is the café of cafés. It has none of the architectural magnificence of the mosques or the palace. As cafés go it is rather drab and dreary, but it does have the most spectacular view of the entire square from its second-floor balcony.

  It was time for a break. I had been walking since morning and needed a recharge. I ordered a mint tea from the serving counter and found an empty table with the best view in all of Esfahan, and arguably all of Iran.

  If twenty-first-century commercial tourism had swept in on Esfahan, the café would have menus in at least four languages; tour buses would be idling outside the entrance arch from morning till evening; there would be a half-hour wait for a table among throngs of Russians, Koreans, Chinese, Scandinavians, and other Europeans; and of course the prices would be five times what they are.

  But twenty-first-century tourism has yet to hit Esfahan, and so one of the most majestic views in Iran can be had for the cost of a cheap coffee. The serving counter was grubby, and the wobbly tables hadn’t been replaced in thirty years, along with the cushions on the seats in the wall niches. Without Asian and European tour groups to hog the tables, they were taken up mostly by Esfahanis and visitors from other parts of Iran. Young couples cozied up in the niche seats while casual customers read newspapers and swapped tales of economic woe—in other words, did what café hounds do as they sip their glasses of sweet tea and cappuccinos.

  After the signing of the 2015 nuclear agreement, Iran had hoped for a tourist boom that would give the ailing economy a boost from the euros, yen, and yuan that would come flowing in. Visa restrictions for many European countries were relaxed, and the tourist infrastructure, such as it existed, spruced up.

  “We think there is enormous potential here,” Aydin, my guide in Tabriz, had told me as we drove through the western edge of the Alborz Mountains. And he was right. The scenery rivals anything that can be found in Europe or the western United States. A ridge of mountain peaks topped with a fringe of snow cuts across the horizon, and tucked within its valleys are waterfalls and alpine pools, cascading streams and meadows laden with wildflowers. Iranian cities, large and small, are peppered with historic sights covering more than two thousand years of history, and within the circuit of globe-trotting adventurers definite bragging rights come with having notched destinations that few have visited. In the few years since the nuclear agreement was signed there has been a trickle of intrepid Europeans venturing to Iran, and almost all have shared glowing reports of their experiences, but the windfall of foreign visitors has yet to arrive. What went wrong?

  “I don’t think they really know how to promote Iran,” Aydin had told me. “The desire is there, both for the economic benefit and to improve the image of the country, but the people in the government don’t have any experience competing in the international tourist market. It’s all very new to them.”

  That was true. While the global tourist industry mushroomed in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, the regime was consumed with the Iran-Iraq War and maintaining its grip on power. Other parts of the world—China, India, Southeast Asia, even South America—raced ahead in developing a tourist infrastructure and grabbing their share of the international market. Negative media portrayals of Iran have not helped. But it can’t be denied that Iran has also been its own worst enemy. The complete ban on alcohol, even in hotels and tourist locations, kills any possibility of a nightlife scene, and the mandatory hijab alienates many non-Muslim women.

  The result is that the souvenir shops that circle the Naqsh-e Jahan Square do a fraction of the business that they could, but, on the bright side, the square, and the rest of Esfahan, has not been turned into a Persian theme park, with locals dressed up in medieval garb to have their photos taken with snap-happy foreigners. So, as the sun began to set, no throng of tourists was roaming around the square. It was almost empty, but as afternoon passed into evening it would fill up. In a few hours the lawn would be filled with picnic blankets. Families would be unpacking elaborate buffets they had carried from home kitchens. Manteau-clad young women would be wading in the pool while more locals lined its sides to cool their feet. Children would splash in the fountain spray and charge up and down the walkways on rollerblades. With few tourists to share it with, the Esfahanis would enjoy the square as their own.

  It was time to move on. What lay ahead was the Zayandeh-rud, or the Zayandeh River, and the fourteenth-century bridges that link the northern and southern halves of Esfahan and, beyond the bridges, the Armenian Julfa district. I left the café and headed in the direction of the river along leafy thoroughfares that bypassed parks where young couples were slyly nuzzling on the benches, clusters of old men leaned on their canes as they watched the passersby, and mothers tried to control cantankerous children while pushing another in a stroller. And then there was the river, or part-time river. When I was first here in the summer of 2009 a prolonged drought had dried up the Zayandeh-rud entirely. Nothing but a barren, rocky riverbed cut through Esfahan, but the seven-hundred-year-old bridges were still doing their civic duty, not only holding Esfahan together by day but providing an eye-catching backdrop when brilliantly lit at night.

  Esfahan’s stone bridges are, after Naqsh-e Jahan Square, the visual signature of the city. They were also part of Shah Abbas’s urban renewal project when he aimed to make the city a capital worthy of the name, and unifying the empire meant unifying the city. Eleven bridges cross the river, but those in the city center were designed to offer the strongest architectural, visual—and political—message. There is the Si-o Se Pol, named for the thirty-three arches that form the span. At about a thousand feet, it is also the longest. Then there is the Khaju Pol, the most eye catching, especially at night, when the entire span is lit, including the forty-foot-wide corridor that was designed to accommodate both foot traffic and horse carts. One of the bridges predates the reign of Shah Abbas by a thousand years—the Shahrestan. It was overhauled in both the tenth and eleventh centuries, and the peaceful, dual parabola of the present span adds a touch of modernism in its simplicity.

  I chose the Si-o Se Pol to cross the ri
ver, for no other reason than I wanted the trek to last the longest. Halfway across I stopped to look upriver. Gently rolling parkland lined both sides of the Zayandeh-rud, with the riverside pathways ready for cyclists and joggers, skaters and power walkers, now that the day was done and the active set of Esfahan was ready to hit the river. The Si-o Se Pol is a double-decker, and at the time of Shah Abbas government officials would select choice spots to watch rowing competitions. The shah did them one better. He constructed a small pavilion in the middle of the span, a prime spot from which to gaze out over the river and admire his capital.

  From the end of the bridge I walked westward along the river, and then turned left toward what is arguably the most significant concentration of Armenians outside present-day Armenia.

  The Iranian-Armenian connection is one of the oldest between peoples of different cultures and faiths in the Middle East. And it is remarkable considering the two have never shared the same religion or language. Armenia became the first nation in the world to adopt Christianity as the state religion, in 301, more than three centuries before the Arab invasion, when Islam began to usurp Zoroastrianism as the religion of the Persians. Intermarriage between Armenians and Persians was commonplace as far back as the third-century Parthian era. Then the arrival of Christianity pulled Armenia westward, while the arrival of Islam three centuries later drew Iran closer to the Arab world. But the Armenian merchants and craftsmen who dominated many of the cities of Iran’s northwest stayed put, and the Persians made no attempt to drive them back to their historic homeland.

  Christianity has a long history in Iran, almost as long as Christianity itself. The Acts of the Apostles states that Parthians, Persians, and Medes converted to Christianity at Pentecost, and the Parthian kings allowed the new religion to spread throughout the empire. Christians fleeing Roman persecution found a safe haven in Iran. But, for the next 1,500 years, the fortunes of Persian Christians were beholden to the political conflicts sweeping across Asia.

  In the fourth century, the Zoroastrian ruler Shapur II initially allowed religious freedom but then cracked down on both Christians and Jews. Khosro Anushiruwan allowed Christians into the royal court after going to war against the Byzantine emperor Heraclius. Christians enjoyed the status of a protected minority in the early centuries of Islamic rule, but the Crusades revived religious tensions. The early Mongol rulers converted to Christianity after they invaded in the thirteenth century, but when later rulers opted for Islam, persecution resumed.

  The invasion of the Uzbeks under Tamerlane in the fourteenth century, the later Turkmen wars, and the even later incursions of the Ottomans had a crippling effect on the Armenian population of northern Iran. Much of the sixteenth century was taken up with wars between the fragmented Persians and the increasingly powerful and expanding Ottoman Empire, with the Christian Armenians caught in the middle. When Shah Abbas chose to move his capital from the vulnerable northern city of Qazvin to Esfahan, he decided to take the Armenians with him.

  For the Armenians, initially, it was not a move up. Over half died from hardship and disease. The remainder settled in the newly created district that Shah Abbas had carved out for them. Then things took a turn for the better. The Armenians were given privileges not accorded to Muslims. Islamic dress was not enforced, and the Armenians were allowed to make wine. In public administration they had their own courts and elected officials and were allowed to operate schools where children were taught in the Armenian language. Harsh punishments were meted out to anyone found harassing the newly arrived minority. Most important, Armenian merchants were given a monopoly over the silk trade. In return, the Julfa district, and therefore the entire city of Esfahan, became fantastically rich. Shah Abbas himself would pay visits to Armenian merchants in their lavishly decorated homes. Through their contacts in the Christian West, the Armenians also brought modern technology to Iran, which was then carried eastward into central Asia and China. The first printed book in Iran, in 1638, was the Book of Psalms, written in Armenian.

  When the Armenians arrived in Esfahan and settled in the Julfa district, in 1606, the first thing they could do to make it a home for themselves was build a church. Ground was broken for Vank Cathedral, funded by Armenian merchants. Khajeh Stepanusian footed the bill for the interior decoration. Armenian artists who had studied in Europe added the paintings that cover the walls and dome.

  Esfahan still has thirteen Armenian churches, including the Church of Bethlehem and Church of St. Mary, just a short walk from Vank, but the cathedral was where I was headed, and I eventually found it after leaving Julfa’s main thoroughfare and zigzagging through its back streets.

  Julfa still reflects the buzzing commercial hub of its origins, but, rather than dabbling in silk and other commodities, today’s merchants operate high-end boutiques that sell designer fashions—Iranian style—along with cosmetics, handbags, and perfumes for style-conscious Iranian women, in other words, almost all of them.

  Vank is much more than a church, or even a cathedral. It is the center of Armenian cultural life in Iran, a building complex behind walls that encircle the entire block. The cathedral may be its centerpiece, but the complex also contains a museum where many of the displays address the 1915 genocide, with archival proof to rebut doubters and an ample collection of grisly photographs to shock visitors first introduced to it. More Armenians poured into Iran fleeing the 1915 genocide, and the newly formed Soviet Union sent more Armenians south to escape communist rule. In a lonely corner of the grounds stands a simple memorial—an elegantly tapered white spire no more than three meters tall that remembers the lost with humble dignity. A memorial honoring patriarchs of the Armenian Church occupies a stone niche beside the cathedral, and more graves can be found within the walls near the entrance, creating a complex impression of celebration, preservation, renewal, and mourning.

  The Armenians of Iran long had a dual identity. This is reflected in the cathedral, which displays deferential nods to Persian culture. The domed interior echoes the Persian mosque, and floral paintings above the entrance are reminiscent of Persian miniatures, but all the rest is pure Armenian, with visual reminders of recent Armenian history. Creation is represented on the dome, and a puffy, pudgy cherub flapping white wings greets visitors. The history lesson is saved for a series of murals that wind around the walls, where the abuses of the Ottomans are portrayed in ghoulish detail.

  After a look at the cathedral I wandered over to the museum and spent some time eyeing the religious artifacts—Bibles printed in the Armenian language, garments worn by the patriarchs, gilt crosses, jeweled chalices, and other knickknacks from across the Armenian world. But even more intriguing than the objects sealed behind the display cases were the reactions of visitors as they passed through. A reverential silence filled the room, equal to that in the cathedral on the other side of the courtyard. Some of the visitors, mostly Muslim Iranians, were getting their first lesson on the horrors of 1915, while others gained new insight into a singular slice of their own history.

  After another look at the cathedral and a stroll around the grounds I headed over to the Church of Bethlehem—or Bedkhem as it is locally known—also tucked behind a nondescript wall within the back lanes of Julfa. I had to bang on the knocker a few times before the caretaker appeared, an old man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard and baggy pants cinched to his waist by a belt far too long for his skinny frame. The tail flapped wildly and hung to the tops of his legs. But he was pleased to receive a visitor and led me to the door of the church after collecting the entrance fee. He didn’t have any change for the 50,000-rial note I handed him, wagging his head in embarrassment, but grinned in relief when I gestured that he could keep it.

  The Church of Bethlehem is surrounded by a cozy, peaceful courtyard shaded by towering trees, making the setting even more of a haven for the spirit than the Vank complex. The late afternoon sun was passing into evening, filling the courtyard with glowing light. The rays cut into the darkness of the c
hurch, illuminating a square in the shape of the door on the opposite wall. Outside, a breeze was blowing down the river and into the Julfa district, stirring the leafy branches high overhead and filling the air with the sound of lightly flapping sails.

  Bethlehem’s interior was another vertical hall taller than it was wide, and this one was covered with seventy-two paintings depicting scenes drawn from the life of Christ. The church was also a gift to the Armenian community by a local merchant, and an inscription across the southern entrance pays him homage:

  Pray for Khaju Petros, who was a good man in the presence of God. He built this church from his own personal expense for the immortality of his name, and his father’s name, and his mother’s name, in 1077 [Armenian calendar].

  As the fate of religious minorities go, the Armenians have done exceptionally well in Iran. A brief setback occurred during the reign of Reza Shah Pahlavi, when his “Persianization” movement in the 1930s restricted the use of the Armenian language in Armenian schools, but the law was later overturned by Mohammad Reza. Since then, the Armenians have remained significant players in the country’s economic and political life.

  If I was an Armenian living in Iran today I could send my children to a special school where they would be taught in the Armenian language. For special celebrations, weddings, and birthdays, I could throw parties where men and women would be allowed to mix freely and dance to the tunes of officially “banned” music, providing I kept the volume low. If I had a knack for politics I could run for one of the five seats in the Majlis, or parliament, set aside for religious minorities, and if I were ambitious enough I could seek one of the seats designated for observer status on the powerful Guardian Council, the arm of the Islamic regime charged with interpreting the constitution and approving electoral candidates for the Assembly of Experts, the parliament, and the presidency itself.