by Ramita Navai
Mohammad-Reza sat at the kitchen table playing the Quest of Persia video game on the family PC. Haj Agha was watching television. A turbaned mullah was wagging his fingers, doing what mullahs do so well: lecturing. Iran’s mullahs are not only authorities on Islamic theology, but are also experts at finding moral decay in the most unlikely of places. Today it was to be found in a new 3G mobile Internet service: ‘It endangers public chastity…it will destroy family life!’ moaned the mullah, disgusted by the idea of video-calling. Four grand ayatollahs, no less, had issued a fatwa condemning the new service. The Internet operator had ignored them.
Haj Agha always looked like he was in contemplation. His permanently furrowed brows and small, squinting eyes gave the aura of a serious, reserved man. He was shy with strangers and mostly kept his thoughts to himself. He had been remarkably handsome in his youth, but an unfulfilled marriage and dull, poorly paid government jobs had prematurely ground his looks down. Haj Agha had spent most of his life toiling to make ends meet. When he married Fatemeh, she moved in with him and his parents. The four of them lived between three rooms, even when the children came along. For years he barely seemed to sleep, working two jobs, just enough to keep everyone fed. Two events changed his fortunes: the deaths of his parents and the arrival of a new President in the summer of 2005, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, whom he had voted for on the Supreme Leader’s advice. With one of Ahmadinejad’s new easily accessible, low-interest government loans, Haj Agha joined Tehran’s construction boom. He knocked down the small brick house his parents had bequeathed him and he built four floors upwards. He sold one apartment and was now renting the two below him. Never again would he live in a ramshackle brick house struggling to make ends meet. He could now afford to send his children to university. Haj Agha’s boosted income also meant that even though Fatemeh did not have time to spend on religious pursuits, she had the money to buy spiritual peace of mind. When Fatemeh’s father died, she paid a mullah one million tomans – just over 300 US dollars – for a year’s worth of daily namaaz prayers for him, in case he had missed any during his lifetime. Ahmadinejad had served them well.
Haj Agha’s social status had risen exponentially in line with his growing income. His rank in the neighbourhood had also been nudged up several places thanks to his religious devotion. The party tonight was to celebrate his second trip to Mecca. In the last few years he had been immersed in demonstrating his love to God and the imams: two trips to Karbala in southern Iraq to visit the tomb of Hossein, the most important Shia martyr and the Prophet Mohammad’s grandson. From there on to Najaf to pay his respects at Hossein’s father’s tomb, Imam Ali, the first Shia imam and, as Shias believe, the rightful successor to Mohammad. Not forgetting two visits to Syria to the resting place of Imam Ali’s daughter, Zeinab, granddaughter of the prophet.
Piety struck Haj Agha late in life. Fatemeh blamed herself for his affliction: soon after their marriage she had asked him to take her to Imam Reza’s shrine in Mashhad, Iran’s holiest city, for their honeymoon. Imam Reza was the only Shia imam buried in Iran, rumoured to have been murdered with poisoned grapes. But Haj Agha refused to take Fatemeh. He could not afford the trip and thought pilgrimages unnecessary. He was a stubborn man and could not be persuaded. Fatemeh was devastated but also fearful of angering her new husband. Instead she had cried to her mother, who had told her father, who had a quiet word with Haj Agha. There was no way of refusing his new father-in-law. Fatemeh was overcome with joy, not because he had agreed to the trip, but because, in changing his mind, he had shown his love for her. She was never told he had been forced to take her.
Mashhad and the world’s busiest Islamic shrine were not what Haj Agha had in mind for his honeymoon, although the city was packed with honeymooners. Afghan migrants, pilgrims, hawkers, tourists, beggars and noxious fumes swirled around them on the crowded streets. The colossal shrine was open for business twenty-four hours a day and twinkled at night like an Islamic Disneyland.
Haj Agha and Fatemeh walked into this beguiling world of gilded domes, glittering mirror mosaics and exquisite alcoves tiled luminous blue and green. Somewhere between a vast courtyard shadowed by minarets and a dazzling six-tiered chandelier dripping light from a vaulted ceiling, their emotions took over. Fatemeh felt a rush of love for God and all He had given her. She felt a rush of love for this quiet, reserved man she barely knew, whom she had met only once before her wedding and had not wanted to marry. Haj Agha was stricken with regret for his academic failures and his laziness. But most of all for agreeing to marry Fatemeh, and being bound to a life of sexual frustration. Fatemeh and Haj Agha edged towards the inner chamber where the imam’s body is entombed.
Shia shrines are not usually peaceful havens of reflection and meditation. Each shrine marks the spot on the trail of Arab caliphs, sheiks and horse-backed fighters as they journeyed towards war and death; they are monuments to murder, betrayal and sacrifice. Tragedies to be mourned. Lucky, then, that Iranians make excellent mourners. We embrace sorrow like no one else, wailing on demand, tapping into the vats of love and loss that simmer in the cauldrons of our hearts. We were always doomed, lied to and betrayed from the very beginning. Shrines are usually a tumult of sobbing and chest-beating and Imam Reza’s shrine is no exception. From the female entrance Fatemeh stepped into what looked like a battleground. Howling women barrelled against her as they charged their way towards the tomb. Stewards holding neon feather dusters tried to beat them back. Even the scrums that broke out at Fatemeh’s local bank were not this vicious. She was annoyed that she was unable to conjure even a few tears. So she pushed her way into the throng until the crush of wailing bodies sent her into a trance. She did not even notice when the tears trickled out of her eyes.
Fatemeh was spat out the other end, exhilarated. She edged towards the Perspex partition that separated the sexes, to look for Haj Agha. That is when she saw him. Crouching near a corner in the distance. He was wailing uncontrollably, an unstoppable flood of tears gushing from his eyes. She was dumbfounded. He had outdone all the other mourners, some of whom kept a competitive eye on him, forcing them to up the ante just to be heard over the din Haj Agha was making. Haj Agha seemed unaware of his surroundings. He had been overwhelmed by sorrow for a life half lived and half lost. Fatemeh had no idea he was such a sensitive, religious soul.
The trip changed both their lives. Fatemeh had new-found respect for her husband. Haj Agha appeared less miserable. It was as though he had discovered the mystic power of his religion, the essence of Shia Islam that seemed to elude so many. Whatever it was, Haj Agha was hooked. It was several years before he would take his next trip, as any extra cash was quickly sucked up after the children were born. When the money did start to roll in, Haj Agha began his pilgrimages, always going alone. His dedication became a compulsion and it irked Fatemeh. The mould of Fatemeh and Haj Agha’s marriage had been cast: an uncommunicative husband and a wife who was desperate to please, forever disappointed and yet resigned to her life. Fatemeh consoled herself that at least her husband was addicted to mourning and not to opium, like so many of the men in the neighbourhood.
In Tehran, his spirituality was hard to fathom. He rarely spoke of God, rarely read the holy book or the hadiths, rarely attended mosque. The strongest devotion he showed was to the television set. But Fatemeh could not complain too harshly, for she was riding in the slipstream of Haj Agha’s holy journeys, which saw them hurtling up the social ladder; paying your respects to the imams gave you status in this neighbourhood. Ever since Haj Agha had actually earned his moniker of Haji by completing the pilgrimage to Mecca, people treated Fatemeh differently too. She was now Haj Khanoum, Mrs Haj. His trips accumulated spiritual chips, the only currency in Iran that never devalued, and which in Meydan-e Khorasan commanded deference and respect. Soon Haj Agha had been on more pilgrimages than the local mullah, and it was not uncommon for neighbours to come round to seek his advice on all matters, from the ethereal to more earthly affairs, such as nagging wi
ves and children who talked back. He would receive his guests crouched, leaning against cushions as Fatemeh served them platters of fruit and piping-hot tea. He would suck the tea through lumps of sugar wedged in his cheek as he ruminated. His answers were brief and practical, and he would almost always end with a line that nobody really understood: ‘You can only be true to God if you are true to yourself.’
*
The sun dipped past the suburbs of west Tehran and the city lights blinked into the descending darkness. The moon was big and fat and tinged ginger. It had just started its ascent when Haj Agha’s family, friends and neighbours began to arrive, laden with pastries and cakes.
The women hovered together near the kitchen – a flock of crows, clasping black chadors that radiated wafts of sweaty perfume and hot, smoky city air. The men braced themselves on chairs against the wall, sipping the sweet-sour iced mint and vinegar cordial, sekanjabin, that Fatemeh served the guests. After the customary and laboriously detailed questioning of relatives’ health and well-being, the two groups launched themselves into the favourite subject of most Tehranis: politics.
Politics invades conversations in every corner of the city. Even the crack addicts in south Tehran can turn political pundit in moments of cognizance. It is impossible to take a taxi without the driver delivering his verdict on the latest scandals and power battles. Talk of politics allows people to feel they have a stake in their future, that they are not powerless spectators. Behind the confines of walls and hidden in cars, most ordinary Iranians are surprisingly free in venting frustrations. For those who are not monitored, few subjects are off-limits. Internal mud-slinging and accusations traded between politicians and panjandrums give ordinary citizens freedom to do the same. Some say that verbal freedom is greater now than under the Shah, when people had been too scared to badmouth the king even in private.
Many religious and working-class families flourished after the revolution, including those in Meydan-e Khorasan. The Islamic Revolution had been the making of men like Haj Agha. The poorer members of society enjoyed a sudden rush of financial benefits laid on by the regime. Factory workers were given a minimum wage. Working hours were eased. And with the onset of war, as rations kicked in, basic items like bread, cheese, sugar and cooking oil were subsidized. But it was not just a matter of economic welfare. It was also a matter of respect. The residents of Meydan-e Khorasan had felt they were being slowly pushed to the fringes of the new, modern Tehran that the Shah was building, caught in limbo between development and tradition. The Shah had been impatient for change, dragging Iran into the First World; they had been fearful of a world with which they did not identify. Even though, unlike his father, the Shah did not ban the hejab and the chador, wearing it marked you out as from the lower classes. But under the Islamic regime, the people of the Meydan now felt a part of society. In government offices, they were no longer strangers in their own land. The way they worshipped and the way they lived their lives not only had the state’s seal of approval, their lifestyle was now paraded as an exemplar of living. They felt close to this state, whose religious language they understood. Most had never been very political, but this integration provoked passionate support for the regime. It worked both ways. Their godliness proved useful, especially when the absolute rule of a spiritual leader was enshrined in the law, after Khomeini introduced the concept of velayat-e-faqih, rule of the Islamic jurist, a concept that gave him ultimate and unchallenged political authority over his subjects. With a God-ordained regime on their side, many in the Meydan had no need to question its authority.
Somayeh’s neighbours shared common values, such as the importance of a woman’s virginity before marriage and of modest hejab. Even though they varied in degrees of religiosity, their attitudes towards their faith were similar. But when it came to politics, they were divided. It was not a polarization of views, nor a simple division between those who supported the regime and those who did not; there were countless variations. ‘So you’re not still going to vote for that monkey, Ahmagh-inejad?’ was the ice-breaker from next-door neighbour Masoud, who had inserted the word ahmagh – stupid – in place of Ahmad.
‘At least he’s not letting Amrika bully us.’
‘At least he’s not a mullah,’ added Masoud, scooping up a handful of pistachios. Masoud not only prayed every day; he had also been to Mecca. Yet he despised mullahs. He blamed them for everything, from the bad state of the economy to corruption. Being from a sonati – traditional – family or a dutifully observant Muslim did not mean automatic support for the regime. Masoud believed in a separation between the state and religion. He did not support the absolute rule of the Supreme Leader. While the Islamic Revolution suited most of Masoud’s neighbours, his life had remained unchanged. Fatemeh shouted from the kitchen that mullahs were blameless and it was the politicians who were bad.
‘We’re in this mess because of those sly foxes, the English,’ said Abbas, the local greengrocer. Engelestan always got a bad rap, and the British were held accountable by Iranians of all political persuasions for a long list of crimes, including backing a coup in 1953 that ousted popular Prime Minister Mossadegh, and a widely held conspiracy theory that BBC radio helped bring about the downfall of the Shah.
‘It’s all of them, they’re all rotten to the core and Ahmadinejad’s the worst one of the lot. He knows nothing about economics and he’s going to be the ruin of us,’ said Ali, a bazaari trader of electrical goods whose wife and daughters wore the chador, yet who believed that hejab should not be enforced.
‘Ahmadinejad’s the best thing that’s happened to the country in a long time. The price of oil keeps going up, he’s straight-talking and he understands what normal people like us want,’ said Haj Agha. A group of women shouted out their agreement from the kitchen.
The conversation ran a familiar course, from politics to the economy to the sharing of personal misfortunes. Somayeh, like her mother Fatemeh, was indifferent to politics; but they were both devoted to the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei. Whatever the Supreme Leader would say, they would follow. Sometimes when they watched him on television they would be so moved by his words they would break down crying. The Supreme Leader was a saint; a representative of God and as sacred as the imams. Through his divine body the word of Allah was channelled. He was not sullied by dirty politics, for his role on this earth was pure: simply to ensure the law and practice of Islam. The Supreme Leader had taken over the mantel from Khomeini, who had rescued the country from moral corruption and who had saved the country’s poor. These two old men were Somayeh’s heroes and she could not abide criticism of them.
The women soon drifted out of the political discussions, partly because of the physical separation of the sexes, and partly because they had their own news to share. After twenty years of marriage, Batool Khanoum had got a divorce, the first woman aged over fifty to do so in the neighbourhood. Nobody knew the reasons for the divorce, but it was a scandal. ‘What’s the point?’ said Fatemeh. ‘After all those years, I just don’t understand it. How could she do that to her children? They have to live with the shame.’
Batool Khanoum had been encouraged to divorce her husband by her own children. They had all had enough of his crippling opium habit and his abusive behaviour. Women can only divorce husbands with their permission, unless they can prove that a man has failed to fulfil his marital duties (which includes impotency and insanity), so Batool’s daughter had helped her by secretly filming her father hitting Batool Khanoum and smoking opium. When the judge saw the grainy footage on Batool’s mobile phone, he granted her a divorce on the spot. Batool Khanoum had already experienced the fallout of a divorce in the Meydan, for a divorcee was considered to have loose morals. Unbeknown to the women now disdainfully discussing her divorce, several of their husbands had already tried their luck with her. Batool Khanoum had slapped each of them across the face. Apart from Ozra’s husband, who was attractive and rich.
‘Getting a divorce is failing yourself and
God,’ said Somayeh.
‘Everyone’s getting divorced these days and the whole of society’s falling apart. It’s the government’s fault for making a divorce easier than opening a bank account!’ said Hamideh, not knowing that her best friend Akram had been begging her husband for a divorce for over a decade, but he refused to give it to her. Even though Hamideh tried to keep her opium addiction quiet, she thought it far more socially acceptable than a divorce.
Opium has been part of the culture for centuries. It is a classless drug smoked the length and breadth of Vali Asr and beyond, a panacea for everything from aches to boredom to joblessness.
The heaps of food being laid on the table were enough to distract the hungry guests from politics and divorce. At that moment too the entryphone buzzed. It was Fatemeh’s sister Zahra, whom she had not seen for five years. The falling-out had been about money, as falling-outs in the city so often are. Fatemeh had asked to borrow some and Zahra said they had none to lend. It was a brazen lie. Zahra had married into a family of wealthy carpet traders and her husband Mohammad had already started the upward climb to a glitzier lifestyle. Zahra had not invited Fatemeh to their new home, scared that in the profusion of silverware and the Italian leather furniture the truth would be revealed – which was that Zahra’s family were now richer than everyone they had left behind in the Meydan. Mohammad and Haj Agha kept out of it. They had tried to intervene between the competing sisters’ feuds in the past and both had emerged as injured parties, heads and tongues bitten off by jealous rage. Recently word had reached Fatemeh that Zahra was repentant, and more importantly that she was ill with acute diabetes. When Zahra heard Fatemeh’s voice on the phone she had cried, and when Fatemeh had invited her older sister to Haj Agha’s pilgrimage party she had cried some more. It helped matters that Haj Agha was now self-sufficient. It reassured Zahra that a rapprochement would not mean having to part with cash.
