by Ramita Navai
Agha Mammad looked after Pari in a way her parents never had. When Pari had cried all the way to her new home, he had promised her they would visit her parents soon. He did not break his promise. When he took her back to see them three months later, they were gone.
When Pari was seventeen, Agha Mammad sold her to a local madam. He did not want to let her go, but he had high debts to pay. The madam persuaded Pari not to resist the work and told her sex was her ticket to freedom. Pari never got used to it, but had learnt from Agha Mammad how to endure it. Her beauty made her popular and soon enough she was spotted by a client who thought she should be aiming higher. He paid off her madam and drove her to his friend’s high-class cabaret. They took her on immediately, housing her with the other girls, who taught her the way. She had been there for two years when she met Asghar.
Asghar was a jahel, from the Arabic word for ‘ignorant’. Jahels are hoodlums-cum-gangsters, bred from pure working-class south Tehrani stock. They tried to project an image of honourable, lovable, well-mannered rogues and scoundrels – like a gentlemanly Mafia, with less violence and more compassion and courtesy. They had a strict code of ethics with chivalry and magnanimity at its core, not characteristics usually associated with gangland bosses. With a knife tucked in their trousers and God in their hearts, they were ready to defend the honour of their women, demonstrate their loyalty to their friends and defend the weak and the oppressed. The best jahels were Robin Hood figures who stole from the rich and distributed their booty among the poor. In the 1970s, after jahel culture was immortalized in dozens of Iranian films, they became heroic figures and the notorious jahels of south Tehran, like Asghar, were lionized.
Jahels had their own way of dressing: a black fedora hat tipped to the side, crisp white shirt, black jacket and trousers and black shoes that they had transformed into slip-ons by standing on the backs. Sometimes they wrapped a red scarf round the palm of one hand, or they would drape it over one shoulder. Jahels even had their own way of dancing, holding up a white handkerchief and spinning around. Asghar and his brothers had perfected the jahel gait, a wide-legged, languid walk, although their father said they all looked like they had shat their pants. They had their own language, slang that was delivered in a low, sing-song staccato, Tehrani Cockney rhyming slang. The more humble and deferential the talk, the better.
‘I’m the dirt on your shoe!’
‘I’m your slave!’
‘I’m your donkey!’
They all had nicknames – the only name you ever needed to know. There was Mustafa the Nutter, Mehdi the Butcher, Javad the Upstart. And Asghar the Brave. The nicknames made him smile now, but back then, those names could strike fear through a man. Reputation was everything, and your name was your reputation. Jahels loved cheap prostitutes and alcohol almost as much as their religion, which they took seriously. Asghar had Imam Hossein’s face tattooed on his back. On his shoulder was another tattoo, the Zoroastrian maxim: GOOD WORDS, GOOD THOUGHTS, GOOD DEEDS.
During religious festivals they would feed hundreds of poor, clubbing together to pay for food, generously fulfilling their zakat, giving-of-alms duties. If anyone landed up in prison, which they often did, the jahels would support the family until he got out.
But even if many jahels tried to fit the romantic mould of thug-with-a-heart, the truth, of course, was less alluring. They ran protection rackets, gambling and prostitution rings and regularly fought over turf and women.
Nobody in Asghar’s neighbourhood was surprised when he reached the top of his game. His ascent had been astonishingly quick. Asghar was a born leader, charismatic, generous and a convincing liar. Despite having left school at thirteen, he was the brightest kid in the hood and the most fearless. Even as a precocious eight-year-old, Asghar was cunning and street-smart, outwitting the local coppers and the big boys, running in and out of the tea houses and the bazaar. He had the ability to tread the fine line between being a common thug – laat-o-loot, as they were called – and being a gentleman who aspired to notions of javanmardi, which meant showing restraint, grace and honour at all times. It was a difficult balance to achieve, a fist and a handshake not always going hand in hand, but Asghar had managed it. It was the secret to being a successful jahel. Everyone knew he was destined for fame.
Asghar was born in a small house in a dirt alley in the backstreets of Nasser Khosrow, just north of the bazaar, the son of a shoe mender and the middle child of thirteen siblings. Despite his father’s cripplingly low income and the copious number of mouths to feed, there was always food on the table and their clothes were clean. Asghar said it was different in those days; nobody went hungry, you looked after each other. He liked to say that back then you worked a day to feed twelve; nowadays you had to work twelve to feed one, each man for himself.
From when the boys had first learnt to walk, it was almost as though the streets around Nasser Khosrow were run by Asghar and his brothers. They were big and loyal. Most importantly, they weren’t afraid to use their fists or their knives. Honour was everything. They had all started out by running errands for mobsters, and learnt the trade at close quarters. They understood that to be a true force with a fighting chance of making money, they would have to stick together; strength in numbers. It worked. No bond was stronger than blood and, with nine brothers, the old guard were quickly pushed out.
They set up a fresh-juice stand on Nasser Khosrow. It was an instant success and they were selling juice by the gallon. With the money, they rented a shop where they sold juice downstairs and ran a gambling den upstairs. They always made sure punters were given a free chelo kabab at lunch. More money poured in. Asghar spread it around, buying loyalty and fans throughout the hood. And there were dozens of people to keep quiet. In the fifteen years they ran the gambling den, it was never closed down. The police left them alone; Asghar was paying every single cop in the area. It helped that some were distant relatives and others were neighbours. They widened their operations and began providing security at clubs, taking protection money to keep other mobsters out. Business was sweet. News of their outfit had spread far. For years the chief of police would attempt raid after raid, but word always got out. He gave up in the end; Asghar and his brothers were protected by everyone and he did not want a riot on his hands.
Fighting was part of the life. A true jahel was not meant to be a chaghoo kesh, a knife-wielding hooligan, he was meant to abide by the rules of javanmardi at all times; but the lines were blurred. Fist fights, group fights, knife fights, fights with billiard cues – Asghar had been in so many fights he had lost count. They were usually tame affairs, someone would get knocked up and end up in bed for a week with a few missing teeth and broken ribs. Or else there would be a knife wound to be dressed. The fights were not meant to kill. Occasionally they did; a knife would be thrust just a little too deep. They were the only times the police got involved.
As Asghar’s fame spread so did his social circle. Celebrity directors, actors, artists and members of the bohemian set would invite him to their parties and mansions. But he would not leave south Tehran for anyone, so they would make the pilgrimage down south, marvelling at the rawness of the south of the city. They drank and whored and gambled and sang and danced.
‘He’s a friend of everybody except the Shah!’ is what people said of Asghar. They were halcyon days when the toughest and the fairest men got the most respect. He had sixty guys working under him, and he was one of the most revered and respected jahels in Tehran. With Pari by his side, he was invincible.
Then the revolution happened.
Asghar and the other jahels were faithful to their religion and thought it would be wrong to stand against an ayatollah who spoke of social justice. They took to the streets, demonstrating against the Shah. None of them could have imagined there would be no place for them in the new Islamic order. The jahels’ liberal interpretation of their religion was not what the Islamists had in mind for their citizens. In fact, the jahels’ version of Islam could get t
hem imprisoned or worse.
They came looking for him once, in the early days. He was saved by one of his brothers, who persuaded the young Islamist with a G3 rifle slung round his shoulder that Asghar the Brave was a film hero, not a real-life person. The young revolutionary at the door ended up believing these convincing miscreants and left, never to return. Pari and Asghar had heard them from their room upstairs. Pari had squeezed his hands and kissed him; she had not seen him cry since she had left him all those years ago.
A handful of jahels were executed for immoral behaviour and criminal activity. The new regime confiscated their property and money. A few of the dancing girls were executed, including Pari’s best friend. A few escaped. One, who had become a famous singer, had been so scared of the new regime she had approached Khomeini himself for forgiveness of her sins. He personally baptized her.
Asghar’s income disappeared overnight. Five of his brothers were sent to the front lines and three of them did not return. He sold his properties that had not been seized and used the money to pay the bills and look after his martyred brothers’ families. He was relieved he had no children of his own to support. After a few years of marriage, it became clear that either he or Pari was infertile. They made a pact never to find out who was to blame. Asghar told Pari that she was all he needed in his life, and that was enough for her.
He was no longer King of the Streets, but he felt the same as before, the big boss who lived by the same rules. Only everything around him had changed. A few years after the revolution, Asghar took his first hit of heroin.
He had enjoyed opium, as they all did – it was no more harmful than a tipple. From time to time Pari would smoke it with him. But the opium and the vodka were no longer enough to ease the anxiety that had taken hold of him.
He had always resisted heroin. Too many times he had seen it kill off friends, big, famous jahels diminished to walking bones. He had heard that since Hossein-e Zahra, a jahel of repute, had turned to the drug, he now lived in a tiny hovel. He saw him once in the street, buying some bread, and he had almost cried at his shrunken face and shrivelled body – this man who used to be so big. Hossein-e Zahra died of an overdose a few weeks later. After the revolution some of the old boys had even started dealing in heroin, but it was risky. A few years ago Shapour the Bull-Slayer and Morteza Four Dicks were caught with more than a kilo of heroin and opium, and were charged with smuggling and banditry. They were both executed.
Asghar knew from his own neighbourhood that addiction was everywhere. An official had said there are ten million drug addicts in the country, two million of which are chronic addicts; all the statistics showed that Iran has one of the highest rates of drug addiction in the world.
For years Asghar did not venture outside. The few times he did, people treated him as though he was just another old man. He might have been able to cope if he still had money, but he had nothing.
Pari and Asghar were forced to move to Shoosh, the neighbourhood Pari had escaped. The day Asghar told her they no longer had enough money to stay on Shariati Street, she cried silently for hours. He knew what Shoosh meant to Pari, but there was no other option for them; they were drowning in debt. A friend had a room there that they could have for free.
A long, forlorn road lined with car mechanics, tyre shops and ragged children, Shoosh has not changed much in over 100 years. Pari remembered the elderly men sitting on the street corner talking about some of Shoosh’s former legendary residents as if they were still alive: the stories of Zeynab the Blind – whose eyes were so small everyone said she must be blind – who was one of the cheapest prostitutes around. Zeynab the Blind was very particular: she would only have sex with old men with thick moustaches. She wore a sheleeteh, traditional long red skirt, and when business was lagging, she would lift it up, flaunting her goods and advertising her wares. ‘Roll up, roll up, I’m not a cheap bazaari who’ll rip you off by insisting on having sex in the dark!’ Zeynab was best friends with Long-Haired Mouness, a prostitute who was renowned as a class fighter; she could beat ten young men with just a stick.
Shoosh is still full of prostitutes, but most of them now are heroin addicts. It has become even more impoverished and deprived than when Pari was a little girl. Its twisting back alleys are filled with beggars and detritus. Its poorer residents huddle together in slums of crumbling brick and courtyards full of needles and human shit. It is a road of outcasts: Afghan families squatting in abandoned homes, one-dollar prostitutes working the streets surviving on bread and drugs. Charities periodically descend on Shoosh with condoms and needles in hand and psychotherapists in tow. But Shoosh is as stubborn as it is ugly and remained unprettified in spite of the efforts of the visiting good Samaritans. Civil society is not welcome in the Islamic Republic, and so some of the charities that came to Shoosh were kept on their toes with raids and threats of prison and closure. Soon after an addiction clinic in a dirty road that jutted off Shoosh made inroads with the queues of heroin addicts waiting patiently for their plastic cups of methadone, the two doctors who ran the place were arrested and imprisoned on charges including ‘communicating with an enemy government’ after they returned from a conference in the USA.
Shoosh is also the birthplace of Vali Asr; it is striking how such a majestic road has such humble beginnings. Tehran’s main railway station, Rah Ahan, opens out onto a square, from which Shoosh crosses and from where Vali Asr shoots northwards, careering away from this pit of poverty and ruin for as far as the eye can see. Shoosh, so near to Tehran’s beating heart, and yet on the edge of society itself. It may have been at the other end of Vali Asr, but for most Tehranis Shoosh does not even exist.
Asghar and Pari moved into a neighbourhood where the roads were pockmarked with decaying houses shedding brick and dust into gaping holes; rotten cavities waiting to be filled up with the mounds of rubble and rubbish that were piled high on street corners. The area was made up of a network of alleys that spread out like rivulets, some barely wider than two shoulders, where dirt-encrusted children with matted hair played in the streets next to smacked-out prostitutes slumped on the cracked asphalt.
There were no billboards or posters. The walls were instead daubed with messages and warnings – names of the dead and stencils of their faces. On the side wall of Asghar’s and Pari’s building someone had written in blue paint: MAY YOUR MOTHER AND FATHER BE DAMNED IF YOU EVEN THINK OF LITTERING HERE.
Below the message a stinking mound of putrid litter grew bigger by the day. On a neighbour’s wall was a warning to anyone thinking of parking a motorbike: BURST TYRE.
The air around the neighbourhood stank of drugs. Nearly all the residents smoked opium. Half were addicted to heroin, crystal meth and crack. Next door to Asghar and Pari, in a half-built wreck, a family of fifteen kolee gypsies were squatting, living by gaslight. The barefoot children sold daffodils in the streets in spring and faal-e Hafez all year round, slips of paper on which were written excerpts of prophetic poetry by the great poet Hafez. Pari had once bought one, out of kindness. The gypsies had no identity papers and few rights in the Islamic Republic; none of the children had ever stepped inside a school. They shared a washing-line-strewn courtyard with three Afghan families who were all illegal immigrants. The government had deported one of the families back to their village in Afghanistan, even though their teenage children were born in Iran and had never been to Afghanistan. It took them two months to make it back to Iran, walking through the desert mountain passes. Their little girl died on the way.
Pari took a job as a cleaner without telling Asghar; she knew he would not be able to bear the shame. Every day she wound her way through the alleys, past courtyards covered in needles, past the scores of car workshops and scrapyards that were squeezed together, black-greased men picking through the thousands of gearboxes, brakes, car doors, wires, engines, tyres, hubcaps and metal panels that lined the road. From the bottom of Rah Ahan Pari would get a bus to the northern top of Vali Asr and, looking out of the window
, she would remember the past. There was not one bit of Vali Asr she did not know; as a dancing girl it was here, on the city’s chicest road, that she would spend her money. Some of the old restaurants and cafés were still there: Nayeb, Pardis, Shatter Abbas; the haleem and aash shop; Yekta with the best café glacé in town.
When Pari was working, Asghar would smoke heroin, sometimes with the Afghan builder next door. They would sit in silence, the children playing around them. The only words the Afghan ever said to him were: ‘A drowning man is not troubled by rain.’
Asghar had employed his nephew to sell fruit juice in the bazaar, but business was bad. The economy was in ruins and the price of food had shot up. Pari would try to find Asghar’s stash, but after she threw a batch down the toilet, he decided to keep it hidden in his underpants at all times. To appease her, he promised to go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting; NA centres had sprung up all around the city. He never kept his promise. It was only when he discovered that Pari was working as a common kolfat, cleaner, that he begged for her forgiveness, and promised her their lives would change; this time, he said, I mean it.
The only way he could secure their future was if he returned to doing what he did best: he would set up a gambling den. The stakes were different now, with the punishment for gambling up to six months’ imprisonment and up to seventy-four lashes; being caught running a racket would incur a tougher sentence.
Iranians love to gamble. Families play cards for money all over the city; in backstreets of poorer neighbourhoods, groups of men gamble over dice games and cockfights. Not all gambling is illegal in the Islamic Republic. A few ayatollahs have declared that betting on horses and shooting are not against Sharia law. There is a racetrack at Nowroozabad, west of Tehran, where racegoers officially place ‘predictions’, and even an electronic screen where the message flashes up: Make a prediction, win a prize. ‘Predictions’ can also be made on the federation’s website.
