Rick Steves Travel as a Political Act

by Rick Steves

  I felt self-conscious—a tall, pale American tiptoeing gingerly over the little tablets Shia Muslim men place their heads on when they bend down to pray. Planting our tripod in the corner, we observed.

  As my brain wandered (just like it sometimes does at home when listening to a sermon), I felt many of those worshippers were looking at me rather than listening to their cleric speaking. Soldiers were posted throughout the mosque, standing like statues in their desert-colored fatigues. When the congregation stood, I didn’t notice them, but when all bowed, the soldiers remained standing—a reminder of the tension within the Islamic world. I asked Seyed to translate a brightly painted banner above the worshippers. He answered, “Death to Israel.”

  As everyone bowed down in prayer, they revealed soldiers providing security and a “Death to Israel” banner.

  Despite this disturbing detail, I closed my eyes and let the smell of socks remind me of mosques I’d visited in other Muslim countries. I pulled out my little Mecca compass, the only souvenir I’d purchased so far. Sure enough, everyone was facing exactly the right way.

  Watching all the worshippers bow and stand, and pray in unison, at first seemed threatening to me. Then I caught the eye of a worshipper having a tough time focusing. He winked. Another man’s cell phone rang. He struggled with it as if thinking, “Dang, I should have turned that thing off.” The mosaics above—Turkish blue and darker Persian blue—added a harmony and calmness to the atmosphere.

  After the service, the cleric was eager to talk with us.

  I made a point to view the service as if it were my own church, back in Seattle. I was struck by the similarities: the too-long sermon, responsive readings, lots of getting up and getting down, the “passing of the peace” (when everyone greets the people around them), the convivial atmosphere as people line up to shake the hand of the cleric after the service, and the fellowship afterwards as everyone hangs out in the courtyard. On our way out, I shook the hand of the young cleric—he had a short, slight build, a tight white turban, a trim Ahmadinejad-style beard, big teeth, and a playful smile. He reminded me of Rafsanjani, Iran’s moderate former president. In the courtyard, a man hit the branches of a mulberry tree with a pole as kids scrambled for the treasured little berries.

  Esfahan TV, which had televised the prayer service, saw us and wanted an interview. It was exciting to be on local TV. They asked why we were here, how I saw Iranian people, and why I thought there was a problem between the US and Iran. (I pointed out the “Death to Israel” banner, for starters.) Suspicious of our agenda, they fixated on whether our show would actually air…and if we’d spin our report to make Iran look evil.

  Leaving the mosque, our crew pondered how easily the footage we’d just shot could be cut and edited to appear either menacing or heartwarming, depending on our agenda. Our mosque shots could be juxtaposed with guerillas leaping over barbed wire and accompanied by jihadist music to be frightening. Instead, we planned to edit it to match our actual experience: showing the guards and “Death to Israel” banner, but focusing on the men with warm faces praying with their sons at their sides, and the children outside scrambling for mulberries.

  After prayer service at the mosque, a proud dad grabs a photo of his children.

  It occurred to me that the segregation of the sexes—men in the center and women behind a giant hanging carpet at the side—contributes to the negative image many Western Christians have of Islam. Then, playing the old anthropologist’s game of changing my perspective, I considered how the predominantly male-led Christian services that I’m so comfortable with could also be edited to look ominous to those unfamiliar with the rituals. At important Roman Catholic Masses, you’ll see a dozen priests—all male—in robes before a bowing audience. The leader of a billion Catholics is chosen by a secretive, ritual-filled gathering of old men in strange hats and robes with chanting, incense, and the ceremonial drinking of human blood. It could be filled with majesty, or with menace…depending on what you show and how you show it.

  We set up to film across the vast square from the mosque. My lines were memorized and I was ready to go. Then, suddenly, the cleric with the beaming smile came toward us with a platter of desserts—the local ice cream specialty, like frozen shredded wheat sprinkled with coconut. I felt like Rafsanjani himself was serving us ice cream. We had a lively conversation, joking about how it might help if his president went to my town for a prayer service, and my president came here.

  Persepolis: Palace of Persia’s King of Kings

  Persepolis is pharaoh-like in its scale. Emperors’ tombs are cut into the neighboring mountains.

  The sightseeing highlight of our time in Iran was Persepolis. Back when the Persian Empire reached from Greece to India, Persepolis was its dazzling ceremonial capital. Built by Darius and his son Xerxes the Great around 500 B.C., this sprawling complex of royal palaces was—for nearly two hundred years—the awe-inspiring home of the “King of Kings.” At the time, Persia was so mighty, no fortifications were needed. Still, 10,000 guards served at the pleasure of the emperor. Persepolis, which evokes the majesty of Giza or Luxor in Egypt, is (in my opinion) the greatest ancient site between the Holy Land and India.

  My main regret from traveling through Iran on my first visit, back in 1978, was not trekking south to Persepolis. And I wanted to include Persepolis in our TV show because it’s a powerful reminder that the soul of Iran is Persia, which predates the introduction of Islam by well over a thousand years. Arriving at Persepolis, in the middle of a vast and arid plain, was thrilling. This is one of those rare places that comes with high expectations…and actually exceeds them.

  We got to Persepolis after a long day of driving—just in time for that magic hour before the sun set. The light was glorious, the stones glowed rosy, and all the visitors seemed to be enjoying a special “sightseeing high.” I saw more Western tourists visiting Persepolis than any other single sight in the country. But I was struck most by the Iranian people who travel here to savor this reminder that their nation was a mighty empire 2,500 years ago.

  Iranians—quick to smile for the camera of a new American friend—visit Persepolis to connect with and celebrate their impressive cultural roots.

  Wandering the site, you feel the omnipotence of the Persian Empire and gain a strong appreciation for the enduring strength of this culture and its people. Immense royal tombs, reminiscent of those built for Egyptian pharaohs, are cut into the adjacent mountainside. The tombs of Darius and Xerxes come with huge carved reliefs of ferocious lions. Even today—2,500 years after their deaths—they’re reminding us of their great power. But, as history has taught us, no empire lasts forever. In 333 B.C., Persepolis was sacked and burned by Alexander the Great, replacing Persian dominance with Greek culture…and Persepolis has been a ruin ever since.

  About 2,500 years ago, subjects of the empire (from 28 nations) would pass in “we’re not worthy”-style through the Nations’ Gate, bearing gifts for the “King of Kings.”

  The approach to this awe-inspiring sight is marred by a vast and ugly tarmac with 1970s-era parking lot light poles. This paved hodgepodge is a reminder of another megalomaniac ruler. In 1971, the Shah threw a bash with unprecedented extravagance to celebrate the 2,500-year anniversary of the Persian Empire—and to remind the world that he was the latest in a long string of great kings who ruled Persia with the omnipotence of a modern-day Xerxes or Darius. The Shah flew in dignitaries from all over the world, along with dinner from Maxim’s in Paris, one of the finest restaurants in Europe. Iranian historians consider this arrogant display of imperial wealth and Western decadence—which so offended his poverty-stricken subjects—the beginning of the end for the Shah. Within a decade, he was gone and Khomeini was in. It’s my hunch that the ugly asphalt remains of the Shah’s party are left here so visiting locals can remember who their Revolution overthrew.

  Tarmac is all that remains of the Shah’s big party in 1971.

  Martyrs’ Cemetery: Countless Deat
hs for God and Country

  I make a point to visit war cemeteries in my travels. They always seem to come with a healthy dose of God—as if dying for God and country makes a soldier’s death more meaningful than just dying for country. That is certainly true at Iran’s many martyrs’ cemeteries.

  Most estimates are that there were over a million casualties in the Iran-Iraq War. While the United States lives with the scars of Vietnam, the same generation of Iranians lives with the scars of its war with Iraq—in which they, with one-quarter our population, suffered three times the deaths. Iran considers anyone who dies defending the country to be a hero and a martyr. This bloody conflict left each Iranian city with a vast martyrs’ cemetery. Tombs seem to go on forever, and each one has a portrait of the martyr and flies a green, white, and red Iranian flag. All the death dates are from 1980 to 1988.

  Could be anywhere: A mother remembers her son—lost for God and country.

  Two decades after the war’s end, the cemetery was still very much alive with mourning loved ones. A steady wind blew through seas of flags on the day of our visit, which added a stirring quality to the scene. And the place was bustling with people—all mourning their lost loved ones as if the loss happened a year ago rather than twenty. The cemetery had a quiet dignity, and while I felt a bit awkward at first (being part of an American crew with a big TV camera), people either ignored us or made us feel welcome.

  We met two families sharing a dinner on one tomb (a local tradition). They insisted we join them for a little food and told us their story: They met each other twenty years ago while visiting their martyred sons, who were buried side by side. They became friends, their surviving children married each other, and ever since then they gather regularly to share a meal on the tombs of their sons.

  A few yards away, a long row of white tombs stretched into the distance, with only one figure interrupting the visual rhythm created by the receding tombs. It was a mother cloaked in black sitting on her son’s tomb, praying—a pyramid of maternal sorrow.

  Nearby was a different area: marble slabs without upright stones, flags, or photos. This zone had the greatest concentration of mothers. My friend explained that these slabs marked bodies of unidentified heroes. Mothers whose sons were never found came here to mourn.

  I left the cemetery sorting through a jumble of thoughts:

  How oceans of blood were shed by both sides in the Iran-Iraq War—a war of aggression waged by Saddam Hussein and Iraq (with American support) against Iran.

  How invasion is nothing new for this mighty and historic nation. (When I visited the surprisingly humble National Museum of Archaeology in Tehran, the curator apologized, explaining that the art treasures of his country were scattered in museums throughout Europe and the West.)

  How an elderly, aristocratic Iranian woman had crossed the street to look me in the eye and tell me, “We are proud, we are united, and we are strong. When you go home, please tell your people the truth.”

  How, with a reckless military action, this society could be set ablaze and radicalized. The uniquely Persian mix of delightful shops, university students with lofty career aspirations, gorgeous young adults with groomed eyebrows and perfect nose jobs, hope, progress, hard work, and the gentle people I encountered here in Iran could so easily and quickly be turned into a fiery hell of dysfunctional cities, torn-apart families, wailing mothers, newly empowered clerics, and radicalized people.

  My visit to the cemetery drove home a feeling that had been percolating throughout my trip. There are many things that Americans justifiably find outrageous about the Iranian government—from supporting Hezbollah and making threats against Israel; to oppressing women and gay people; to asserting their right to join the world’s nuclear club. And yet, no matter how strongly we want to see our demands met by Iran, we must pursue that aim carefully. What if our saber-rattling doesn’t coerce this country into compliance? In the past, other powerful nations have underestimated Iran’s willingness to be pulverized in a war to defend its ideals…and both Iran and their enemies have paid the price.

  How has this boy’s loss shaped his worldview?

  I have to believe that smart and determined diplomacy can keep the Iranians—and us—from having to build giant new cemeteries for the next generation’s war dead. That doesn’t mean “giving in” to Iran…it means acknowledging that war is a failure and we’d be wise to find an alternative.

  Back to Europe: Tight Pants, Necklines, Booze… and Freedom

  My flight out of Iran was scheduled for 3 a.m. For whatever reason, planes leaving for the West depart in the wee hours. The TV crew had caught an earlier flight, Seyed had gone home, and I was groggy and alone in the terminal.

  Finally walking down the jetway toward my Air France plane, I saw busty French flight attendants—hair flowing freely—greeting passengers at the door. It was as if the plane was a lifeboat, and they were pulling us back to the delicious safety of the West. People entered with a sigh of relief, women pulled off their scarves…and suddenly we were free to be what we considered “normal.” The jet lifted off, flying the exact opposite route the Ayatollah had traveled to succeed the Shah.

  For 12 days, I’d been out of my comfort zone, in a land where people live under a theocracy. I tasted not a drop of alcohol, and I never encountered a urinal. Women were not to show the shape of their body or their hair (and were beautiful nevertheless). It was a land where people took photos of me, as if I were the cultural spectacle.

  Landing in Paris was reverse culture shock. I sipped wine like it was heaven-sent. I noticed hair, necklines, and the curves revealed by tight pants like never before. University students sat at outdoor cafés, men and women mingling together as they discussed whatever hot-button issue interested them. After the Valium-paced lifestyle of Iran, I felt an energy and efficiency cranked up on high. People were free to be “evil” and able to express their joy any way they wanted. And, immersed in that vivid whirlpool of life, I was thankful to be a Westerner. I was grateful for the learning experience that gave simple things—from visiting the men’s room to dealing with traffic jams, from valuing nonconformity to respecting women—a broader cultural context.

  Reflecting on My Motives—and the Real Souvenir I Carried Home

  Returning home to the US, I faced a barrage of questions—mainly, “Why did you go to Iran?” Some were skeptical of my motives, accusing me of just trying to make a buck. (As a businessman, I can assure you there was no risk of a profit in this venture.) Reading the comments readers shared on my blog—some of whom railed against me for “naively” acting as a Jane Fonda-type mouthpiece for an enemy that has allegedly bankrolled terrorists—was also thought-provoking. The whole experience made me want to hug people and scream at the same time. It was intensely human.

  I didn’t go to Iran as a businessman or as a politician. I went as what I am—a travel writer. I went for the same reasons I travel anywhere: to get out of my own culture and learn, to go to a scary place and find it’s not so scary, to bring distant places to people who’ve yet to go there, and to talk to people who have a dramatically different world view than I do…to gain empathy. To me, understanding people and their lives is what travel is about, no matter where you go.

  I have long held that travel can be a powerful force for peace. Travel promotes understanding at the expense of fear. And understanding bridges conflicts between nations. As Americans, we endured the economic and human cost of war engulfing Iran’s neighbor, Iraq. Seeing Iraq’s cultural sites destroyed and its kind people being dragged through the ugliness of that war, I wished I’d been able to take my film crew to Baghdad before that war to preserve images of a peacetime Iraq. As our leaders’ rhetoric ramped up the possibility of another war—with Iran—I didn’t want to miss that chance again. It’s human nature to not want to know the people on the receiving end of your “shock and awe”—but to dehumanize these people is wrong. I wanted to put a human face on “collateral damage.”

  Y
oung couples—regardless of their presidents—share the same basic dreams and aspirations the world over.

  It’s not easy finding a middle ground between the “Great Satan” and the “Axis of Evil.” Some of their policies and statements (such as their leader denying the Holocaust) are just plain wrong. But I don’t entirely agree with many policies in my own government, either. Yes, there are evil people in Iran. Yes, the rhetoric and policies of Iran’s leaders can be objectionable. But there is so much more to Iran than the negative image drummed into us by our media and our government.

  I left Iran impressed more by what we have in common than by our differences. Most Iranians, like most Americans, simply want a good life and a safe homeland for their loved ones. Just like my country, Iran has one dominant ethnic group and religion that’s struggling with issues of diversity and change—liberal versus conservative, modern versus traditional, secular versus religious. As in my own hometown, people of great faith are suspicious of people of no faith or a different faith. Both societies seek a defense against the onslaught of modern materialism that threatens their traditional “family values.” Both societies are suspicious of each other, and both are especially suspicious of each other’s government.

  As a traveler, I’ve often found that the more a culture differs from my own, the more I am struck by its essential humanity. Since our TV show on Iran, I’ve met countless Americans who have been inspired by our work and traveled in Iran. The unanimous consensus: Iran is a friendly and fascinating place to explore.

  When we travel—whether to the “Axis of Evil” or just to a place where people yodel when they’re happy, or fight bulls to impress the girls, or can’t serve breakfast until today’s croissants arrive—we enrich our lives and better understand our place on this planet. We undercut groups that sow fear, hatred, and mistrust. People-to-people connections help us learn that we can disagree and still coexist peacefully.