The Ayatollah Begs to Differ (13 page)

One must see Qom and Jamkaran in another light too, not just as places of government-sponsored and encouraged pilgrimage, but as places of hope. The government need not make much effort to persuade an already religious populace that salvation is around the corner, that the Mahdi will solve all their problems, even if only on Tuesdays and Fridays until he decides to take the job full-time. The female cabdriver who took me to the presidential offices on a snowy morning and who braves the errant bus drivers when she drives to Jamkaran, a young widow raising two children and caring for an ailing mother and a woman who mused whether she should have immigrated to a better life, may have little else to look forward to besides salvation. A population that suffered the chaos of revolution followed quickly by a brutal eight-year war—a war that rained missiles down on Tehran and that (oh so!) unjustly killed a generation of Iran’s youths—a population that struggles every day with unemployment, financial issues, rampant drug abuse, and the notion that its rights have been trampled, well, this is a population that is somewhat more susceptible to the notion that salvation might be at hand.

When I left Jamkaran in the summer of 2005, after the last evening prayer, there was still bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway leading to the site. The faithful poured in from Tehran and towns even farther away, and until the sun rose the next day, every man and woman was like a lottery ticket holder the day of a record-breaking jackpot: all winners, all equal, and all full of hope. Earlier that day, I’d picked up a few
noheh
CDs near the shrine in Qom, and on my way out of Jamkaran I picked up a few more from vendors lining the parking lots, at about fifty cents a pop. Noheh, the Shia religious lamentation traditionally sung a cappella on holy days of mourning, is today (at least on CDs) thoroughly modern, with a hypnotic beat provided courtesy of hundreds of young men beating their chests and flailing their backs with chains, and young male singers competing for fame as messengers of woe. Good Shias
feel
the pain. As I listened to the CDs in the car, I couldn’t help but empathize with that pain, a pain I had seen on the faces of some at the mosque, hoping their letters to the Hidden Imam would be answered, and on the faces of some of the men who had driven great distances to kiss the hand of their Ayatollah that morning. Just as one doesn’t have to be religious to feel and appreciate the emotion of a gospel singer, one doesn’t have to be devout to feel the emotion of Muslim religious music, and Shia chants reach into a place deep in the Iranian soul, formed by centuries of cultural DNA and the certain Persian knowledge that the world is indeed a wicked place. Or perhaps it was the blood of Mohammad and his progeny that supposedly runs through my veins, for I had, earlier in the evening in Qom, touched the mausoleum of a saint. A saint who was, after all, my ancestor.

I found myself in Qom, at Mofid University, again in the winter of 2007. Friends in Tehran expressed surprise that I wished to return to what most secular-minded Iranians consider a symbol of backwardness: a dull, dreary, and dusty place with nothing to recommend it. They didn’t know about the shir’e, of course, but that wasn’t the reason I returned. Well, perhaps just a
small
part of the reason. Mofid U, “useful” or “beneficial” university as it would translate into English (and only a Persian could come up with a name as obviously practical, and as boastful, as that), was founded in 1989 by Ayatollah Abdol-Karim Mousavi Ardebili (head of the judiciary under Khomeini) as an institution dedicated to comparative studies between Islamic sciences and modern humanities, although it has expanded to offer degrees in other disciplines. It was intended as an adjunct to the
howzehs
, the Shia seminaries in Qom, which offer little beyond purely Islamic studies and which Ardebili believed neglected the modern sciences. Hojjatoleslam Mohammad Taghi Fazel-Meybodi, a reformist cleric and good friend of former president Khatami’s, is the director of publications at the university, and I sat in his large, somewhat untidy office on a chilly morning drinking tea poured from a large thermos. “You haven’t become a
hezbollhahi
, have you?” said Fazel-Meybodi with a laugh, referring, I knew, to the full beard I hadn’t had the last time I saw him in Tehran. The beard, it seemed, would always be a point of conversation for anyone who knew I didn’t live in Iran. I smiled and shook my head.

“No, no,” I said, “it’s just nice to not shave, and people who don’t know me don’t presume I live in the West.” And then, without any prodding from me, for this was supposed to be a courtesy call and nothing more, Fazel-Meybodi launched into a critique of the Islamic Republic that, had I actually been a resident of Iran, he might not have imparted with such vigor.

“The things that Ayatollah Khomeini was against the Shah for,” he said, “are exactly things we are doing today.” At least he said “we,” an acknowledgment that he was very much a part of the clerical ruling class. “We akhounds were against Reza Shah [the Shah’s father, who started the Pahlavi dynasty],” he continued, “but that was not entirely fair—he did some good things too.” My friend Javad, who had driven down with me from Tehran, a nephew of Grand Ayatollah Lankarani’s, looked at me with raised eyebrows as he took a sip of tea, holding the glass by his lips for a few seconds longer than necessary. I had introduced him as Lankarani’s relative, and the Hojjatoleslam knew how radical his views would be to the archconservative cleric vastly his senior, but he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself, knowing that there was a chance his views would be recounted later that day to one of the most senior Ayatollahs in all of Shia Islam, and one whose views were the polar opposite of his. “In order to progress, and we
must
progress, we have to constantly step on the akhounds’ toes,” he said.

“But will progress lead to a secularism of sorts?” I asked. “Surely that’s not in the cards.”

“Secularism?” said Fazel-Meybodi, somewhat imperiously. “Iran is already becoming secular—it’s basically secular—all that’s left is the hijab!” Javad glanced at me again, but kept silent. “It’s dangerous,” continued Fazel-Meybodi, “for religion to be imposed. It’s
worse
for the religion.” Fazel-Meybodi seemed intent, as some of the reformist clerics are, on making an impression with someone he believed, as a writer, had some influence in the West. It has become almost fashionable, particularly since Ahmadinejad’s rise, for reformist mullahs with a sense of public relations to espouse dangerously liberal views, for while their status in the ruling class offers them some protection, their conviction that Iran is inevitably heading toward liberalization and democratization also means that they want to continue to be relevant when other clerics may no longer be. Ayatollahs Sanai and Tehrani, to one degree or another part of the reform camp, also exhibit this tendency, although Sanai will, like Fazel-Meybodi, express extreme and even confrontational views to anyone, particularly foreign, and with an eye to the Western press, who cares to pay him a visit.

It was close to lunchtime, and I was getting hungry for
chelo-kebab
, white rice and lamb skewers and a national lunch dish of sorts. Javad had promised me the best of Qom, a city of akhounds, known for their discriminating palates, healthy appetites, and often portly physiques. Fazel-Meybodi, however, in the best tradition of ta’arouf, insisted that we be his guest at his home, for lunch and a rest from our travels. Traditional hospitality from the days of the caravans has not disappeared from Qom, but I politely refused, insisting that I had much business to do in the city. In the end, after some minutes of back-and-forth insistence and refusal, Meybodi relented but would not hear of us walking the university grounds to the gate: he personally drove us in his car and made us gifts of his most recent books, which he fetched from the overstuffed trunk, before we kissed each other, three times on the cheek in the Islamic manner, and managed to exit “Useful U.” Books, but regrettably no souvenir T-shirt.

After lunch, which had lived up to expectations and which I ate in the company of the most turbans I had ever seen in one place, a handful of full black chadors scattered in their midst, I left Javad, promising a rendezvous at the shrine later that evening before our return to Tehran. I made my way to the old house in the center of town, the house where I had spent a pleasant afternoon more than a year earlier and where I had promised to return if I ever made it back to Qom. I saw the house’s owner, looking thinner than before and older than his years, on the street outside his door. “Mr. M.!” I exclaimed.
“Salam!”
He had been warned by telephone that I was coming to visit, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. “It’s me; Majd,” I said.

“Oh, come in, come in! I hardly recognized you with that beard.” He opened the unlocked door and ushered me into the winter quarters of the house, across the yard from the summer quarters, where I had been the last time.

“I just came by to say hello,” I said, “and certainly not to disturb you and your family.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with the characteristic slow, nasal twang of an opium addict, and I noticed that he may have lost another tooth or two. “Come in and have some tea.” I entered a narrow hallway, took off my shoes, and followed Mr. M. into the living room. Similar to the summer room, it was covered with Persian carpets and pillows, but again, no furniture. He gestured for me to sit, and then yelled for tea. His wife, who had barely spoken the last time, came rushing into the room from behind a curtain, chador flapping, and greeted me as if I were a long-lost relative.

“How
are
you?” she exclaimed. “It’s so nice to see you again!”

I stood up, mindful not to extend my hand for a shake, as this was a religious household.

“Very well, thanks,” I replied, with my right hand over my heart in a gesture of respect.

“Please sit down,” she said. “You’ll have some tea.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned immediately with a teapot and glasses already filled on a small tray. I took a glass and a sugar cube and murmured my thanks. Her husband did the same, and to my surprise, unlike during my previous visit, she sat down across from me and beamed. Mr. M. meanwhile made a phone call, and from what I could gather, he was arranging for a delivery. The daughter of the house entered the room, also in a chador, said hello pleasantly, and sat next to her mother. There was no TV in this room, so she just looked at me.

“You have a beard,” she said, as a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.

“But you live in America?”

“Yes.” These were more words than she had spoken the entire time I’d been at the house before.

“Where?”

“New York.”

“Oh my God!” she said. “I would love to go to New York!”

“What for?” grunted her father.

“It’s so beautiful!” she said, giving him a dirty look.

“Well,” I said, “I see the beauty, but it’s not really that beautiful
everywhere
, you know.”