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Iran Standard Time: finding the garden Iran Standard Time: finding the garden
(7 months later)
For For me, the sprawling holy city of Qom has always meant three things: clean public bathrooms (often the only clean ones to be found on long road trips through Iran), mosques and mystery.
me, the sprawling holy city of Qom has always meant three things: I grew up in a devout Shia household where Ramadan, Ashura, the birthdays of the Prophet and the Imams and the anniversaries of their passing were all strictly observed. As an adult, I do not know what to make of it all. The religious within my family spanned the seven lands of love, as Rumi said of Attar’s spiritual travels, from dervishes to strict, traditional interpreters to zealous revolutionaries, contemptuously called hezbollahi – one of those stereotype-rich labels I hate.
clean public bathrooms (often the only clean ones to be found on long It was my grandfather’s faith that I always admired. He belongs to a small circle of dervishes who are not followers of any particular order, but rather consider themselves students of a wandering man they met in the late 1950s, affectionately called Seyed. Having traveled from India to Afghanistan, Seyed was perhaps in the last generation of men of God who roamed the earth in the footsteps of the old Sufi poets. He is buried by the mountains on the outskirts of Qom, near the fabled Jamkaran mosque.
road trips through Iran), mosques and mystery. Even during the war with Iraq, when transportation was hard to find, my grandfather would make it from his hometown to Tehran every few months by some combination of train, automobile and bus. He would show up at the door with warm bread, only to depart just as suddenly for Qom, to visit Seyed’s tomb. The dervishes congregated in an old pomegranate garden, where I always heard Seyed was buried deep within a shavadoon, a sub-basement room, under which ran a stream. Later on, when I grew older, he would take me.
I My grandfather is now too old to take the long bus ride to Qom, but not long ago I decided it was our turn to help him make his pilgrimage. There are always three stops: the shrine of Masoumeh, Jamkaran mosque, and then the pomegranate garden. There was a slight problem, however. It had been a few years since he had gone. Time and an increasingly failing memory meant he didn’t remember where Seyed’s garden was. But, he said, “Seyed will guide me there, I’m sure of it.”
grew up in a devout Shia household where Ramadan, Ashura, the I didn’t believe that, of course, but it didn’t really matter. We could still visit other places he wanted to see. And so, along with my mother, we set off to Qom after morning prayers. It’s a two-hour drive from Tehran and we get to Masoumeh’s shrine about nine in the morning.
birthdays of the Prophet and the Imams and the anniversaries of their The Shia narrative has it that Masoumeh is the sister of Reza, the eighth Imam. I had never particularly enjoyed being dragged to her shrine as a kid, but today is different. I am taking my grandfather. The excitement and sweet melancholy of that doesn’t escape me – the pilgrim now needs to hold on to us to walk to the mosque.
passing were all strictly observed. As an adult, I do not know what The first thing I notice in any mosque these days is the increasing glare of officialdom. While mosques and shrines have long been under the auspices of the Islamic state, never have the personnel been so numerous, the posters of the highest politico-religious authorities so ubiquitous. But I realize that it is me, the secular eye, who minds these things. The worshippers, from Afghan refugees to a large group from Azerbaijan, don’t seem to notice as they pray, read the Qur’an or try to squeeze their way through the crowd surrounding the zerih, Masoumeh’s grand metallic burial chamber. My own highlight is visiting the poet Parvin Etesami, buried in a corner of the shrine in a little room. The door is always locked, but I’ve been often enough to know where to find the key.
to make of it all. The religious within my family spanned the seven Our next stop is Jamkaran, where there was once just a tiny brick mosque with an open dome, in the mountains’ shadow. Legend has it that someone had a dream of seeing the Mahdi – the missing Imam – there and it was on that spot that the mosque was built. This was always the leg of the tour I most looked forward to. To me, as to many others, the dream of the Mahdi at Jamkaran hardly matters. From the small, simple mosque you could hear chirping birds and feel the mountain breeze.
lands of love, as Rumi said of Attar’s spiritual travels, from
dervishes to strict, traditional interpreters to zealous
revolutionaries, contemptuously called hezbollahi – one of those
stereotype-rich labels I hate.
It
was my grandfather’s faith that I always admired. He belongs to a
small circle of dervishes who are not followers of any particular
order, but rather consider themselves students of a wandering man
they met in the late 1950s, affectionately called Seyed. Having
traveled from India to Afghanistan, Seyed was perhaps in the last
generation of men of God who roamed the earth in the footsteps of the
old Sufi poets. He is buried by the mountains on the outskirts of
Qom, near the fabled Jamkaran mosque.
Even
during the war with Iraq, when transportation was hard to find, my
grandfather would make it from his hometown to Tehran every few
months by some combination of train, automobile and bus. He would
show up at the door with warm bread, only to depart just as suddenly
for Qom, to visit Seyed’s tomb. The dervishes congregated in an old
pomegranate garden, where I always heard Seyed was buried deep within
a shavadoon, a sub-basement room, under which ran a stream. Later on,
when I grew older, he would take me.
My
grandfather is now too old to take the long bus ride to Qom, but not
long ago I decided it was our turn to help him make his pilgrimage.
There are always three stops: the shrine of Masoumeh, Jamkaran
mosque, and then the pomegranate garden. There was a slight problem,
however. It had been a few years since he had gone. Time and an
increasingly failing memory meant he didn’t remember where Seyed’s
garden was. But, he said, “Seyed will guide me there, I’m sure of
it.”
I
didn’t believe that, of course, but it didn’t really matter. We
could still visit other places he wanted to see. And so, along with
my mother, we set off to Qom after morning prayers. It’s a two-hour
drive from Tehran and we get to Masoumeh’s shrine about nine in the
morning.
The
Shia narrative has it that Masoumeh is the sister of Reza, the eighth
Imam. I had never particularly enjoyed being dragged to her shrine as
a kid, but today is different. I am taking my grandfather. The
excitement and sweet melancholy of that doesn’t escape me – the
pilgrim now needs to hold on to us to walk to the mosque.
The
first thing I notice in any mosque these days is the increasing glare
of officialdom. While mosques and shrines have long been under the
auspices of the Islamic state, never have the personnel been so
numerous, the posters of the highest politico-religious authorities
so ubiquitous. But I realize that it is me, the secular eye, who
minds these things. The worshippers, from Afghan refugees to a large
group from Azerbaijan, don’t seem to notice as they pray, read the
Qur’an or try to squeeze their way through the crowd surrounding
the zerih, Masoumeh’s grand metallic burial chamber. My own
highlight is visiting the poet Parvin Etesami, buried in a corner of
the shrine in a little room. The door is always locked, but I’ve
been often enough to know where to find the key.
Our
next stop is Jamkaran, where there was once just a tiny brick mosque
with an open dome, in the mountains’ shadow. Legend has it that
someone had a dream of seeing the Mahdi – the missing Imam – there and it was on that spot that the
mosque was built. This was always the leg of the tour I most looked
forward to. To me, as to many others, the dream of the Mahdi at
Jamkaran hardly matters. From the small, simple mosque you could hear
chirping birds and feel the mountain breeze.
Jamkaran became an Ahmadinejad pet project, and though I have heard, I am appalled at what I now see. The mosque has become a gargantuan complex with huge marble buildings all around. Worshippers stream in by the busload and the loudspeakers won’t stop. The sense of peace and mystery is completely gone.Jamkaran became an Ahmadinejad pet project, and though I have heard, I am appalled at what I now see. The mosque has become a gargantuan complex with huge marble buildings all around. Worshippers stream in by the busload and the loudspeakers won’t stop. The sense of peace and mystery is completely gone.
We need to walk half a mile across marble to reach the mosque and my grandfather’s legs won’t hold up anymore. Wheelchairs are available at a ramshackle kiosk, but are given out only if you hand over your national ID card. Who can guarantee the card will be returned? Regardless, he hands it over without even checking with us.We need to walk half a mile across marble to reach the mosque and my grandfather’s legs won’t hold up anymore. Wheelchairs are available at a ramshackle kiosk, but are given out only if you hand over your national ID card. Who can guarantee the card will be returned? Regardless, he hands it over without even checking with us.
We start protesting. “Baba, what are you doing? What if you can’t get it back?”We start protesting. “Baba, what are you doing? What if you can’t get it back?”
He only winks and waits for the wheelchair.He only winks and waits for the wheelchair.
Once he’s seated in it, he beckons me over. I bend down. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he says. “It’s a fake! I have half a dozen more at home!”Once he’s seated in it, he beckons me over. I bend down. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he says. “It’s a fake! I have half a dozen more at home!”
And he starts laughing.And he starts laughing.
He prays in Jamkaran and now it’s time to find Seyed. We drive around the village. It’s old, and the mud walls of most of the houses seem to be crumbling. My grandfather has absolutely no idea where the garden is. My mom stops at every grocery store, at every school, eventually at every person we see. She gets out, we follow her, and I am entranced. As her black chador moves along the thin muddy waterways I remember scenes from film director Dariush Mehrjui’s masterpiece Pari, about the Sufis and the questions they leave behind.He prays in Jamkaran and now it’s time to find Seyed. We drive around the village. It’s old, and the mud walls of most of the houses seem to be crumbling. My grandfather has absolutely no idea where the garden is. My mom stops at every grocery store, at every school, eventually at every person we see. She gets out, we follow her, and I am entranced. As her black chador moves along the thin muddy waterways I remember scenes from film director Dariush Mehrjui’s masterpiece Pari, about the Sufis and the questions they leave behind.
The village is tiny but all the directions we get keep leading to dead ends. By this point we’re knocking on doors and ringing bells. With each bad lead, my grandfather keeps repeating: “Don’t worry, kids. Seyed will take me there if he wants to see me.” I’m not annoyed. My grandfather is the only person on the face of the earth who can’t annoy me.The village is tiny but all the directions we get keep leading to dead ends. By this point we’re knocking on doors and ringing bells. With each bad lead, my grandfather keeps repeating: “Don’t worry, kids. Seyed will take me there if he wants to see me.” I’m not annoyed. My grandfather is the only person on the face of the earth who can’t annoy me.
We circle the entire village twice. No luck at all. Finally, we stop to look at a map to figure out how to get back to Qom and on the highway to Tehran. The search has come to an end.We circle the entire village twice. No luck at all. Finally, we stop to look at a map to figure out how to get back to Qom and on the highway to Tehran. The search has come to an end.
As we’re poring over the map, we hear someone call. At first we don’t pay attention, but the sound grows louder and louder. My grandfather looks toward its source. Looks harder and harder and says: “That’s Vali! What’d I tell you, it’s Vali!”As we’re poring over the map, we hear someone call. At first we don’t pay attention, but the sound grows louder and louder. My grandfather looks toward its source. Looks harder and harder and says: “That’s Vali! What’d I tell you, it’s Vali!”
It’s funny, old age. My grandfather can hardly walk or hear or see – but then all of a sudden, it all comes back and he can run like a teenager. He jumps out of the car and hugs Vali. My mom is dumbfounded. I have no idea what is going on. Vali was the caretaker of the garden, she says. He gets in the car and starts giving directions. We reach a ground we’ve passed by a couple of times. There’s a big green iron gate with locks. “This is it,” he says. “They’ve closed it down.”It’s funny, old age. My grandfather can hardly walk or hear or see – but then all of a sudden, it all comes back and he can run like a teenager. He jumps out of the car and hugs Vali. My mom is dumbfounded. I have no idea what is going on. Vali was the caretaker of the garden, she says. He gets in the car and starts giving directions. We reach a ground we’ve passed by a couple of times. There’s a big green iron gate with locks. “This is it,” he says. “They’ve closed it down.”
I know he’s talking about the crackdown on dervishes in recent years. Later I find out the situation here was exacerbated by infighting among those who had originally gifted the land for Seyed’s burial place.I know he’s talking about the crackdown on dervishes in recent years. Later I find out the situation here was exacerbated by infighting among those who had originally gifted the land for Seyed’s burial place.
Through large cracks in the garden’s walls we can catch glimpses of the drying pomegranate trees. We get out of the car and say a prayer at the door.Through large cracks in the garden’s walls we can catch glimpses of the drying pomegranate trees. We get out of the car and say a prayer at the door.
That was last year. We have been back five times since. The first time everything was much the same. The second time it was ... gone. The trees were gone, the walls and iron gate were gone. It had been bulldozed to the ground.That was last year. We have been back five times since. The first time everything was much the same. The second time it was ... gone. The trees were gone, the walls and iron gate were gone. It had been bulldozed to the ground.
But strangely enough, there was a hole in the ground and through the hole we could see Seyed’s tomb. I lay on the ground and peeked inside and sure enough, it was still there. Even a carpet that my father brought to the tomb long ago, now muddy and worn. It’s surreal. You can tell people climb down the hole; each visit, we could make out fresh footsteps. The last time we went, last week, a huge rock had been placed over the hole. Yet we could still make out traces of visitors. Remains of burned candles remain all over the rock – our only form of communication. The entire place is gone, but Seyed remains.But strangely enough, there was a hole in the ground and through the hole we could see Seyed’s tomb. I lay on the ground and peeked inside and sure enough, it was still there. Even a carpet that my father brought to the tomb long ago, now muddy and worn. It’s surreal. You can tell people climb down the hole; each visit, we could make out fresh footsteps. The last time we went, last week, a huge rock had been placed over the hole. Yet we could still make out traces of visitors. Remains of burned candles remain all over the rock – our only form of communication. The entire place is gone, but Seyed remains.
My grandfather said Seyed would lead him there. I am still not sure what it is that led us, but I see the twinkle in his eyes as he prays next to the rock, and I do not find it my place to question.My grandfather said Seyed would lead him there. I am still not sure what it is that led us, but I see the twinkle in his eyes as he prays next to the rock, and I do not find it my place to question.
Iran Standard Time is a series of personal looks at life in the Islamic republic today.Iran Standard Time is a series of personal looks at life in the Islamic republic today.