The Ayatollah Begs To Differ Part 4

The intellectual elite of Tehran and other big cities chafe under Islamic rules and under suppression of free speech, but for the majority of Iranians they are issues that pale in comparison to their "rights" to employment, a decent wage, or fair consumer prices, rights Ahmadinejad was particularly adept at convincing voters he was the strongest proponent of (while dismissing, with some success, accusations that his religiously conservative side might be tempted to intrude behind Persian walls). Liberal Iranian women, and certainly some Iranian men, would agree with their Western counterparts that their "rights" include dressing as they please when they venture into public s.p.a.ce, but I have heard from pious Muslims, including some women, that if that right offends the majority, as some conservatives claim it does in Iran, then it is not an automatic "right." Although the mandatory-hijab question resonates emotionally for some, what resonates more for women activists in Iran is the larger issue of rights as they compare with those of men and fighting discriminatory Islamic laws, which they frame as issues of haq that have sent some progressive clerics searching for Islamic solutions.

Westerners can be forgiven if they often confuse haq with another aspect of Iranian culture that looms large: the much-talked-about "Persian pride." The reason Iranians, even those most opposed to their government, seem to support their country's nuclear program, despite the hardships that they may have to endure in order for it to achieve success, is put forward by many a.n.a.lysts as pure, fierce nationalism and excessive Persian pride, as if Iranians have rejoiced in their scientists' ability to overcome technological hurdles as much as their presidents and other leaders have seemed to. To accept that conclusion is a mistake that betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the Iranian psyche and of Iranian society. Iranians are indeed proud, sometimes to the point of arrogance, but pride is not what is driving the nuclear issue as far as the majority of Iranians are concerned. The often-mentioned nationalism and pride that Iranians exhibit, much to the discomfort of other Middle Easterners, are mostly related to their history, and the pre-Islamic one at that, rather than any "made in Iran" sentiments. No, the nuclear issue is another matter of haq, basic rights that deeply resonate for a Shia people that has long suffered from inferiority and superiority complexes, often simultaneously.

Iranians deserve their reputation for being annoyingly proud, but they have never exhibited the characteristics of fiercely nationalistic societies when it comes to material goods, and to them nuclear fuel is just another material good. Iranians do not "buy Iranian" if anything, they go out of their way to "buy" American, European, or even Asian. Billboards in Tehran for consumer goods will often proclaim in big letters "Made in France" or "Made in Korea" as a sign of the obvious superiority of the goods, even when there are Iranian equivalents, sometimes as good and less expensive. Iranians buy Iranian-made cars not out of pride that their nation has a strong automotive industry but because import tariffs mean that a Camry or a Maxima is a luxury car out of reach of ordinary workers, who grudgingly settle for an Iranian-made Peugeot, Kia, or even the completely Iranian-engineered and crudely styled (but well-made) Samand. But goods that are khareji khareji, or "foreign," have always commanded a premium as well as bragging rights.

A few years ago in Tehran when I first got into my cousin Ali's car, a Peugeot 206 hatchback, I looked around as I fastened my seat belt and said, "This is a Peugeot, huh?"

"Yes, but this one is made in France France," he said with great satisfaction, lest I wonder what he was doing driving an Iranian- Iranian-made car.

Much as the government tries to sing the praises of Iranian industry and science, one would be hard-pressed to find a single Iranian who does not believe that foreign-made goods and Western technology are not superior. Even cheap goods from China, such as shoes and clothing that are sold at discount shops, are more popular than equivalent Iranian ones, which sadly are becoming scarcer and scarcer. If the nuclear issue was sold to Iranians by their government as only a matter of pride in Iran's accomplishments, very few Iranians would be willing to suffer economic sanctions or even war as a consequence, and yet the Western media are constantly filled with stories of how ordinary Iranians take great pride in the nuclear program. While the Iranian government has indeed pushed the pride b.u.t.ton, most often at rallies and in President Ahmadinejad's speeches (pride is also alluded to at every occasion-say, a tractor factory opening or a new auto a.s.sembly plant-that involves Iranian industrial progress), Iranians by and large focus on the other aspect of the issue that is also touched upon by government officials defending their obstinacy on the nuclear question: basic national and, by extension, individual rights.

The question of rights is fundamental to Shia Islam, the very founding of which was a struggle for rightfulness. And Shia Iran, with a history of centuries of perceived injustice toward its religion and sect, and the trampling of its sovereignty by foreign powers, cannot easily accept any attempt to deprive its people of their rights. The sense of rights and justice is so deeply ingrained in the Iranian psyche that when Iranians mourn Imams martyred fourteen centuries ago, as they do during the month of Moharram, they are consumed by paroxysms of weeping, not necessarily for the dead, but for the cruel injustice perpetrated on their saints and, by extension, on them still today. The Iranian government plays up the injustice of the Western position on Iran's nuclear program (which is viewed essentially as to arbitrarily deny them advanced technology), and unjust it is as far as the people-who consider neither themselves nor even their leaders particularly aggressive or violent-are concerned.

Iranians, like all other people, have differing ideas of what their rights are, what const.i.tutes haq, but they do generally agree on the most basic. Thomas Jefferson may have declared that our rights include life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and the French Revolution may have given France the motto "Liberte, egalite, fraternite," "Liberte, egalite, fraternite," but the Iranian motto, if there were one, might simply be "Don't trample on my rights," without defining what those rights are. But the concept of haq is such a part of the Iranian vocabulary, within or without Islam (and Iran is a religious society, after all), that it can sometimes border on the risible. but the Iranian motto, if there were one, might simply be "Don't trample on my rights," without defining what those rights are. But the concept of haq is such a part of the Iranian vocabulary, within or without Islam (and Iran is a religious society, after all), that it can sometimes border on the risible.

A man who works for one of my friends in Tehran as a sort of man Friday, doing odd jobs here and there, which have included giving me rides on the back of his motorcycle when Tehran traffic has been at its worst and when I needed to get somewhere fast, is someone who has never set foot outside the country but is nonetheless so obsessed with America and all things American that his nickname for years has been Ali-Amrika-y, or "Ali the American." He naturally quizzes me on all things related to America whenever he sees me, often with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a child and to the annoyance of his employer, who gently reminds him that he has work to do beyond sitting and conversing with his boss's friend. On one occasion, presumably after something I said must have confirmed to him the absolute greatness of the United States-and he tends to ignore me or not hear whenever I mention anything critical-he shook his head slowly. "I was destined to go to America and become an American, or even to have been born there," he said. "Haq-e-moon'o khordan"- "Haq-e-moon'o khordan"-"My rights were taken from me" (literally, "My rights were eaten"). I looked at him and started laughing, and he chuckled too, for he realized how absurd his statement was, but I couldn't help wondering how many nights he had spent awake in his bed thinking about how his "right" to be an American had been wrongfully denied him, whether by G.o.d, by Iran, or by the United States itself.

Haq-khordan-"trampling of rights"-is a very common expression, and I have heard on many occasions, even from pro-American Iranians, how the United States, whether on the nuclear issue or on others (and certainly in the case of the CIA-backed coup of 1953), has trampled on the G.o.d-given rights of the Iranian people. For Iranians, fierce capitalists that they are (which Islam allows, even if only grudgingly), the pursuit of happiness is an important right, as are life, equality (an equality encouraged by Islam with the unfortunate exception of gender equality and, in its attempts at breaking the cla.s.s system, by the Islamic Republic), and brotherhood (encouraged by Islam). Liberty is the one right that Western democracies view differently, as do some Iranians of course, from the way Iranian governments do. But most Iranians believe that they had defined their liberty under Mossadeq, the prime minister overthrown by the CIA, and had redefined it with the revolution of 1979, which liberated them from the totalitarianism of the Western-supported Pahlavis. Foreign powers, regrettably, often conspire to trample that right in pursuit of their own interests, and their own leaders too, who, as President Khatami once told me, have had little history of or experience with democracy, can exhibit dictatorial qualities rather soon after they've been democratically given the reins of power.

President Ahmadinejad, perhaps better than most other Iranian leaders, made haq the defining concept of Iranian politics both during his campaign and after he was elected. His obvious resentment of the ruling cla.s.s was based not just on working-cla.s.s values but also on his deep Shia sense of injustice done to the ma.s.ses, of the violation of their haq, by their rulers. And to Ahmadinejad, the injustices that Ayatollah Khomeini had railed against were once again taking root in his beloved Islamic Republic, injustices such as corruption, cronyism, nepotism, and a stranglehold on power by a handful of politicians. Just as Khomeini had eschewed the language of politics and diplomacy, so did Ahmadinejad. He spoke in simple, informal terms, in the language of the street, with no nuance or obfuscation, and to many it was a refreshing change. His ta'arouf, often self-deprecating, was to present himself as but a simple man (like Khomeini) who only sought to defend the rights of Iran and Iranians, at home and abroad. His promises to fight corruption, patronage, and privilege while at the same time redistributing the government's (oil) wealth directly to the dinner tables ("tablecloths," or sofreh sofreh, as he put it) of ordinary Iranians were believed, and despite the trepidation of wealthy Westernized Tehranis he started his four-year term with a high degree of popularity.

Ahmadinejad had no religious credentials, but he also managed to out-believe even the strongest believers in Shia Twelver Islam by constantly invoking the Mahdi's name, which in itself spoke to his obsession with haq and justice, which the good Imam is to deliver to all believers on Judgment Day.8 Ahmadinejad not only interprets the story of the Mahdi's occultation literally but believes it will be during his presidency that the Mahdi will resurface among ordinary mortals to once and for all fix the world's problems. I was told by one person present at his inauguration that Ahmadinejad told several people there that he was only a temporary president, and that the Messiah would relieve him of the burdensome responsibility in a "few" years, at the Ahmadinejad not only interprets the story of the Mahdi's occultation literally but believes it will be during his presidency that the Mahdi will resurface among ordinary mortals to once and for all fix the world's problems. I was told by one person present at his inauguration that Ahmadinejad told several people there that he was only a temporary president, and that the Messiah would relieve him of the burdensome responsibility in a "few" years, at the most most.

Despite his Shia fervor, however, Ahmadinejad's acute sense of what Iranians might consider mundane but essential haq led him to declare less than a year into his presidency, and in the Messiah's continued absence, that women have the right to attend soccer matches (the announcement cleverly coinciding with the international release of a film, banned in Iran, about a group of girls who disguise themselves as boys to do exactly that, but are arrested by army conscripts9). Senior conservative Ayatollahs, who are generally less concerned that the Mahdi will render their work irrelevant in their lifetimes, evidently took exception to their lay president's interpretation of women's rights, and Ahmadinejad's initiative was vetoed immediately.

Disappointed female soccer fans aside, Ahmadinejad's inability to deliver either the basic rights of Iranians or the Imam Mahdi began to be felt within a year of his taking office. As the winter of 20067 approached, discontent in Iran grew as the economy actually worsened and the prospect of international isolation, attributed largely to Ahmadinejad's style if not his policies, worried the average Iranian. Iranians, like Americans, vote for their president and fully expect him, perhaps as naively as we do, to deliver on his campaign promises. Ahmadinejad's promise to fill the bellies of all Iranians with the proceeds of Iran's oil exports had fallen drastically short by that winter, well over a year into his presidency, and after his slate was trounced in munic.i.p.al and national elections in December, attacks on him in the press, in salons, and in the streets became all too common. Foreign policy, what we were most concerned with when it came to Iran and its unusual leader, was mostly relevant to the Iranian ma.s.ses only inasmuch as it affected their pocketbooks and, of course, their security. President Ahmadinejad's promises to alleviate Iran's economic woes were no longer believed, and the style of his foreign policy was viewed as having both exacerbated the economic crunch and contributed to the sense of insecurity, even if it continued to defend a nation's rights.

The UN Security Council resolution of December 2006 imposing sanctions on Iran for its refusal to suspend uranium enrichment was viewed in Iran as a foreign policy failure, not because President Ahmadinejad's sometimes belligerent and always defiant insistence that Iran would not give up its rights under the Non-Proliferation Treaty was largely disapproved of, but because the result of that resolution was that certain food staples, such as tomatoes, had, since the pa.s.sage of the resolution, become unaffordable to the Iranian ma.s.ses. The Holocaust conference in Tehran that preceded the UN vote was derided not because of its preposterous premise but for its being viewed as having unfavorably swayed the UN vote. The Iranian administration's goading of President Bush and the U.S. government, whether on Iraq, Lebanon, the Palestinian question, or basic issues of Iranian and American power, was viewed not as illegitimate but as having resulted in unilateral U.S. economic sanctions (and undue U.S. pressure on European and Asian allies), which meant foreign letters of credit were essentially unavailable to Iranian businesses that would, if sanctions continued or even expanded, downsize and contribute to Iran's already unenviable unemployment rate.

Iranians inside Iran were neither shy nor fearful in expressing their dissatisfaction with their president, but if his honeymoon with both Iranian voters and the Iranian media had been even shorter lived than President Bush's (his extended by the events of 9/11, as it was), it did not mean that he was politically doomed, nor did it even mean that he couldn't regain his popularity. Foreign policy was indeed inextricably linked in the minds of Iranians to the economy, but it was by no means certain that Iranians, who seemed to generally prefer that their president project a more benign image abroad, were more willing now than before to forgo what they believed to be nuclear independence in order to buy, say, cheaper tomatoes. However, Iranian obsessiveness with a single issue such as the price of tomatoes-and tomatoes were the national obsession for almost two months-was evident in the airtime it received on national television, in a debate in parliament, and in Ahmadinejad's remark on the matter, widely ridiculed, that people should shop in his neighborhood because the price of tomatoes at his corner bodega hadn't increased as much as elsewhere. He was actually not too far off the mark with his quip, which was intended as much as a dig against the elite as a defense of his economy, but his populist tone still wasn't quite putting tomatoes on the tables of the working cla.s.ses, who naturally deemed it their right to enjoy a meal with that most common of fruits. On weekday afternoons at the Behjatabad bazaar, however, Tehran's chicest (and most expensive) outdoor food emporium, which I visited a few times, tomatoes of every variety were piled high in front of the vegetable stalls, and hawkers beckoned the well-dressed shoppers to sample their wares. The exquisitely red tomatoes, out of reach for most South Tehran residents, were bought by the kilo by men and women with sculpted noses who pulled up in their $120,000 Mercedes and $60,000 BMWs (in a city filled with $8,000 Iranian-made cars), many of whom would go on to discuss the price they paid at dinner parties with the same seriousness they normally reserved for discussing the Dow Jones Industrials or foreign exchange rates.

The Iranian wealthy, certainly the secular, Westernized ones, were taking delight in Ahmadinejad's unpopularity, thankful that at last Iranians from all walks of life were turning against him, but their own lives were actually very little affected by Ahmadinejad's policies. The concern that many had had when he was first elected president-that the social freedoms they had enjoyed under Khatami would be severely curtailed-had not yet materialized, and in Tehran in early 2007 the liberal interpretation of the hijab, along with dating, s.e.x, liquor consumption, and every form of Western influence, continued unabated with the government still turning an, if not blind, then extremely myopic eye.

In the late spring of 2007, however, with an embattled government facing the possibility of further UN sanctions that could harm the already-unsteady economy, the authorities, in what seemed a move to turn attention away from more serious issues, embarked on a far more severe crackdown on liberalization than had been the norm in the past, and Ahmadinejad, despite his earlier statements that the issue of hijab paled in significance to greater issues of haq, did not weigh in on the crackdown.10 A yearly rite when warm weather, and therefore more revealing outfits, first make their appearance, the public crackdown on "mal-veiling"-another of the wonderful words the Islamic Republic has given us-made only a small dent in Iranian lifestyles (but received much attention in the West). On the streets, women (and men with exaggerated hairstyles or skimpy T-shirts) were arrested with much greater frequency than in past years, but usually only if they challenged the authorities, who generally first warned them to, and then showed them how to, "correct" their behavior. But apart from the unusual wave of arrests for "un-Islamic behavior," accusations were made both inside and outside Iran that there was a more nefarious aspect to the crackdown, namely, that it had been used as a cover to arrest, imprison, and intimidate opponents of the regime. A yearly rite when warm weather, and therefore more revealing outfits, first make their appearance, the public crackdown on "mal-veiling"-another of the wonderful words the Islamic Republic has given us-made only a small dent in Iranian lifestyles (but received much attention in the West). On the streets, women (and men with exaggerated hairstyles or skimpy T-shirts) were arrested with much greater frequency than in past years, but usually only if they challenged the authorities, who generally first warned them to, and then showed them how to, "correct" their behavior. But apart from the unusual wave of arrests for "un-Islamic behavior," accusations were made both inside and outside Iran that there was a more nefarious aspect to the crackdown, namely, that it had been used as a cover to arrest, imprison, and intimidate opponents of the regime.

Indeed, a simultaneous crackdown on crime and gangs resulted in an unusually high number of executions by the state-a state that is second only to China in the number of its citizens it puts to death-and exile groups made the claim that the government had used the opportunity in enforcing Sharia (Islamic law, which automatically imposes the death penalty on crimes such as murder and rape unless the victims' families agree to receive blood money as reparations) to eliminate some of its opponents. It was an accusation that was difficult to prove, for the most prominent political prisoners, such as labor leaders, student activists, feminists, and, of course, the Iranian-Americans accused of espionage, were not among the hanged, but those the government called "terrorists" certainly were (echoing the Shah's era, when virtually all political prisoners hanged had been first found guilty of "terrorism," and a reminder that the "terrorist" moniker has worked in undermining civil rights in autocracies and democracies equally). They included the confessed a.s.sa.s.sins of a judge, and a number of men found guilty, having provided less convincing confessions, of acts of terrorism in the troubled regions of Sistan va Baluchestan (bordering Pakistan and where Sunni separatists frequently engage government forces) and Khuzestan (where Arab separatist groups have on occasion resorted to terror tactics and where Iran accuses the United States and the United Kingdom of fomenting unrest).

As horrific as the photographs and videos of public executions that circulated on the Web were, the majority of Iranians support the death penalty for serious crimes, although many, and particularly the reformists, believe that Sharia should be ignored (if not taken off the books) in the cases of lesser crimes (such as adultery, prost.i.tution, and pederasty). The presidency does not control the judiciary, but under Khatami and his influence (including with the Supreme Leader) conservatives had less of a free rein to demand the imposition of the most controversial of Sharia rulings, whereas with the Ahmadinejad administration conservative judges have, to use an American expression, felt free in spending what they believe to be some of their "political capital." Unusually, many executions in 2007 were carried out in public, on the streets and with the hangman's noose dangling from a crane on the back of a truck and often with crowds cheering on, particularly in the cases of confessed murderers. Although Sharia deems that death must come to the condemned quickly and painlessly (and halal regulations even mandate the same for animals destined for the dinner table), Iran's executioners do not seem to have approached hanging-which should result in the instantaneous breaking of the neck-as a mathematical challenge, for some unfortunate convicts have ended up being slowly strangled rather than hanged, either because of an inadequate drop or because the hangmen simply dispensed with the drop altogether, instead allowing the crane to lift the victims by the ropes around their necks.

But despite the arrests and despite the executions (which for those not witnessing them meant very little, since Iranians generally have hardly any sympathy for convicted criminals), Tehran's street scenes, apart from a slight tightening of the headscarf here and there, did not visibly change much in the second year of Ahmadinejad's "return to the values of the revolution," and the vigilance with which authorities initially pursued their public campaign against "mal-veiling" abated somewhat in the face of other pressing issues, such as an unpopular decision to ration gasoline in order to prepare for potential future UN-or unilateral U.S.-and European-imposed sanctions (Iran needs to import gasoline because of a lack of oil-refining capacity, which it in turn blames on years of U.S. sanctions).11

Many Iranians, particularly the more secular-minded and those in the diaspora, may insist that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad does not represent the true Iran or Iranians, that he comes from a place few recognize. His political views may indeed be extreme, maybe more so than those of most of the people who voted for him, but the unrecognizable place he comes from is very much a part of Iran and its culture, and many Iranians can readily identify with him, even if they're dissatisfied with his administration's programs. It's an Iran away from the North Tehran that Western journalists tend to focus upon, where nose jobs are few, where humility and ta'arouf share the spotlight with pride and straightforwardness, but, more important, where the all-encompa.s.sing Iranian preoccupation with haq is most conspicuous. Ahmadinejad, the commoner elevated to the ranks of the elite by his fellow common man, where he will firmly remain whether in or out of power as long as there is an Islamic Republic, may care or worry less about the trajectory of his political fortunes than other Iranian statesmen. He may also care less about his and everyone else's worldly boss, the Supreme Leader, whoever he may be at any given time, and it perhaps matters less to him that he be right or wrong on any matter, or that history judge him kindly or harshly. He strongly believes that he stands for the haq of the people, and Ahmadinejad, like so many of his fellow citizens who can identify with him and are yearning for justice, deliverance, and their haq, will continue to proclaim himself their champion. Until, that is, the Mahdi takes over his job.

"Yeki-bood; yeki-nabood." A story that embodies both the Iranian obsession with haq and the imbued psychology of ta'arouf is one that may or may not be true, for there is no way of knowing, but the fact that it exists even as a story gives insight into the Iranian psyche. Ahmad Shah, the last Qajar king, of the dynasty that preceded the Pahlavis, in turn the last dynasty before the Islamic Revolution, ruled as a const.i.tutional monarch and left the sorry state of the Iranian economy to hapless viziers to manage. (It is entirely possible that this tale was invented by family and supporters of the Qajars, who were ridiculed by the Pahlavi Shahs and the Islamic governments that followed alike.) The British, who had briefly occupied Iran during World War I and whose influence in Persia was balanced somewhat by Russia, were pressuring Iran to agree to a treaty that would in essence make Persia a British protectorate, on top of the continued concessions in oil and tobacco that they would exploit for decades longer. But the young Shah was resisting. In 1919, on a state visit to London, where he was feted by King George and Lord Curzon, who made separate flowery speeches outlining the future of Persia, he realized that however much he resisted (and his own speeches there reveal, at least in oratory, his cold att.i.tude toward the British plan), the British would have their way, with or without him. One morning, as he was starting to shave, his manservant noticed he hadn't put out his mirror. A story that embodies both the Iranian obsession with haq and the imbued psychology of ta'arouf is one that may or may not be true, for there is no way of knowing, but the fact that it exists even as a story gives insight into the Iranian psyche. Ahmad Shah, the last Qajar king, of the dynasty that preceded the Pahlavis, in turn the last dynasty before the Islamic Revolution, ruled as a const.i.tutional monarch and left the sorry state of the Iranian economy to hapless viziers to manage. (It is entirely possible that this tale was invented by family and supporters of the Qajars, who were ridiculed by the Pahlavi Shahs and the Islamic governments that followed alike.) The British, who had briefly occupied Iran during World War I and whose influence in Persia was balanced somewhat by Russia, were pressuring Iran to agree to a treaty that would in essence make Persia a British protectorate, on top of the continued concessions in oil and tobacco that they would exploit for decades longer. But the young Shah was resisting. In 1919, on a state visit to London, where he was feted by King George and Lord Curzon, who made separate flowery speeches outlining the future of Persia, he realized that however much he resisted (and his own speeches there reveal, at least in oratory, his cold att.i.tude toward the British plan), the British would have their way, with or without him. One morning, as he was starting to shave, his manservant noticed he hadn't put out his mirror.

"Why, your majesty, are you going to shave without a mirror?" he asked.

"Because," Ahmad Shah replied, "I don't want to look at my madarghahbeh madarghahbeh [son-of-a-wh.o.r.e] face." [son-of-a-wh.o.r.e] face."

Ahmad Shah was ultimately, with the help of the British, pushed aside by a military coup in 1921, self-exiled from his country in 1923, and formally deposed in 1925 (eventually dying in France in 1930). He knew, in London, that he was about to give in to the powerful British Empire because of his and his country's weakness, and be forced to surrender Iran's haq and honor, and little else could describe his feelings of complete humiliation. He was not, of course, a son of a wh.o.r.e, but if the story is true, his ta'arouf was exceptionally fitting.

VICTORY OF BLOOD OVER THE SWORD.

"There was a girl, a young girl, who had already had her leg amputated because of cancer, and she lay dying in the hospital. Her doctor and nurses, who could do no more for her, asked her if she wanted or needed to talk to anyone about any worries or problems she might have. 'I don't even tell G.o.d G.o.d my problems or worries,' she replied, 'but I do tell my my problems or worries,' she replied, 'but I do tell my problems problems about G.o.d.' When she died, her distraught father told the doctor, who was trying to comfort him, that it was all right. 'I was unworthy of her,' he said, 'so G.o.d took her back to him.' The doctor, a secularist and not religious in any way but impressed by the power of faith, is the one who has told the story many times." Mrs. Khatami finished speaking and looked at me with a smile, her gentle eyes wide and unblinking. She held her floral chador, one she only wears indoors, tightly under her chin with her fist. "You can't explain it, can you?" she said. "But there is about G.o.d.' When she died, her distraught father told the doctor, who was trying to comfort him, that it was all right. 'I was unworthy of her,' he said, 'so G.o.d took her back to him.' The doctor, a secularist and not religious in any way but impressed by the power of faith, is the one who has told the story many times." Mrs. Khatami finished speaking and looked at me with a smile, her gentle eyes wide and unblinking. She held her floral chador, one she only wears indoors, tightly under her chin with her fist. "You can't explain it, can you?" she said. "But there is something something about faith and religion." about faith and religion."

The story may be corny, I thought, even if it's true, but there was nothing corny about Mrs. Sadoughi, as Maryam Khatami, sister of the former president Khatami, is better known. (Women in Iran keep their maiden names when they marry, including on all legal doc.u.ments, and use their husband's name only if prefaced with "Mrs.") "I do tell my "I do tell my problems problems about G.o.d." about G.o.d." We were sitting in the living room of the Sadoughi house in the old part of central Yazd, the desert city smack in the middle of Iran where Hojjatoleslam Mohammad Ali Sadoughi, Maryam's husband, is the We were sitting in the living room of the Sadoughi house in the old part of central Yazd, the desert city smack in the middle of Iran where Hojjatoleslam Mohammad Ali Sadoughi, Maryam's husband, is the Imam Jomeh Imam Jomeh, or "Friday prayers leader," and therefore the representative of the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolution in the province. It was the start of a busy week for Sadoughi, for this was the ninth day of Moharram, the first month of the Arabic calendar, Tasua, as it is known throughout the Shia world-one of the two holiest days in a holy month of mourning for the martyrdom of the Shia Imam Hossein.

Sadoughi's son, Mohammad, was busy preparing a ghalyoun ghalyoun, or "water pipe," for us to smoke Persian tobacco after lunch, and Maryam Khatami and I were having a conversation about the role of religion in Iranian society while her husband, sitting on a couch next to me, listened carefully, nodding his head in agreement from time to time between sips of hot tea. The old Persian doors (or French doors, in the West) of the living room opened onto a completely walled garden with a large, rectangular pond in the center, surrounded by fruit trees and mature palms, and I stared admiringly at the badgir badgir, or "wind catcher," the ancient Iranian air-conditioning system-a rectangular tower with slats at the top that "catch" a breeze and accelerate it (thus cooling the air) downward-that served to cool a large shaded patio at the end of the garden used in the summer. The mud-brick house was well over a century old and was as traditional a dwelling as one can find in Iran, albeit unlike many other old houses in that it was restored to perfection and spoke to the Sadoughis' love of all things Persian, including the tobacco we were about to smoke (which is no longer popular, having lost ground to the Arab fruit-flavored tobaccos also found in the West and, of course, cigarettes).

Earlier that morning, I had dutifully arrived at the Hazireh Mosque in front of the Sadoughi house, a house that sits at the beginning of a maze of impossibly narrow alleys that emanate from the main Yazd thoroughfare and is distinguishable from others only by the sole Revolutionary Guard, Kalashnikov casually thrown over his shoulder, standing outside his dilapidated booth. Yazd is a traditional city, a religious city, but is also known for its particularly theatrical public ceremonies commemorating the death of Imam Hossein some fourteen hundred years ago, when the city was the site, as it still is today, of important Zoroastrian temples. Mourning death is a Yazdi specialty, even an art, and death and martyrdom are pillars of Shia Islam. Religion is, at least to me, most interesting in its extreme human expression, particularly extreme public public expression, and few places compare to Yazd province in that expression, especially in its beauty and emotional resonance rather than what we might think of as fundamentalist character. expression, and few places compare to Yazd province in that expression, especially in its beauty and emotional resonance rather than what we might think of as fundamentalist character.

The mosque was already almost filled to capacity with men dressed in black; women in black chadors and young girls in black headscarves were relegated to a balcony that ran along one wall and overlooked the expansive Persian-carpeted room, a room so brightly lit by ma.s.sive fluorescent fixtures that the rows of tiled columns sparkled as if they were mirrors. I was led to a bench just inside the open doors of the entrance on one side of the building where I sat down with a number of mullahs as well as Sadoughi himself, protected by Revolutionary Guards, to watch the proceedings. A path of sorts had been cleared in front of us and extended in a U shape all around the mosque to the entrance on the other side, and an officious, overweight policeman in an ill-fitting uniform stood watch, eagerly antic.i.p.ating the processions soon to arrive by waving this and that person to one side or another as they entered the mosque. While we were waiting for the ceremonies to begin, we were offered small gla.s.ses of tea by an attendant who fetched them from a makeshift kitchen behind us that had been set up to provide tea to any of the hundreds of people who had come in remembrance of Imam Hossein's martyrdom.

I looked around at all the black shirts, thankful that I'd picked one up in Tehran a few days earlier, even though the fit was questionable and the fabric better suited to a ship's sail. I had roamed the Tehran Friday bazaar, looking for an all-black shirt that was cheap but presentable, and had settled on one for five dollars from an old vendor who insisted that it was made of cotton. "Yes, yes," he had told me, "of course it's cotton!" I must've looked unconvinced. "Made in China!" he added, as if that were a strong selling point. "If it wasn't cotton," he continued, "it would be shiny. See?" He was right: it wasn't particularly shiny, but we were were indoors. I bought it anyway, knowing full well that it couldn't possibly be anything but 100 percent synthetic, and as I was walking away, I heard another vendor shouting, indoors. I bought it anyway, knowing full well that it couldn't possibly be anything but 100 percent synthetic, and as I was walking away, I heard another vendor shouting, "Bolouse-e zedeh afsordegi! Bolouse-e zedeh afsordegi!," "Bolouse-e zedeh afsordegi! Bolouse-e zedeh afsordegi!," which best translates as "antidepressant blouses," a rather optimistic cry to the female customers who were, perhaps he knew better than I, after all, looking for some new clothes to lift their spirits in this, the most sullen month of the year. But as I suspected, neither the antidepressant blouses nor my black shirt could possibly deliver on their promises. In the bright and hot desert sunshine of Yazd, the shininess of my black shirt was unmistakable, as was the itch, and I suspected rash, developing around my neck as I looked left and right, awaiting with great antic.i.p.ation the first of the groups of organized mourners who would be marching past me this morning. which best translates as "antidepressant blouses," a rather optimistic cry to the female customers who were, perhaps he knew better than I, after all, looking for some new clothes to lift their spirits in this, the most sullen month of the year. But as I suspected, neither the antidepressant blouses nor my black shirt could possibly deliver on their promises. In the bright and hot desert sunshine of Yazd, the shininess of my black shirt was unmistakable, as was the itch, and I suspected rash, developing around my neck as I looked left and right, awaiting with great antic.i.p.ation the first of the groups of organized mourners who would be marching past me this morning.

And then I heard the drums. A slow beat, and a young man took to the microphone at a stand at the front of the room. In a mellifluous but sad voice, he started singing the praises of the Imams as the men entering the mosque in two columns, marching slowly in step, shouted out a chorus while beating their chests with their right hands in time with the beat. The men around me followed suit, albeit with less vigor, sort of a faux chest beating or really just chest tapping, and I did the same. Following the first group of men came the chain beaters. These men were silent, but each wielded a wooden-handled instrument, something like a feather duster but with metal chain links in place of feathers, and in time to the beat they raised the chains above their shoulders and brought them down on their backs. The swish-swish sound of the chains and the loud thuds they made as they connected with the men's backs provided additional percussive accompaniment, and some of those men, mostly the younger ones with gelled hair, rolled-up sleeves, and tight jeans, beat themselves with such vigor, creating perfect arcs with chains glittering under the fierce lights, that one wondered how they managed to remain expressionless.

The previous day, at my cousin Fatemeh's house in Ardakan, a village thirty-five miles away, I had announced that I wished to partic.i.p.ate in the chain beating, zanjeer-zani zanjeer-zani, and had made a few practice swings with a set of chains that were rummaged out of a closet by a relative. They hurt. I'm sure I grimaced when they connected with my back and made facial expressions that must've convinced my family, deeply religious though they are, that I was suffering from a mental illness of some sort, for no sane Westernized Iranian, certainly not one who had lived abroad all his life, could possibly be interested in mourning the death of Imam Hossein with a bout of self-flagellation. In Tehran too, I had been greeted with stunned silence by the more secular Iranians when I would casually say I was going to attend Tasua and Ashura ceremonies, a silence that spoke to their inability to comprehend why why. But in the end it was explained to me, after after I tried using the chains, mind you, that I would be unable to actually perform anyway, as the ceremonies were carefully ch.o.r.eographed affairs, not unlike the various parades on Fifth Avenue in New York, and did not allow for spontaneous audience partic.i.p.ation beyond symbolic chest beating. I tried using the chains, mind you, that I would be unable to actually perform anyway, as the ceremonies were carefully ch.o.r.eographed affairs, not unlike the various parades on Fifth Avenue in New York, and did not allow for spontaneous audience partic.i.p.ation beyond symbolic chest beating.

The parade at the mosque continued. Different groups of men, sometimes even very young boys, were marching past me, each group headed by a flag bearer and each group stepping and self-flagellating to a different song and beat. The officious policeman, acting as traffic cop with almost as many hand and arm movements, was thoroughly enjoying himself, although it seemed that his instructions were ignored as many times as they were obeyed. Each neighborhood in Yazd, and apparently many neighborhoods in the surrounding villages, had its own heyyat heyyat, or "delegation," competing, it seemed, to out-beat and out-sing the others. The Afghans came, refugees first from the Soviets and then from the Taliban who had never returned home, as did the Iraqis, presumably from the Iraqi part of town, near the main square, where they run the cigarette wholesale business and where, much to my delight, I could buy Iranian cigarettes re-smuggled back into Iran from Iraq-where the Iranian government subsidizes their distribution-at half the price of anywhere in Tehran, or about thirty-five cents a pack. Every now and then the parade would stop, someone new would take to the microphone, and the crowd of men sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room would stand and beat their chests with both arms. Arms would be raised high and then brought down, crossing each other in midair and landing heavily on either side of the chest, to a rhythm created by the singer and a chorus repeated by the men. Everyone else in the mosque beat, or in my case tapped, their hearts in time. Everyone, that is, except for the few men I noticed who answered calls on their cell phones, although one did manage to hold a conversation and beat himself at the same time. "Hey, what are you doing, Mamad?" I imagined the conversation. "Oh, nothing much, just pounding my chest."

The women on the balcony watched, some leaning over to get a better look, and at times I felt that the men, the youths anyway, were performing for them as much as for any other reason. If they could (and if it was still legal), some of these men would have used the ghammeh ghammeh, or "sharp dagger," to cut their foreheads and march with blood streaming down their faces. Once a common practice, it was now forbidden by the Ayatollahs of Shia Islam.1 On the eve of Tasua, in a taxi from Ardakan to Yazd, a newscaster repeatedly advised his listeners (after offering them all condolences on the death of Imam Hossein) that On the eve of Tasua, in a taxi from Ardakan to Yazd, a newscaster repeatedly advised his listeners (after offering them all condolences on the death of Imam Hossein) that ghammeh-zani ghammeh-zani, "cutting oneself with a blade," was not only illegal but un-Islamic according to the great Ayatollahs, including Fazel Lankarani, Shirazi, Sistani (in Iraq), and the Supreme Leader himself, Khamenei. The reason, as he quoted the mullahs, was that in Islam it is haram, or "forbidden," to harm one's own body to the point of danger-that is, danger from death due to, in this case, a potential deadly infection. He neglected to mention the Ayatollahs' other reason, one they all agree on and one that has a strong Shia basis: that any act that can be misunderstood, misconstrued, or simply viewed negatively by the non-Shia world must be avoided in order to protect the faith from those who might view it in a negative light or, worse, defame it. Men cutting their foreheads wide open could, one supposes, be viewed negatively by some unbelievers. The practice does continue privately, though (which is why the radio announcer felt it necessary to raise the issue), sometimes in back alleys among small groups of men who just cannot imagine that beating oneself, even shirtless to allow the skin to burst open, suffices as grief. Real men don't just self-flagellate; they cut cut themselves. themselves.

There's an old joke in Iran about Moharram, the holy month, one that is told even by the pious who mourn with genuine emotion. A foreigner, it seems, arrives in Iran during Moharram and is witness to the mult.i.tude of public grieving ceremonies, the crying, the chest beating, and of course the black flags adorning almost every building and house. "What's happened?" he asks an Iranian. "We're mourning Hossein's death" is the reply. "Oh," says the foreigner, "I'm so sorry. When did he die?" "Fourteen hundred years ago," says the Iranian. "Boy," says the foreigner, "news sure travels slow around these parts!"

On the eve of Ashura, which simply means "tenth" in Arabic and which is the actual day of Imam Hossein's martyrdom, Iranian television is chockablock with religious programming. Apart from showing Tasua ceremonies across the nation, and apart from broadcasting various Rosehs Rosehs, "communal grief gatherings," on a night in 2007 (and as they do every year), reporters on different channels combed the streets of Tehran and other cities interviewing various people on the subject of their love of Hossein. "Why are you crying?" asked one young male reporter of a five-year-old girl. "For Imam Hossein" was the reply. "Do you like Imam Hossein? Why?" asked the reporter. The girl didn't hesitate. "Because he died thirsty!" she exclaimed, as if speaking to an idiot. (Legend has it that Yazid, Hossein's nemesis in the battle for control of the caliphate, cut off Hossein's men from water supplies at Karbala before the final battle and the men died fighting, but never quenching their thirst.) Another asked an older man on the streets of Tehran what he thought of Hossein. "For fourteen hundred years we've been mourning Imam Hossein," he replied. "My one-and-a-half-year-old grandson beats his chest. Why? Because the blood of Hossein boils inside all of us." Indeed. Iranian ident.i.ty is very much tied up in the story of Hossein, the story of his martyrdom in the cause of justice, and the concept of what is right (and just) and what is wrong (and unjust). "Yeki-bood; yeki-nabood"- "Yeki-bood; yeki-nabood"-"Other than G.o.d, there was no One." Except, perhaps, Hossein.

Many of the contradictions (or what we think of as contradictions) of Iran play out during the holy month of Moharram. A nation is in mourning, yes; but the Iranian penchant for turning every solemn occasion into a festivity is also on display. Ancient ritual and pageantry, reviled by orthodox Sunnis as paganism and idolatry, are set against a backdrop of modernity and a quest for technology. Public displays of grief, apparently sincere, are quickly followed by sumptuous feasts in the privacy that exists behind Persian walls. Weeks of practicing carefully ch.o.r.eographed ma.s.s self-flagellation culminate in an ecstatic, and even at times erotic, display of male machismo. Laughter follows tears, happiness comes from sorrow. And the people often described as the most Western in the Muslim Middle East continue to live their Western-influenced lives, going to restaurants and cafes, taking the kids to amus.e.m.e.nt parks, watching movies and listening to music, and surfing the Internet, all the while surrounding themselves with symbolic solemnity. The black flags hanging outside of many homes and offices, even secular ones, are not only for show: inside the home a television may be blaring a European program (even dolorous Iranians, it seems, want their MTV); inside the office there might be a cheerful celebration of a successful business deal; but a certain lugubriousness often punctures the mood, almost as a reminder that without sorrow, happiness cannot be measured.

It was during the month of Moharram that I witnessed another contradiction of Islamic Iranian life, not one directly attributable to the month of mourning, but one I likely wouldn't have witnessed any other time. It is considered auspicious by some to donate blood during the month, and a friend took me to a government donation center in Tehran where we both were eager to spill blood more for our fellow man than for ceremonial purposes. We took numbers from a ticket machine, were given a short form to fill out by a courteous woman behind a desk, and sat down on plastic chairs with a dozen or so others to wait our turn. Our numbers came up within seconds of each other, and we went into separate rooms as indicated by an electronic sign. I closed the heavy wooden door behind me and sat down in front of another woman behind a desk, young and wearing a proper hijab, who took my form and starting making notes. She asked for my national ident.i.ty card (which unlike my pa.s.sport gives no clue as to where I reside) and confirmed the personal details I had written down one by one. She finally looked up at me and stared straight into my eyes, holding her pen aloft for effect. "And when was the last time you had s.e.x?"

"Excuse me?" I replied, blushing, I'm sure.

"The last time you had carnal relations?" I had written that I was unmarried, and since s.e.x outside marriage is technically illegal, a government official was asking me to either condemn myself or lie.

"Uh, I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe a month or two?"

"I'm sorry," she replied, after holding my gaze for a few moments, her expression unchanging. "You can't donate blood today."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I knew that all donated blood is checked for the AIDS virus, so it seemed an unreasonable precaution, particularly since I could have easily lied.

"If you've had s.e.x in the last year and are not married, you can't donate blood." She typed something into her computer terminal, presumably marking me as someone to be rejected by all donation centers for the next twelve months, even if I returned and lied. "Thank you anyway," she said pleasantly, looking me in the eyes again. I couldn't discern any judgment in her eyes, whether she thought I was a s.e.x fiend or whether she was wondering with whom I had managed to have illicit s.e.x.

"Thank you," I also said, standing up and feeling a little embarra.s.sed.

"Have a good day," she replied, pressing the b.u.t.ton on her desk signaling the next donor and going back to her computer. I walked out to see my friend sitting on a chair in the waiting room.

"Did you already give blood?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I was rejected. And you?"

"Me too, for having had s.e.x less than a year ago. I'll tell you, that was embarra.s.sing!"

"Same here. I should have lied, but the girl caught me off guard."

We left the building with our heads lowered, as if others watching, particularly the women, would think us s.e.xual deviants, and hastily jumped into a cab and headed home. Here was the Islamic Republic in all its glorious contradictions, I thought, as we made our way through heavy traffic in silence. A republic that openly recognizes the perils of AIDS (and even hands out free condoms) but that maintains the fiction of Islamic s.e.xual innocence, an innocence that dictates a married man only ever has s.e.x with his wife (and vice versa), that unmarried men only have s.e.x with themselves, and that unmarried women don't know what s.e.x is. And then, to borrow a Ronald Reagan Cold War notion, the Islamic Republic trusts, but also verifies (verbally, and then later scientifically). Apart from the undoubtedly unintentional t.i.tillation factor of being asked about one's s.e.x life by a pretty young girl, a girl that if Muslim and unmarried (and I saw no ring on her finger) should not have experienced s.e.x herself, the business of asking about s.e.x appears to serve no purpose whatsoever other than to afford the examinee the opportunity to wonder whether he or she should be truthful or not (for most Iranian men would hardly like to admit, even if it were true and particularly to a young woman, that they had had no prospects for a year, while no unmarried Iranian woman would like to admit publicly that she had succ.u.mbed to the advances of one of those men). But in reality it encapsulates the very Persian, pragmatic approach to living under the s.e.xual constraints of Islam: men might all be Muslims, but all Muslim men are, well, men men. And women, after all, just might might fall under their spell. fall under their spell.

Having been denied the opportunity to shed blood, to self-sacrifice at a time when sacrifice is pondered, on the seventh of Moharram, the day that Hossein's armies were first denied water all those centuries ago, I attended a Roseh at a house in North Tehran. The blood of Hossein boils even in the veins of the Armani crowd, it seems, for my host, a young businessman dressed in a beautiful suit, lives in an upscale neighborhood, Shahrak-e Gharb, in a multimillion-dollar home. The Benzes and BMWs parked outside would have seemed to indicate a more common North Tehran form of entertainment inside: a party with liquor, dancing, and mingling of the s.e.xes, but no, this was Moharram, after all. Businesses and homes all over Tehran, even some in the wealthy and more secular neighborhoods, were draped with black flags and salutations to Imam Hossein, and on the drive north a red neon sign on the top of an incomplete high-rise by the Hemmat Expressway that could be seen for miles proclaimed Iran's love of its Imam with a simple "Ya Hossein," "Ya Hossein," an expression that was also mowed, in huge letters, into the gra.s.s embankment of another highway connecting North and South Tehran. an expression that was also mowed, in huge letters, into the gra.s.s embankment of another highway connecting North and South Tehran.

At the house, what appeared to be a huge ten-car garage but was just the covered courtyard entrance to the main house was fully carpeted with expansive Persian rugs, and I sat along the edge of one wall facing a mullah who was sitting and talking to a few men leaning against the opposite wall. Roseh is a tradition I remember from my childhood, when on yearly visits to my grandfather's house my mother would attend the almost weekly women-only Roseh thrown by my grandmother for her friends and family. Roseh is a sort of pa.s.sion play, actually a pa.s.sion play monologue monologue; the story of Hossein's martyrdom (or the martyrdom of other saints) is recited by a mullah who is an accomplished actor and who deftly manipulates the audience into tears simply by telling them of the injustice of it all.

I remember the shock I felt the first time I saw my mother come out of the living room at my grandfather's house, crying hysterically, and my wondering if someone had died or some other terrible calamity had just occurred. "No, no," my mother had a.s.sured me, "it was just a Roseh, and I feel much better now." I must've been five or six years old and fresh from San Francisco, where, needless to say, the handful of Shias who may have lived there in the 1960s did not not organize Rosehs. I came to understand, even though I wasn't allowed to witness the pa.s.sion plays, although I did hide outside the closed door on numerous occasions and listen in awe to the mullah's cadences and the spectacular crying of the women, that it served a definite purpose beyond religion and faith, for those who emerged from the Roseh after a heavy round of communal crying seemed to have hefty appet.i.tes (all the cakes and biscuits disappeared before we kids had a chance to steal one or two) and left my grandfather's house in great spirits, usually with beaming smiles framed by colorful chadors. My own mother, wiping away tears, always seemed so organize Rosehs. I came to understand, even though I wasn't allowed to witness the pa.s.sion plays, although I did hide outside the closed door on numerous occasions and listen in awe to the mullah's cadences and the spectacular crying of the women, that it served a definite purpose beyond religion and faith, for those who emerged from the Roseh after a heavy round of communal crying seemed to have hefty appet.i.tes (all the cakes and biscuits disappeared before we kids had a chance to steal one or two) and left my grandfather's house in great spirits, usually with beaming smiles framed by colorful chadors. My own mother, wiping away tears, always seemed so relieved relieved. Hossein's martyrdom was the the supreme example of injustice: one's own martyrdom (and every Iranian is a martyr) paled by comparison. Go ahead, have a good cry: cry for Hossein, for Abolfazl, and for all the other martyrs, including, of course, supreme example of injustice: one's own martyrdom (and every Iranian is a martyr) paled by comparison. Go ahead, have a good cry: cry for Hossein, for Abolfazl, and for all the other martyrs, including, of course, yourself yourself.

While women often organize a Roseh, hiring a mullah (and the good ones, those who can guarantee tears or your money back, cost a pretty rial) and putting on a party, men also do, usually during Moharram. This house in Shahrak-e Gharb was no exception on the seventh of Moharram, and it was going to be a lavish party. A heavy curtain separated the men from the women, who would be able to hear, but not see, the mullah when he was ready for his performance. Haj-Agha Bayan, the mullah and an accomplished veteran Roseh-khoon Roseh-khoon, or "Roseh reciter," was a portly fellow who, despite the thousands of dollars in fees he commands, was dressed in rather shabby robes. The women weren't missing much. While he waited for the room to fill up, we were served hot tea and fresh dates by our host's servants, and I engaged in small talk, and plenty of ta'arouf, with my host as well as with the men who sat down on the carpet next to me. When Haj-Agha finally rose from the floor and sat down on the only chair in the room, everyone fell silent. A microphone was handed to him, and he began his Roseh. We listened carefully as he began to tell the story of the Battle of Karbala in a theatrical voice, occasionally smiling, occasionally emphasizing one or another aspect of Imam Hossein's beautiful nature, and often employing gholov, the Persian art of exaggeration that fools no one but is accepted as poetic license and as a way of making a point.

The gholov, however, was too much for the gentleman sitting next to me, a religious man certainly but one who wore, of all things, a black necktie with his freshly pressed suit, which indicated some dissent with the notion of what is acceptable menswear in an Islamic Republic. When Haj-Agha told the tale of Imam Hossein's anger at the death of his father, Imam Ali, he said, with much gusto, that Hossein immediately got on his horse and slew, in one continuous action and armed only with his sword, 1,950 soldiers from the Caliph's army. He repeated the number and paused: "One thousand! "One thousand! and and nine hundred! nine hundred! and and fifty!" fifty!" he said, unruly white hairs on his chubby cheeks quivering as he looked around the room. he said, unruly white hairs on his chubby cheeks quivering as he looked around the room. "Can you imagine?" "Can you imagine?" he asked, before repeating the number once again, seemingly proud of Hossein's ability to exact revenge on an unimaginable scale. he asked, before repeating the number once again, seemingly proud of Hossein's ability to exact revenge on an unimaginable scale.

But the man in the necktie could not, apparently, imagine it. He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. "If you should try to cut flower flower stems with the swing of a sword," he said, "you would fall to the ground exhausted well before you'd even cut a hundred." I nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "One thousand nine hundred and fifty men, indeed!" he snorted in my ear. The rest of the audience looked at Haj-Agha in awe. The story continued: fantastic tales of the absolute goodness of Hossein, the absolute justice of his cause, and the absolute cruelty and absolute wickedness of his enemies, the enemies of Islam. The mullah's tone changed as he spoke of Hossein's suffering, of his men's suffering. "The thirst, my poor Imam Hossein's stems with the swing of a sword," he said, "you would fall to the ground exhausted well before you'd even cut a hundred." I nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "One thousand nine hundred and fifty men, indeed!" he snorted in my ear. The rest of the audience looked at Haj-Agha in awe. The story continued: fantastic tales of the absolute goodness of Hossein, the absolute justice of his cause, and the absolute cruelty and absolute wickedness of his enemies, the enemies of Islam. The mullah's tone changed as he spoke of Hossein's suffering, of his men's suffering. "The thirst, my poor Imam Hossein's thirst thirst!" he cried. His body started shaking, and then tears started streaming from his eyes. He continued with the story, alternately sobbing gently and then convulsed with grief, his head moving from side to side, his voice straining to tell the world of the injustice of it all.

A man sitting cross-legged in front me, his huge belly covering his ankles, lowered his head into his hands. His shoulders heaved almost imperceptibly, but then, as the mullah shook with grief, he bawled like a baby. He wiped his stubble-covered face repeatedly with his thick fingers, a ma.s.sive silver and agate ring, the sign of a true believer, glistening with his tears. Other men, young, old, burly, and thin, cried too, loudly enough to drown out any sobs and cries from the women's section. Real Shia men do do cry. The gentleman with the tie sitting next to me did not shed tears, but he (as did I) beat his chest with one hand when Haj-Agha's tale ended and a group of men sitting in front of him stood up and began the self-flagellation phase of the evening. Haj-Agha, exhausted from his tour de force, had handed the microphone off with a sigh to a young man who immediately launched into a noheh, the religious song that positively demands physical audience partic.i.p.ation, chest-beating claps providing the percussive beat. cry. The gentleman with the tie sitting next to me did not shed tears, but he (as did I) beat his chest with one hand when Haj-Agha's tale ended and a group of men sitting in front of him stood up and began the self-flagellation phase of the evening. Haj-Agha, exhausted from his tour de force, had handed the microphone off with a sigh to a young man who immediately launched into a noheh, the religious song that positively demands physical audience partic.i.p.ation, chest-beating claps providing the percussive beat.

Noheh singers are more in demand than even Roseh mullahs, and the very best, often handsome young men with stunning voices who could have been pop stars if they had chosen a different career in music or if their love of the Imams was, say, a little more figurative, command fees for a single short performance that can run as high as ten thousand dollars, and of course their CDs sell in the millions. My old college friend Khosro, sitting a few yards away, also tapped his chest, almost subconsciously, in about as distinguished a way as possible, befitting his princely demean