Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East (6 page)

The hostage crisis lasted 444 days, and during this period Iran occupied the American airwaves and “took up much of the nightly network news.” Immediately after the seizure of the embassy, “ABC scheduled a daily late-evening special,
America Held Hostage
, and PBS’s
Mac-Neil/Lehrer Report
ran an unprecedented number of shows on the crisis.”
*
In retaliatory mood fueled by the relentless demonstrations and anti-Americanism on display there, American politics and media contrived a picture of Iran as a country of religious fanatics, terrorists, and lawless Islamists. As was explained to me by Mohsen Sazegara, founder of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps, “If you went to the embassy on every night for the first year of the hostage taking, on every street around the United States Embassy, every night you could see at least forty to fifty thousand people located over there until the morning.” He recalls that “it was like a ceremony; there were even several vendor stations to sell popcorn, tea, and coffee.”

Today, the front walls of the seized American Embassy are divided into panels, each painted with elaborate anti-American images. One panel is painted light blue with large red letters stating, “America Shall Face a Severe Defeat.” On another panel, there are paintings of the American hostages, missiles with “USA” written on them, and American fighter jets. There are slogans all around the building saying, “Down with USA” and one panel that reads, “The United States of America, the great occupier regime, is the most hated state before our nation.” The most imposing panel on the front gate depicts the Statue of Liberty with a skull for a head. This same image is repeated in the form of a brass sculpture inside the compound of the old United States Embassy. Intertwined with the branches of trees along Taleqani Avenue, where the embassy is located, there are pieces of charred black fabric, the remains of burned American flags from the 444-day hostage crisis.

Had Shapour been in Esfahan with me, he probably would have stopped me, but he had grown tired and gone back to the hotel. I removed my camera from my bag and lifted it up to take a picture of the government-sanctioned graffiti. As I was peering through the lens, a body jumped in front of my camera. When I looked up, I did not see police or Revolutionary Guards Corps, as I had suspected. Instead, I saw a young man of about my own age. I thought he was making a childish joke at my expense, and I was annoyed.

He had long black hair, which he tucked behind his ears; the rest hung down to his shoulders. He wore a blue-and-white beanie that concealed the top of his head and he wore a pair of glasses with thick black frames. He was well-dressed, wearing finely pressed khaki pants with a white collared shirt and a blue sweater.

He spoke loudly and firmly to me, as if he was scolding my actions. “Why are you taking a picture of that?”

“Am I not allowed to?” I asked.

“You are allowed to, but please don’t!” I lowered my camera and looked at him with great confusion. I still didn’t understand why he cared.

“Where are you from?” he demanded to know.

“I’m from America,” I told him.

He waited for a moment and walked closer to me. “You must not take pictures of these things. This does not represent the Iranian people! We don’t want you to show these pictures to people in America so they will think this is us. We love the USA. If you look around and you talk to people, you will not see that we hate America. You will see the opposite. We listen to American music; we get our news from Radio Israel and Voice of America. The government puts these stupid signs here, this is not us. Ask anybody, they will tell you this.”

His name was Omid and I asked him if he would be offended if I took a picture to remember this conversation. In Iran, I couldn’t walk around with a computer and had to be careful even about taking notes because I was not authorized to be a journalist. The best way for me to remember things was by capturing particular scenes and memories on camera.

“You can take the picture, but please explain to people that this is the government and not the people,” he reminded me.

I reassured him and extended my hand to formalize my promise, “I will.”

Omid invited me to take a walk through the Esfahan bazaar with him. The bazaar reminded me of an intricate labyrinth. The smells in the bazaar changed with each corner I turned. One moment the aroma of Persian tea overwhelmed me, yet just a few paces in another direction the foul stench of hanging meat usurped that delicious spicy mint smell. As I strolled through this labyrinth of shops, I saw just about every type of Persian jewelry imaginable, stores that sold religious decorations ranging from framed verses of the Quran to pictures of the revered Shi’a Imam Hussein, and what became a repetition of the same types of Persian knickknacks: boxes, chess sets, pen holders, and other wooden objects, each with intricate gold, black, and white checkered designs. Some parts of the bazaar offered more universal goods, such as everyday kitchen supplies, shoes and clothing, and machinery such as Walkmans, tape recorders, and radios.

Omid walked me into a carpet shop that was inhabited by a group of his friends. They were all male and they sat in various positions throughout the carpet store. Some lounged on their sides, while others sat on stacks of carpets. The store was small, and while some carpets were displayed on the wall, most were piled on top of one another. I could smell the dust that had collected in this store; it was clear that business was not good. Three of us sat on small black stools and drank Persian tea, placed elegantly on a silver platter. He told them the story of how we had met and introduced me as the American who was taking pictures of the “Down with USA” slogans. The group of young guys gave me an unsparing critique of the regime: They told me they wanted the mullahs out of power and the freedom to choose their own leaders. They wanted access to the outside world and they wanted to be able to have the same social and political opportunities as Americans. It also became clear to me that this group of boys had no interest in international events. Whenever I would mention Israel, Iraq, or Afghanistan, the conversation always seemed to return to a discussion of their domestic troubles.

Omid and his friends were convincing and I heard similar opinions elsewhere in Iran. A few weeks later, I was in the southern city of Shiraz, at the Iranian version of McDonald’s. Right alongside the fast-food menu, I saw pictures of Iran’s president, Iran’s supreme leader, and the Ayatollah Khomeini. As I was taking a picture of those photos, my friend Zahra playfully threw one of her French fries at me and inquired, “Why are you always taking pictures of these things?”

My new friends showed me that there were far more interesting images to capture and that Iran was more complex than the images the media uses to color our understanding of their country. Although it was only for a brief period of time, I was invited inside to witness their passive revolution.

IRAN, 2004/2005

R
rrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnngggggg.

The startling ring of the decades-old phone in my hotel room roused me from a deep sleep. I was just back in Tehran from my trip to Esfahan, Shiraz, Natanz, and Qom and thirteen hours of driving through a snowstorm with Shapour. Given how tired I was, it was surprising that I heard the phone ring at all, much less answered it.

“Jared?” responded a man with a Persian accent. I didn’t recognize the voice, but it definitely didn’t belong to either of my parents.

“Yes?” I muttered, slightly annoyed to have been awakened.

“Cirrus here. We met last week,” the man’s voice responded.

I vaguely remembered the name, but I had given the name and number of my hotel to just about every young person that I met in the hope that some would contact me. When Shapour was with me during the day, I would write my phone number down and give it to people while he was in the bathroom or while he disappeared for a few moments to run an errand. I couldn’t quite remember where I had met this guy, but I guessed he was one of the kids that I met playing soccer in the Park Laleh.

“Hi, Cirrus,” I exclaimed, trying to conceal the fact that I didn’t know who he was.

He spoke with authority. “We would like you to come out with us tonight. We will pick you up in thirty minutes. Can you be ready outside?” he asked.

Without hesitation, I told Cirrus that I would be delighted to go out with them. As I got ready, I was exhilarated to have heard from Cirrus and in the back of my mind, I wondered if a young Iranian alone in New York would have been treated with the same hospitality that I was experiencing. I found the youth in the Middle East to be some of the most approachable people in the entire world and I admired them for it.

I have always found it revelatory that young people in the Middle East, which is the region where supposedly America is most hated, are friendlier, more open and welcoming, and more interested in engaging in conversation than their counterparts in Europe. This is particularly the case with Iran, where as an American, I felt more comfortable among the population than I did in my two years in England. Unfortunately, the strains and confrontations of the past twenty-six years have shaped the way many in the West, including the media, view the Iranian people. I knew when I returned from Iran people would ask me, “What is it like to be Jewish there?” or “What is it like to be American there?” I couldn’t wait to let them know how warmly I was embraced by most Iranians I met.

I wondered what Cirrus could have possibly meant by “going out.” This was an Islamic republic, after all. Alcohol was banned, nightclubs didn’t exist, there were no bars, and the morals police had no other pastime than keeping young people from having fun. What could we possibly do?

It was New Year’s Eve, and I was happy that I wouldn’t be spending the night channel surfing between CNN and BBC and watching the ball drop in New York, where I’d otherwise be, drinking champagne at a bar or club with my friends and ringing in 2005 in style. I’d already spent one New Year’s alone in a strange country: At the end of 2002, I spent New Year’s Eve in Burundi—which was in the midst of a civil war that had already claimed nine hundred thousand lives—and the following day in Rwanda, which was mired in its own bloody conflict with neighboring Congo. Needless to say, that wasn’t quite my best New Year’s memory, and I’d made a promise to myself never to relive that experience. And now here I was in the Islamic Republic of Iran, not a country known for its raucous celebrations.

My night out with these new Iranian acquaintances, however, was not to be about celebrating the New Year. The Iranian year is based on the old Zoroastrian calendar, which predates both the advent of Islam and the transformation of Iran to an Islamic state. In conjunction with this calendar, Iranians celebrate their new year in March so as to coincide with the spring equinox. Because the ancient symbol of Zoroastrianism was the burning flame, hoards of Iranians flood the streets annually and celebrate the new year by jumping over fires. These celebrations are an annual worry for the regime, as the number of Iranian people taking to the streets exceeds its capacity to maintain control.

U
nclear about what
the night had in store for me, I really had but one worry, that the hotel receptionist would tell my intelligence stalkers that I was going out in the evening. In Iran, this was a legitimate concern to have. The intelligence services are among the most sophisticated and far-reaching in the world. Iranian intelligence has agents in universities, hotels, and every other public venue one could imagine. For all I knew, the receptionist had been placed there just for the duration of my stay.

Tonight, I would be testing my tentative friendship with the evening receptionist, whom I’d gotten to know over the previous week. Small talk—“How do you find Iran?” and “I find it quite nice”—had evolved into substantive discussions about how badly he wanted to study abroad. It didn’t matter to him where he studied, as long as it was not in Iran. He explained that he was applying to universities in Europe and asked if I would be willing to assist him in writing his essays and his application. This was a request that I gladly accepted.

He was a slender guy, with a peach-fuzz mustache and slicked-back hair drenched in gel. He was always in uniform: a white shirt, dress pants, and a black tie. Dangling from his shirt pocket was a name tag that read “Nezam.” He smiled a lot and had a studious look about him. He was a very serious person, but every so often our conversations would turn into more playful discussions that usually involved him asking me what I thought of Iranian girls, and me responding with a diplomatic answer. I wanted to trust him, but I couldn’t. I had to be suspicious of everybody. However, with time this trust would develop and Nezam would become one of the most important people I met in Iran.

While I never asked him to do so, Nezam and I had an implicit understanding that he would not reveal my secret evening escapades. We never discussed exactly what I was doing, but I think he knew. At later dates, friends of mine would come to the hotel for lunch or wait for me in the lobby and I only imagine he spoke to them while they waited for me to come down from my third-floor room. I could tell from his eyes, the subtle nods he gave me as I walked out the door, or the quiet laughter from his mouth when I would come home at four
A.M
. half in the bag that he knew I was having fun. He was glad I was skirting authority and seeing
his
Iran. We were brothers in defiance; Nezam was my ally. He could easily have gotten me arrested, tipped off intelligence services, or even threatened me for a bribe. But he never asked for anything except for me to listen to his story and work with him to achieve his dream of studying abroad. It was not unusual for me to speak to some of his friends on the phone when I passed through the lobby or to talk to others who had stopped by to seek my advice. I began to feel like a college counselor and discovered the reasons behind the massive “brain drain” phenomenon in the Islamic Republic.

Many young Iranians want to leave their homes and seek opportunities outside of the country. The lack of opportunity for upward mobility, the autocratic nature of the regime, and the dire economy have all contributed to the brain drain. If you ask Iranians what they want to do after their education, their first response is rarely “become a doctor,” “become a lawyer,” or “become a teacher.” Instead, they are far more likely to say, “I want to get out of Iran.” This collective wanderlust is not always a reflection of the feelings young Iranians have about Iran as such; rather, it is a statement that the country these young people love so much has nothing to offer them. Some youth will literally sit in front of Voice of America on their satellite televisions all day so as to learn or perfect their English. They spend countless hours on the Internet learning various skills—ranging from fashion to real estate—in the hope that one will yield a job opportunity.

I truly valued my relationship with Nezam and owe the comfort I experienced in the evenings to his unspoken trust. I would like to think that I reciprocated, but the value of what I did for him cannot be compared to the risks he took by protecting me and the loyalty he demonstrated by keeping my secret. When I was in Tehran, we sat down almost daily to talk about his hopes of getting an education outside of Iran. He had been studying engineering at the Polytechnic University in Tehran, yet he offered little indication that he would be rewarded for his hard work. I asked him once, “Why don’t you want to stay here after you graduate from university?”

He looked at me and said, “I don’t want to work for the mullahs.” Unwilling to commit their futures to the clerical establishment, students find only grim opportunities for a real future in Iran. Some will join underground opposition, while others will go abroad; the vast majority, however, will end up in jobs that they are both overqualified for and uninterested in taking.

The Iranian economy is not conducive to job creation. It is structured as a state-run society and unemployment is rampant, with many experts estimating that close to 40 percent of the population is unemployed. While the government tries to argue that unemployment is a mere 13 percent, the young people who know the reality of the dearth of opportunities see through these attempts to mask the country’s economic troubles with faulty statistics.

It is difficult to imagine how the country with the world’s second-largest oil reserves, 10 percent of the world’s oil, and the second biggest natural gas reserve can experience such economic troubles. The regime in Iran has a virtual monopoly on all forms of business and squanders most of the country’s resources, enriching the kleptocrats in the ruling elite. Nezam, along with others I met, believed that to be successful in Iran meant that one had to basically sell out to the clerical establishment. Nezam also emphasized that “in Iran, this is not a real education. We learn the way the mullahs want us to learn. Why do we have to learn their way?” The history books are distorted and the curriculum is subjectively infiltrated with ideological prescriptions. Nezam, in common with many others, cares nothing about the ideology of the Islamic Revolution; he, and they, simply want to learn and don’t feel as though they can do it in Iran. Nezam once asked me, “What happens one day if this regime is not here anymore? We will have learned the wrong things and we will not be prepared for opportunities in Iran after the mullahs have left.”

I
n what would become
my usual signal, I gave Nezam a smile and nod and walked outside to wait for Cirrus. In the passenger seat of Cirrus’s Volkswagen was his friend Pedram. Pedram was in his early twenties, had a goatee, and wore glasses. His hair was straight and long, dangling over his ears. He was dressed very smartly, wearing a button-down blue shirt and a gray blazer. Sitting next to me in the backseat were two large white jugs, several bags of chips, two decks of playing cards, a couple of packs of cigarettes, and several jars of sour cream dip.

“Cirrus, what is all of this for?” I asked.

“No more sitting in your hotel at night,” he said, laughing. He then repeated his quip in Farsi, and Pedram laughed.

“Do you drink?” Cirrus asked.

It suddenly became clear to me that the two giant white jugs sitting next to me were filled with illegal alcohol. I’m not generally a big drinker, but who could resist the opportunity to booze it up when the mullahs weren’t looking?

The whole experience was beginning to remind me of my teenage years. Before we could buy alcohol legally, my friends and I would drink just about anything for the indulgence of a little bit of youthful insubordination. The foul taste of the alcohol in the white jugs would prove reminiscent of the concoctions we used to contrive from whatever we could smuggle from our parents’ liquor cabinets. The only difference here—and it wasn’t a small one—was the stakes. In high school, getting caught drinking will get most kids grounded. In Iran, getting caught with alcohol will almost certainly result in a lashing for the offender.

When I inquired about where he and his friends bought their alcohol, Cirrus told me that they used to call an illegal alcohol distributor, who would come over on a moped and deliver the goods. Cirrus and Pedram, however, had the fortunate connection of a friend in Tehran who prepared alcohol in his bathtub and sink, at least when his parents, with whom he lived, were away on vacation. Even though I drank the stuff, I would be lying if I didn’t say I found it pretty rough and potent. Iranian moonshine.

All things considered, the setting seemed somehow familiar, and I found myself increasingly comfortable. As he drove, Cirrus talked about his romantic dilemma: He had been dating one girl for two years, but she was very conservative and pressuring him to get married, which Cirrus was not at all prepared to do, telling me he “still wanted to have my fun.” He sounded like a typical American college student having a candid chat with a friend. They loved hearing stories about what American nightlife was like and I did my best to accommodate them with descriptions. While they thought the big clubs, fancy lounges, and lively bars that I spoke of sounded exciting, I was drawn to and excited about the prospect of underground secret parties in Iran. I guess we all want to experience what is unfamiliar to us.

P
edram also had a romantic dilemma.
Unlike Cirrus, who had met his girlfriend in school, Pedram’s love had developed over an Internet social network called Orkut. He described an Internet courtship that involved flirtatious messages, postings on each other’s profiles, and eventually an arrangement to meet. “Jared, it was love at first sight,” he told me. If the Internet has become a newly acceptable way for people to meet in America—JDate, Friendster, MySpace, and other sites—it did not surprise me that in a restricted and censored society, youth would look to digital connections as a replacement for clubs and bars.