Chapter EIGHT

The End of the Persian Empire

The fall of Mossadeq had a deep, negative and tragic effect on Iranian society in general and on the supporters of Mossadeq in particular. A number of my friends totally withdrew from politics and became fanatically religious. Others who were already religious and had not previously drunk alcohol, became heavy drinkers. In fact one friend in particular died a few years later from a heart attack directly related to his alcohol consumption. The Iranian people, both the ordinary man in the street and intellectuals, seemed shocked and submerged themselves within their own home and country. They were trying to escape from reality - from what had happened - or perhaps they were looking for some kind of identity or amusement, and often for a selfish, limited, materialistic and individualistic end. Fear, insecurity, mistrust, punitive attitudes and hostility to each other, and lack of responsibility all became more common. I remember how people who had once offered their valuables and money to the Mossadeq cause lost their communal and human feelings and became self-centred and indifferent towards social matters. They were building psychological, social and material walls around themselves. The nation had lost its pride, personality and identity. It seemed bewildered by the invading and aggressive forces of the Shah and his Western backers. American military, political and economic influence was the most obvious social phenomenon after Mossadeq's fall.
After finishing my second year at university, I became translatorinterpreter for the American military advisers who had offices and headquarters all over Azerbaijan and Iran. I was employed by Tabriz headquarters and would accompany officers and sergeants to the cities of Ardabil, Rasht, Maragheh, Miyandoab, Mahabad, Urmiyeh and sometimes to the borders between the Soviet Union and Iran. The purpose of the United States' presence in the Third World countries in general and Iran in particular was essentially to monitor or possibly eliminate any seriously democratic movement. This, however, was camouflaged by its provision of aid in military, educational and health spheres. American officers told me over and over again that they had come to Iran to save Iranians from Communism!
I used to get up very early in the morning in order to arrive at the American Army headquarters by 7 a.m. Sometimes I walked there, which took half an hour. The headquarters were situated in the city centre, next to Pahlavi Street, the main street in Tabriz. In winter, when the streets of Tabriz were usually covered by deep snow, travelling on foot was difficult and I had to take a shared taxi which at that time would cost only the equivalent of 20 pence.
All Americans, regardless of their rank, travelled from their lodgings to their headquarters in specially heated jeeps and trucks. Most of them drove their own vehicles, except when they went from one city to another; then Iranian military drivers would be engaged. I remember one particular occasion when we were going from Tabriz to Maragheh. The American officer was called Captain Fur and the driver was an Iranian army sergeant called Mr Akbari. We had not travelled more than a few miles beyond Tabriz when Captain Fur started swearing and wanted me to tell Mr Akbari that his feet were smelling. I refused to translate Captain Fur's remark. Captain Fur then lost his temper and became insistent that I tell Mr Akbari that his feet were smelly. Still I could not. I felt embarrassed to say this to Mr Akbari, who was very polite and a kind person. The captain still insisted and we eventually began to quarrel. Finally, Mr Akbari realised what was happening. He stopped the car in the middle of a valley surrounded by mountains, got out, walked round to Captain Fur's side of the vehicle and opened the door, saying, "Tush Ashaya! (Get down!)". As soon as Captain Fur got out of the car Mr Akbari grabbed him by his collar and pushed him against the car. He was gripping the captain so tightly that the captain's face turned red. Mr Akbari looked into his eyes and said, "This is my motherland. You have come from thousands of miles dictating, insulting and swearing at me. I receive 180 tomans a month and you receive 16,000 tomans a month. You live in the best houses and eat the best foods, but I live with my wife and four children in poor conditions. You can take a bath or shower every day, but I can only afford to go to the public bath-house once a fortnight. You can change your clothes and uniform every day, but I have only one uniform which I have to wear throughout the year. We treat you kindly because we regard you 8S guests, but you treat us like dirt - in our own motherland." Then Mr Akbari became emotional and pushed Captain Fur onto the road.
The captain, understanding a few Azerbaijani words and guessing from Mr Akbari's reaction what he meant, swore and, insultingly, replied, "We have come here to look after you and save you from Communism." But here I had to interfere and translate. Mr Akbari was furious. Grabbing the captain again, he said, "Who asked you to come and save me from Communism? You have not come to save me. You have come to save your own interests and the Shah's. I do not want you to save me. I can look after myself well enough. You are ignorant of our feelings and behave so arrogantly. My feet may smell (in fact I wash them every day) but your mind stinks and whenever you open your mouth you utter 'shit' and many swear words and insults. "
Captain Fur was shaken and had turned pale. I intervened and tried to stop Mr Akbari from going too far. I took them both to a tea-house across the road, where we had tea. Both men sat there and said nothing. Mr Akbari was still upset and I did not think he was fit to drive. We sat for two hours and had lunch before we left. Mr Akbari insisted that he should pay for the lunch! The captain seemed pleased.
We set off again and arrived in Maragheh before sunset. During the rest of the journey we all remained silent, but I was worried about the consequences of the quarrel. Captain Fur could do anything against Mr Akbari, and could even have him sentenced to imprisonment or death through the Iranian generals, who usually treated these American officers as their masters and followed their instructions. Furthermore, the American army advisers had a say in the promotion of these Iranian officers; they also selected officers to go to the United States to attend military courses.
When we arrived at Maragheh Captain Fur and I stayed overnight at the Officers' Club. The following day he asked for Mr Akbari and I told him that he had been sent back to Tabriz and that we would have another driver for our return journey to Tabriz. I also advised the captain not to mention the event to General Mir Jahangiri, or if he did that he ought to tell the whole story. We returned to Tabriz after a week, but I never saw Mr Akbari again in the army!
Captain Fur became increasingly ill-tempered and I did not really like working in his office. However, I liked working with him in the Quartermaster's section (which dealt with the army's food, supplies and kitchens). We used to visit the soldiers' kitchens and dining-rooms to examine their food and also checked whether they had the proper clothing for winter and summer. I remember once we called very early in the morning at an army barracks in Tabriz and saw the soldiers getting up and preparing for their daily exercise. I asked one of the soldiers what he had eaten for his breakfast. He answered, "I had my breakfast last night." I asked him what he had had the previous night for his breakfast, to which he answered, "I had walnuts and dates and I have sent my tea and sugar to my mother in the village. "
Captain Fur was very critical of the kitchen utensils and food in the army. Once, I remember, we were visiting Mahabad (the capital of Kurdistan, Iran), which is a day's journey from Tabriz. We arrived at night and stayed at the Officers' Club. The following morning we toured the army kitchens and finished by midday. Captain Fur wanted to see General Varahram, who was from Azerbaijan and the son of a famous landlord. General Varahram refused to see the captain that day and his secretary arranged a meeting for the following day, which annoyed the captain, who was accustomed to walking into the offices of other generals without a prior appointment.
Captain Fur and I went to see General Varahram on the following day, as arranged. His office was a large, well-furnished room and General Varahram sat behind a huge desk and held a baton in his hand. He received the captain very coldly, but asked me, in Azerbaijani, to sit next to him. He told Captain Fur to sit by the door and then asked me what he had come for. Captain Fur started to explain how the food and the kitchen facilities were of a poor standard and how the army needed good facilities. With regard to the soldiers' breakfast, Captain Fur believed that bread and cheese were not enough and that the soldiers needed a cooked breakfast. The general had been listening patiently, but at this point, moving forward in his chair, he turned to me and asked, "What do you usually have for breakfast?" "Bread, cheese and tea; sometimes butter and honey," I answered. "So do I," the general added. "What does America want us to give our soldiers for breakfast?" he asked. Captain Fur began to tell him: "Some kind of cooked food and. . ." The general, however, did not seem to have the patience to listen to Captain Fur's lecture on how his soldiers should be fed. Moving his army baton in his hands, he told Captain Fur, "Go and tell your President and generals what I tell you. If you want me to fight against our common enemy - Russia - then we must have the same facilities that the US army has. Do not assume that I, as General Varahram, regard my blood to be any cheaper than yours. You expect a lot from us without providing means and material. Imagine if a war starts tomorrow between us and Russia. Then I will have to beg Khrushchev to hold back his army and not attack until I have distributed stew to our soldiers from a huge pot which is carried from the barracks to the top of a mountain. After the soldiers have had their stew in this fashion, then allow Khrushchev to start the battle! I believe that either you are kidding us or kidding yourself. Do you think you are going to face Russia with these medieval methods and facilities? Oh, America wants to use us as a meat barrier against Russian guns - I for one do not want to give my blood [life] so cheaply. Go and tell your President and generals that we do not want to be used for an American war against Russia."
Captain Fur's face had turned very pale and all he could say was "Yes, sir." Before we left, General Varahram invited me to his house for the evening meal, which I accepted.
At about six o'clock I went to General Varahram's house, which was modem and apparently newly built. It was autumn and the night air was at the Officers' Club. The following morning we toured the army kitchens and finished by midday. Captain Fur wanted to see General Varahram, who was from Azerbaijan and the son of a famous landlord. General Varahram refused to see the captain that day and his secretary arranged a meeting for the following day, which annoyed the captain, who was accustomed to walking into the offices of other generals without a prior appointment.
Captain Fur and I went to see General Varahram on the following day, as arranged. His office was a large, well-furnished room and General Varahram sat behind a huge desk and held a baton in his hand. He received the captain very coldly, but asked me, in Azerbaijani, to sit next to him. He told Captain Fur to sit by the door and then asked me what he had come for. Captain Fur started to explain how the food and the kitchen facilities were of a poor standard and how the army needed good facilities. With regard to the soldiers' breakfast, Captain Fur believed that bread and cheese were not enough and that the soldiers needed a cooked breakfast. The general had been listening patiently, but at this point, moving forward in his chair, he turned to me and asked, "What do you usually have for breakfast?" "Bread, cheese and tea; sometimes butter and honey," I answered. "So do I," the general added. "What does America want us to give our soldiers for breakfast?" he asked. Captain Fur began to tell him: "Some kind of cooked food and. . ." The general, however, did not seem to have the patience to listen to Captain Fur's lecture on how his soldiers should be fed. Moving his army baton in his hands, he told Captain Fur, "Go and tell your President and generals what I tell you. If you want me to fight against our common enemy - Russia - then we must have the same facilities that the US army has. Do not assume that I, as General Varahram, regard my blood to be any cheaper than yours. You expect a lot from us without providing means and material. Imagine if a war starts tomorrow between us and Russia. Then I will have to beg Khrushchev to hold back his army and not attack until I have distributed stew to our soldiers from a huge pot which is carried from the barracks to the top of a mountain. After the soldiers have had their stew in this fashion, then allow Khrushchev to start the battle! I believe that either you are kidding us or kidding yourself. Do you think you are going to face Russia with these medieval methods and facilities? Oh, America wants to use us as a meat barrier against Russian guns - I for one do not want to give my blood [life] so cheaply. Go and tell your President and generals that we do not want to be used for an American war against Russia."
Captain Fur's face had turned very pale and all he could say was "Yes, sir." Before we left, General Varahram invited me to his house for the evening meal, which I accepted.
At about six o'clock I went to General Varahram's house, which was modem and apparently newly built. It was autumn and the night air was fortune from Persian toilets. Many people drop and lose their gold and jewellery down the toilets. My sisters and mother, for example, lost their gold rings and bracelets. Sometimes, too, people fall into the cesspits. Once, in our neighbourhood, a cloth merchant fell into a cesspit while returning from the bazaar and someone was duly sent for to bring him out. The merchant (while he was half submerged in dirt) asked the man, "How much do you want to get me out?" "Ten tomans, sir." "No thank you. I don't want to come out for ten tomans!" shouted the merchant.
There was deep corruption in the Iranian army, especially among the higher ranks. Blankets, shoes, oil, wheat flour, meat and many other items were sold on the black market and the officers and some sergeants obtained a regular income from this source. Without this their salary, at least in 1958, was not enough for comfortable living. I remember a visit in the autumn of 1959 to Rasht garrison on the Caspian Sea. By this time Captain Fur had been replaced by another officer called Major Gray, who was a much more practical, enthusiastic and friendly person.
When we arrived at the garrison we discovered that the soldiers had not yet been issued with winter clothes. The commander-in-chief was Colonel Pahlavan, a relative of the Shah. We were not able to meet the colonel, but we informed his assistant that the soldiers should have already received these.
I was staying at the Officers' Club and Major Gray with other Americans in the city. During the course of the evening a young officer, who spoke Azerbaijani, was sent by Colonel Pahlavan to meet me. The officer, who was a captain, asked me not to report the division's shortcomings to Tehran. I said, "If you promise to distribute all the winter allowances to the soldiers at once, then I shall ask Major Gray not to report the matter." The following day we left the city for another destination, and never found out if they had kept their promise.
Major Gray was a farmer's son and had worked hard to reach his present rank in the army. Once he told me that other officers looked down on him because he did not attend the same schools, nor did he have a similar social background. But Major Gray was a very fine person who knew how to relate to people. I frequently discussed politics with him: he was a liberalminded person, but regarded my support of Mossadeq as having a Communist ideology - which surprised me. However, since he was honest and frank in his conversation, I deeply respected him and accepted the difference in our views. He also encouraged me to continue my studies. When I said I could not afford to go to the United States he argued that I could combine working with studying as he had done.
My work with American military advisers brought me into contact with many army officers, government officials and American Consulate personnel in Tabriz.
I came to know an American family, Mr and Mrs Walsh. Mr Walsh worked as American Advisor in the Department of Education in Tabriz and also taught English at the university. There was also a Mr Fonset, who worked at the American Consulate. The American Consulate used to hold parties at Christmas and New Year and at other national festivals. Sometimes they invited students to their homes for discussion of different matters, including politics. Once or twice a year the Consulate offered some students a study trip to the United States. The students were selected by means of an English test and an interview. I once took part in the test and was then sent to the capital, Tehran, to have an interview with a person called Mr Miller. I arrived in Tehran and, after some difficulty, found the address. To my surprise it was a church and Mr Miller was a priest, who made me sit in the church while he was attending to other people. When he had finished he came over and sat in front of me and started to que!ltion me about my ideas, beliefs and how I should represent Iran in the United States. Then he started talking about the importance of the Christian faith, saying that all doors would be open to me if I accepted his advice and worked with them. I was taken aback to hear this, and could not understand what the Church had to do with my studies in America. I got up, left for Tabriz and never contemplated taking part in any such scheme again. In the summer of 1959 I left the American army headquarters and decided instead to go to Turkey to study.
While working with the American military advisers as an interpretertranslator I had also taught English to final-year students at Taqi-Zadeh secondary school in Tabriz. The school was newly built and named after an intellectual and diplomat who had played an active role during the Constitutional Revolution and both the Pahlavi shahs' reigns. He had signed the 1933 Petroleum Agreement between Reza Shah's government and Great Britain.
I taught two classes and there were about 40 students in each. Most of the students were between 17 and 18 years of age, although some were the same age or even older than me. This did not trouble me; in fact I felt proud to be able to help them. I was fond of all the students and found that I enjoyed teaching. Dr Kishavarzi, who had taught me chemistry at Firdausi School, was the headmaster. A Mr Ahmadi was the assistant head; he tended to bully these older students, so whenever he called them out of my classes and wanted to talk to them I refused and made the excuse that my class would be disrupted. Consequently I was popular with these students and not so popular with Mr Ahmadi, whom the students did not take seriously.
The students I taught came from different social backgrounds and places. Two or three were sons of big landowners, some were from middle-class families and the rest were from poor or working-class families. Some of the poorer students used to work outside school hours. They were predominantly building workers. One of the students, called Mr Husn-i Khulq, was a hardworking but poor man. His mother, too, worked to support the family. One day I called him to the blackboard and asked him to translate some sentences from Persian into English. He was very reluctant to come forward and I assumed that this was because he had not prepared his homework. However, when he eventually came to the blackboard I noticed that his trousers were torn and his shoes had holes in them. He appeared to be selfconscious and embarrassed and after he had translated one sentence I asked him to sit down. After class, he came and talked to me about his personal life and I found it rather distressing.
Most of the students did not have proper winter coats. A Mr Oirakhshani, also in my class, would come to school during the cold winter wearing only a shirt and a thin jacket. His face would turn blue and his intelligent eyes were sunken behind his glasses. I could not bear to look at him in the street; I felt ashamed and sad. Once I talked to him and asked if his parents were alive. He told me, "My parents live in Maragheh city. I live with my brother in Tabriz." I then asked what his brother did. He said: "My brother is in prison on political charges." When I asked Mr Dirakhshani how he and his brother's family managed, he said, "My parents send bread and other things or money from Maragheh." I did not see Mr Oirakhshani again, but I later heard that after he had left school he studied medicine and worked outside Tabriz.
In our discussion group at Tabriz University many students had spoken in favour of Mossadeq and criticised the CIA for its role in bringing down Mossadeq. By 1959, when I was preparing to leave Iran for Istanbul, Mossadeq was seen as the living symbol of the nationalist movement in Iran. He remained so for many people despite being imprisoned and held in solitary confinement for three years and thereafter remaining a prisoner at his residence in Ahmad-Abad, a village near Tehran, until the last days of his life. He died on 5 March 1967. The governments after the 28th Mordad coup were very unpopular. The United States became anxious to bring a Mossadeqist government back into power and approached Mr Allah-yar Saleh, who had been Mossadeq's Ambassador in Washington.
A month or so (about September 1959) before I left for Istanbul I paid a visit to Mr Allah-yar Saleh in his house near the University of Tehran. We sat together in his front room and talked about political life in Iran and American policy towards the recent developments. Allah-yar Saleh said, "The Americans invited me and suggested that I form a government. They were prepared to support me to gain the premiership, but with some conditions. The first one was that Iran should build up her army and buy the arms that American advisers recommended. Since I did not accept this and said that Iran, as an independent nation, must decide for itself what it needs for defence, the Americans ceased their negotiations with me."

I left Iran for Turkey by land. Travelling by bus from Tabriz I passed the cities of Marand, Khoy and Maku and arrived at Bazargan, a customs post at the north-west of Iran and south-east of Turkey.
Leaving Tabriz and my family (mother, father, sisters and brothers) and stepping into an unknown land made me dizzy - and I could not think of anything but watching aimlessly the people in the streets, villages and fields. I had not wanted to say goodbye to my people and homeland. The magnificent sight of the Ararat mountain (where, it is said, Noah's Ark once rested) with white snow on its summit reminded me of Sabalan and Talish mountains near Ardabil - the land of Babak. I felt at peace with myself. I stayed at Bazargan overnight: if buses arrived in the latE: afternoon or evening at Bazargan they had to wait until the following morning as the custom and passport offices are closed. When the offices did eventually open, passing through customs was a tiring process and, if you happened to have interests in politics, much heartache and anxiety was involved. This sort of worry makes travelling unpleasant. It is a well-known saying that one becomes happy twice in Iran: once after leaving Iran and again on reentering the country. (In either case you do not know whether or not you will be arrested by the police.)
After two days and one night I arrived in Istanbul. There was a good atmosphere on the bus. The passengers were friendly and we shared our joys and griefs. When we arrived in Istanbul some people left for Europe and the rest stayed put.
My first two nights, spent in a hotel seemed endless to me. Afterwards, my Azerbaijani friends found me a room with a family. My landlady was a Jewish lady, aged about 40 with a daughter of ten or twelve years old. Madam Rose had lost her husband a year or so before; he had died after a gas explosion while working in a factory. She lived in a working-class area called Dolap-Dara. Once I was late returning to the house, and arrived to find her sitting in the hall waiting anxiously. I apologised and promised never to be late again. In fact I liked her being concerned about my life and my whereabouts.
A few weeks passed. One night I heard someone crying in the next room to mine. I could not sleep and got up and went to find out what had happened. I saw Madam Rose sitting at the window and her daughter asleep. I asked the reason for her crying but she did not want to tell me. The following day I insisted that she tell me the reason for her crying. She said that at the end of every month she became anxious and worried about how to pay the rent. "This worry has been with me day and night since my husband died. I work part-time and my wage is enough only for bread and butter and sometimes I buy meat and cheese." I asked her how much she paid as rent. "Three hundred Turkish lira," she said. "You give 150 for your room and I am still 150 lira short. I wrote to my father, telling him the whole story. To my delight, he advised me to pay 300 lira for my rent and also suggested that I ought to buy food and have a meal with them instead of eating out. This created a happy family atmosphere.
My parents and sisters could not write letters to me. They had to ask my brothers or their children to write for them. Ibrahim usually wrote for my parents. In their first letter to Istanbul my parents had stressed two points: that I should pray five times a day and mix with the "right kind" of people. The rest of the letter was about how they would send me money and how much they missed me at meal times. My mother said, "Gholam-Reza, I wish I could write and express my feelings myself. When I cook nice meals I wish you were here. I cannot bear going to your study because I miss you. Sometimes I wonder whether it was necessary for you to go abroad. Then I tell myself: 'I should be patient. Perhaps my child's success and future depends on this trip.' The only thing I wish is that God may protect you from troubles in a strange land. That is all I can wish. . ."
Most of the letters written by Ibrahim referred briefly to my parents and the rest would be about business: the price of carpets; the state of the market; how they had managed the money that I had left with them; what they had done about the small area of land that I had bought at Taza-Kand (a village near Khusraw-Shah, about 100 kilometres from Tabriz) and what was happening at the old factory. . . I found it rather disturbing both to study and have to think about the financial news from Iran!
I stayed in Istanbul for nine months. Then, just before the summer of 1960 (on 27 May) General Gursel engineered a coup d'etat and all the universities in Turkey were closed. Accordingly, I left Istanbul for Tabriz.
My family were delighted to see me, especially my mother and Humai. But my father began to worry more about the ideas that I now expressed openly. Until the military coup, Turkey had been a much more open society than Iran. There were many books in Istanbul University which I had not seen before. Although I found the people and students in Turkey less politically conscious than in Iran, this access to political literature was something special for Iranian students.
I asked my father if I could go to Britain to collect material for my studies. He reluctantly agreed, and gave me money both for travelling and my living expenses in London. I went to the British Council in Tabriz and asked the director, a Mr Popplestone, for some guidance and help in finding libraries and colleges in London. During our conversation he remarked that my pronunciation of English was not correct. In answer to this I asked him, "How long have you been in Tabriz, sir?" "Two and a half years," he answered. “Why do not you speak with me Azerbaijani, sir?” He seemed surprised by my question and quickly changed the subject. However, Mr Popplestone was helpful. He gave me a letter of introduction for the British Council in London.
When I arrived at London's Victoria Station it was evening. A gentleman from the British Council met me and took me by taxi to a hotel in South Kensington. I did not have any cash on me and asked the driver if he could cash a traveller's cheque for me. The gentleman from the British Council said that I should change it in a bank, so he lent me some cash. Meanwhile, I asked the taxi driver if he knew Hamlet (assuming that everybody in Britain must have read Hamlet). "I don't know that chap," he answered.
The bedroom at my hotel was so beautiful and the bed was so comfortable that I could not sleep. Instead I had a bath and then sat and looked out of the window, which faced Hyde Park. At breakfast a lady brought a bowl full of cereal, which to me looked like crumbled lavash. I said to myself that the women in London must be extremely clever and hard-working, getting up so early in the morning to cook lavash and prepare all this breakfast. Later, I discovered that the "crumbled lavash" was called cornflakes and came in packets!
I was accepted at King's College, London, to attend a postgraduate course and also work on William Blake. I found a room at Lancaster Gate and was eager to learn how to cook. One Saturday I decided to do some shopping and went to the greengrocer's near my house. I asked a lady in the shop for sparrows (I meant sprouts, which we do not have in Tabriz). The lady did not know what I wanted. She asked me kindly if I could show her what it was I wanted. When I pointed to the sprouts she could not help laughing.
I regularly received letters from my parents, but none from Izzat and Humai. Neither they nor their children could write. My mother sent me home-made halva and parcels of dried fruit. She could express her feelings and affection better in this way than by telling Ibrahim to put them into words in a letter. Whenever my mother was able, she would sit with Farideh and Shafiqeh (my sister Batul's daughters) and ask them to write a letter for her. I enjoyed these letters immensely: they told of what my sisters were doing and who had recently had a child; how she enjoyed the arrival of a new baby and the visits from the older grandchildren. In spring she would describe the flowers and blossoms in our garden, and in summer she would write and tell me about how much the fruit trees had produced and promise to keep some of the pears, grapes, apples and pistachio nuts for me. At the end of the letter Farideh and Shafiqeh often added - without my mother knowing - "Uncle, please write to our parents and tell them to keep us in secondary school. We want to continue our studies. . ."
My father often wanted me to send him special medicine and ointment to rub on his rheumatic arms and legs. He did not understand when I wrote and explained that chemists would not give the medicine without a doctor's prescription. To keep him happy I used to send some vitamin tablets and ointment which I could buy across the counter without a doctor's prescription.
By 1961 opposition to the Shah was growing stronger in Iran. The elections were rigged and political parties and trade unions were not recognised. Suppression and the imprisonment of intellectuals still continued. The National Movement and democratic movements, on the other hand, opposed and criticised all these social and political conditions.
The United States, under President Kennedy, was pressing the Shah to make some reforms. The Shah's "White Revolution" referendum of 1963, Dr Ali Amini's premiership (in 1962), and the half-hearted freedom for Mossadeqists to hold a political rally all came about because of this American pressure. The British government, traditional supporters of the big landowners in Iran, did not seem to support the pro-American government of Dr Amini, which intended to carry out land and other reforms.
When, in 1962, Dr Amini stopped over in London on his way to the United States a protest demonstration was organised by Iranian students in front of the Iranian Embassy, in which I participated. I found the police unusually cooperative and sympathetic with the demonstrators. But I did not understand the reason at the time.
The Iranian students knew what was going on in Iran through a number of different channels. The Shah's regime also knew all details of the students' activities, through SA V AK informers.
In 1962, the teachers in Iran came out on strike. At a rally in Tehran one of the leading teachers, Dr Khan Ali, was shot dead by the Shah's army in front of the Majlis. In London we held meetings and protests against Khan Ali's death. Being former teachers, Mr Salim from the University of Tabriz and I were among a group invited to speak about the position of teachers in Iran. I talked about my experiences in Tabriz schools. The following day we went to the Iranian Consulate in Kensington High Street and presented our protest resolution to Mr Ardashir Zahedi, the Iranian Ambassador and also the Shah's son-in-law and son of General Zahedi, who had led the coup in 1953. As we were leaving the Consulate, reporters from the BBC were waiting. I was the first person that the reporters accosted and was showered with questions: "Why do you protest? Which part of Iran do you come from?" When I said that I came from Azerbaijan, the reporter immediately asked, "Are you a Communist then?" "Nonsense. My being Azerbaijani does not mean I am a Communist," I answered. Nevertheless, this interview and the protest rally were enough evidence for the SA V AK to arrest me and others when we next returned to Iran.
My father died in the summer of 1963 and I could neither afford to nor dared to go home for my father's funeral. By this time I was running short of money. The Iranian government did not help me, nor did I want to ask my family to send me more money. Those who were pro-Shah or worked for the government received money. I had to work during the Christmas and summer holidays at Sainsbury's supermarket, and at a restaurant. At Sainsbury's I worked as a porter in the stockroom. All kinds of goods were brought by lorry and delivered through a trap door opening to the side street. Some of the cartons, especially those containing raisins, dates and other dried fruits which came in tin boxes, were very heavy. You had to catch them quickly and then pass them on to other workers. An Englishman called Fred and an Irishman called John worked with me. I remember one day I had a bad cold and my arms were not strong enough to catch the heavy boxes and I fell back. Fred lifted me up and said, "Son you seem unwell. You go upstairs and rest in the tea-room. I shall do your job." I did not want to bother him, but he insisted that I should rest. I went upstairs and rested until 3 p.m., and then came back to resume my work; but Fred still would not let me. He told me I should rest all that day. I felt that Fred was the nearest person to me in London and in fact he taught me a valuable lesson. This incident reminded me of my father's factory in Tabriz and of his friendship with Jabbar.
In October 1963 I moved to Edinburgh, to do a PhD on William Blake in the Department of English. Two things seemed to surprise my friends and my teachers at King's College. One was my deep interest in William Blake; the other was why I chose Scotland in which to study for a PhD. They gave me the impression that Scotland was at the North Pole and that it would take me several days and nights to reach there.
Nevertheless, when I boarded the Edinburgh coach the warmth of the company soon made me feel at home. A lady who was returning home to Edinburgh with her grandchildren offered me coffee and sandwiches; I had never experienced such hospitality in England. The driver was full of jokes. Feeling the weight of my suitcase, he commented that there must be a dead body in it - or gold! But it was full of all my books. To my surprise, we arrived in Edinburgh the following morning.
Edinburgh was bathed in bright -autumn sunshine. It struck me as being the most beautiful city in Europe. The grandmother in the coach did not let me go: "Today is Sunday and everywhere is closed. Come with us and have a meal and then go to your lodgings." I accepted her kind invitation and accompanied her to her house. Her daughters were bus conductresses and I did not s_e her husband; perhaps he was dead and I did not ask. I enjoyed my stay and having lunch with her family. I really felt at home. Afterwards I went to my lodgings and met Mrs White, my landlady. I was met with a fierce list of rules. When I saw my room in the attic with a window facing the sky my heart sank and I wished I had stayed with the Scottish grandmother. I preferred her small kitchen to my isolated room at the top of the building.
Until the university had arranged a postgraduate grant for me I had to work at Christmas and other holidays. I got a job that first Christmas at Edinburgh's Waverley Station. I remember that it was a cold Christmas. The other students and I had to unload the mail bags from one train and distribute them among other trains. We worked during the night and early morning. One night in particular was exceptionally cold and the wind was cutting our faces and hands like a sword. One of the railwaymen came over to us and invited us downstairs to have tea and sandwiches. "Don't worry," he told us, "when the train arrives we'll all come out and finish the job together." We went downstairs and had plenty of hot tea and sandwiches. We chatted, told jokes and laughed. This was repeated on the following nights. I felt as though I was among the workers in my father's factory. This affection from a Scottish railwayman, who came from Glasgow, built a bridge in my heart between the people of Tabriz and Scotland. Scotland did
not seem like the North Pole any longer, but next to my motherland Azerbaijan. In fact the people of Scotland and Azerbaijan have much in common: most important of all are their kind hearts, poetry, music, highlands and spring waters.
When I visited Baku in Soviet Azerbaijan in 1987 I presented a gift from Scotland to the museum of Uzeir Hajibeiov (1885-1948), the celebrated composer and the founder of the Azerbaijani operatic art. His opera Leili and Majnun was first staged in 1908 and was based on a poem of the same name written in Azerbaijani by the great 16th-century Azerbaijani poet Muhammad Fuzuli, who was born in Karbala (Iraq) in 1498. He wrote in three languages - Azerbaijani, Arabic and Persian - and used all the genres and artistic forms known in the Islamic literature of his time. Fuzuli lived in constant need, as we know from his numerous complaints against the times he lived in, which brought nothing but ruin, chaos and destitution. He died of cholera in Karbala in 1556. The following lines are the translation of some lines taken from his Leili and Majnun. Leili is speaking to a lamp, but hesitates to impart to it all of her sad history:

O thou whose eyes are closed and heart is worn
Whose feet are bound, whose spirit is forlorn,
Let us together sigh, together weep;
Disclose to me the secret that so deep
Within thy heart thou keepest hid from all.
Why moanest thou, why dost thou softly call
As if thou wert a wounded nightingale?
Why is thy flame screened by a smoky veil?
Why burn est thou with such intensity?
What spark hath set thee blazing? - Answer me! . . .
But, 0, forever loyal 'twill remain
To him I love. . . o lamp, they'll never wrest
My secret from me. Always in my breast
I'll keep it locked. . . until the day I die
Their threats and their abuse will I defy!
And e'en to thee my tale I'll not impart
Lest that it break thy simple, aching heart. . .

The political atmosphere in Iran was a little better in 1964 than 1963, so I went to Iran and my wife stayed with her parents in London. (I had met my wife at King's College, London in 1960 and we became friends. We married in Edinburgh in 1964.) After having been away from home for four years, during which time I had little communication with my mother, Humai and my sisters, my return to Iran had special meaning for me. I wanted to rediscover Iran and especially Azerbaijan. I wanted to rediscover the Tabriz streets, the bazaars and the places and people that I had known in my childhood - the cheshmas, karvan-sarais and chai-khaneh (tea-house), the beetroot and ice-cream seller (to find out if he was still alive), my schools, my father's factory and his workers.
The day after I arrived in Tabriz I visited Humai and Izzat. I found them both well and that their sons had married. Majid and his wife lived two streets away, but Hamid and his wife lived with Humai and Izzat. They had built a room on top of the roof where we used to sleep in summer. Humai was very happy to see me. She kept smiling and looking at me. She asked only one question: "Have you become a doctor in order to open a clinic and treat the people?" "Not yet," I answered. "But I am not studying to be a medical doctor," I added. She did not say anything but each time I visited Iran in later years she encouraged me to return to Tabriz and treat her painful feet. "Other doctors cannot treat me. You should come back and treat me yourself," she said to me when I last returned to Iran, in 1982.
Visiting people and places I knew well and, in particular, talking to people in my mother tongue was relaxing, delightful and made me feel free inside. I called to see some of my father's former workers who now worked for themselves. Some had one loom and others two looms in their homes and worked with their families. Since I left Tabriz they had married and had children. Most of them lived on the outskirts of Tabriz. At one time Humai and Izzat's house had been situated on the very edge of the district, but now their house seemed to be in the middle of the city as many people had moved to Tabriz from the surrounding villages.
Many people I met did not know that I had been living abroad for the past four years. They thought I worked in Tehran. Those who did know asked me many questions: "How do the British live and how do they get married?" "Is it expensive to get married and who pays for the wedding?" "How much does a worker earn per day?" "Are the hospitals and schools free?" "Do they speak our language and know about Azerbaijan?" "What is the difference between the English and the Scots?" "Where do you live?" and "What kind of food do they eat?" Their questions seemed endless, yet they were not merely inquisitive but sincerely interested in other people. I answered as many as I could and sometimes I found myself encircled by people in the teahouses, like the story-teller dervish. In the tea-houses they served me endless cups of tea and in people's homes I was constantly offered generous quantities of cakes, fruit and other delicious food.
My mother and sisters cooked all the kinds of food that I might have missed while I was in Britain. My mother, who was grieving over my father's death, needed to talk to me. She wanted to sit with me for hours, but she never showed any weakness. She still seemed to be the centre of power and affection for her children and the entire family. In the mornings we would all sit round the samovar and my mother served tea with fresh sangak or lavash bread with white cheese. Our house and garden, with its abundance of flowers and fruit trees and the pool in the middle were unchanged. At this time the garden had not yet been divided and my brothers had not built their new houses. It seemed like a garden in paradise.
Soon after my arrival, we had a constant stream of visitors to the house, paying the customary courtesy visit to the newly returned traveller. Again, following custom, I had to repay each visit.
Apart from rediscovering Tabriz, I also wished to rediscover its writers, poets and thinkers, both past and present. I spent many days with my former fellow students, writers and my books at home. Among my books I found the works of Khaqani Shirvani, a famous twelfth-century poet from Azerbaijan, and for the first time I found out that he was buried not far from my parent's house and near Muhammad Khiyabani's memorial tomb. I visited the place, which was called "Sayyid Hamzeh", and to my great surprise I saw that this great poet's grave was deserted and in ruin. However, during a later visit to Soviet Azerbaijan, in November 1987, I was able to see, to my delight, his valuable works in the Nizami Museum in Baku. His poems were written on walls, carpets and stones.
Khaqani, like other great poets from Azerbaijan such as Nizami Ganjavi, wrote in Persian and Arabic. Professor Mobariz Alizadeh of Baku University has translated Khaqani's Persian poetry into Azerbaijani. Here, in English, is an extract from Khaqani's famous Persian poem "The Ruins of Madain":

My soul, come, draw lessons from life, look around
A mirror to help you in old Madain can be found.
Beside the Tigris lie the ruins of great Madain
The river's long banks with bitterest groaning resound.

More blood flows than water from Tigris' suffering eyes
No tears touch its cheek, dried by flames that from smouldering ruins arise.
See - the Tigris is foaming - foam curls on the lips of each wave. . .
How mournful those ruins burying hearts and their sighs!
The heart of the Tigris is burnt by sorrow and fear.
Can flames be so intense that the water itself they rear?

This place speaks of chambers of justice once ruined by hate.
The throne fell to tyrants who rose unaware of their fate.
Yes, once long ago Madain was a work of great art.
The palace had gateways that blazed with mosaics and gold. . .

Imagine this place that once held a whole land in its sway,
The fort as it was, not the ruins that lie here today.
The walls would say, "Weep! For you, too, have good reason for sorrow,
To dust all must crumble and you, man, are just living clay!"

You ask where such rulers have gone, since today there are none
The earth has embraced all these kings, every shah and khagan . . .

The great Madain is still witnessing the horrors of an undesirable war between Iraq and Iran!
Seeing the derelict state of Khaqani's grave in Tabriz made me conscious of the fact that there were other great poets who had been born in Azerbaijan and had died there but are not celebrated. In Iran, Azerbaijani poets and writers have suffered discrimination while they lived and after their death. Humam Tabrizi was equally as great as Sa'di Shirazi, if not greater; Khaqani was as great a poet as Firdausi. Unfortunately, neither Humam nor Khaqani are introduced to the people of Iran, at least to the people of Iranian Azerbaijan, as are Sa'di and Firdausi. Contemporary Azerbaijani poets still live and die unrecognised. Habib Sahir, for example, whom I met in 1977, wrote beautiful poetry in Azerbaijani: He died, unnoticed, in 1982 in Tehran. Here are some lines from his poem, "My Ancient Beauty":

I know my own ancient beauty,
She is in Egypt a statue made of gold!
Once she was like a mortal human being,
But today she is an immortal beauty. . .

In her dreamy, large black eyes
There is the everlasting sunshine of the desert.
She is a bewitching and a rare beautiful blossom;
This flower only blossoms by the Nile.

shahriyar, a famous Azerbaijani poet who is still alive today, is reduced to poverty and writes his poetry under political and psychological pressure. His son was arrested and accused of having Marxist-Leninist sympathies and shahriyar was informed that his son would not be released unless he composed poetry in praise of the Islamic Republic of Iran. I was introduced to shahriyar by Dr Chaichi and met him several times before I went to Istanbul in 1959. During my time in Istanbul he would send me poetry written in his own handwriting. I later donated two of these poems to the Istanbul Museum of Manuscripts.
shahriyar's poem "Haydar-baba Salam" has become very well known and is often considered as his masterpiece. Here I translate some lines from this poem ("Haydar-baba" is the name of a mountain in Azerbaijan):

Haydar-baba when it thunders,
Floods, waters, roaming down,
Girls standing in line and watching.
I hail your glory and your people,
May you remember our name too.

When your partridges take flight,
When your rabbits rise and run out of bushes,
When your gardens have burst into blossoms,
May you remember our name too.
Make our depressed hearts happy.

Haydar-baba may the sun warm up your back,
Make your face laugh and make your springs run,
Your children collect bunches of flowers.
When the wind blows send it to us.
Perhaps this may awaken my sleeping fortune. . .

I did not stay in Iran more than two months before returning to Britain, but I met many people and learnt a lot. Between 1953 and 1964 the Shah had appointed several governments and many plans had been implemented, the most important of which was his so-called "White Revolution". There was a noticeable improvement in the living conditions of people. Nevertheless, all these socio-economic changes were uneven, and the political atmosphere in Iran was stifling. All political parties, except those approved by the Shah, were banned. Only the "National Party", under the leadership of Manuchihr Iqbal, and the "People's Party", under Asadullah Alam, were free to operate openly. Both these leaders were very close to the Shah and both came from big land-owning families. Iqbal served as prime minister in 1957 and was later in charge of Iranian oil. His National Party was later replaced by the New Iran Party and Hassan Ali Mansur became its chairman.

While he was prime minister, Mansur was assassinated in January 1965 and the Shah gave the premiership to Amir Abbas Hovida, who served until 1977. Hovida was executed after the Revolution of 1979.
Alam was an influential court minister and quite close to most leading ayatollahs. After he had rigged the election for the 21 st Majlis, he served as prime minister in 1963. It was he and Pakravan (the chief of SAVAK) who arranged Ayatollah Khomeini's exile to Turkey after the bloody riots which occurred in many Iranian cities in June 1963. A retired colonel who had worked for the SA V AK told me (after the Revolution of 1979) that Alam and Pakravan had used Ayatollah Shariatmadari to save Ayatollah Khomeini from execution. According to the colonel, the Shah had ordered Pakravan to get rid of Khomeini, even by execution if necessary. Pakravan went to Alam to discuss the situation. Since a leading ayatollah cannot be executed, they decided to go to Ayatollah Shariatmadari, explain the situation and ask him to issue a decree saying that Khomeini was a leading mujtehid (the highest rank of religious leader). Ayatollah Shariatmadari complied with their request. Alam took the decree to the Shah and, as prime minister, prevented the execution of Ayatollah Khomeini. Although the Shah lost his temper, he eventually agreed to the exile of Khomeini to Turkey. Ayatollah Khomeini was later removed from Turkey to Iraq and stayed there until 1978.
Ayatollah Khomeini kept in contact with the leaders of religious students and bazaar merchants in Iran. In the absence of political parties and democratic freedom, religious leaders, such as Ayatollah Khomeini worked steadily and continuously, using hundreds of mosques and playing thousands of tapes which contained their sermons. Even the government encouraged religion. The Shah and the royal family, in order to impress the religious population, visited Mashhad regularly and also paid visits to Karbala and even Mecca. Influential persons such as Alam and even the Shah regularly met with religious leaders. As part of their programme to combat democratic movements and Marxist ideology in Iran, they believed that the Islamic religion was the most effective deterrent for the illiterate people. In this way the Shah, while suppressing all intellectual and political activities, succeeded in replacing the political mechanism with religion - and thus undermined his own regime.
While the Shah accepted the traditional, orthodox religion and its leaders, he nevertheless was the enemy of radical religious groups like the Mujahidin. I visited Iran again in the summers of 1965, 1971 and 1978 with my family. When I visited in 1971 I realised that among the students and intellectuals there were two political movements: Islamic and Marxist. The Mujahidin, which did not adopt its name until 1971, was formed from the religious wing of Mossadeq's followers and especially from the Liberation Movement. Over 90 per cent of its members were intellectuals and were mostly from bazaar merchant families; thus they also received financial support from this source. They believed that the Pahlavi regime had little support beyond that of the big businessmen and landowners and that the Shah ruled mainly through terror and propaganda. The only way to destroy this terror, they felt, was through heroic acts of violence. The Shah's regime labelled the Mujahidin "Islamic Marxists", thereby showing its fear, not of Islam, but of muslims who combined Islam with Marxism. In fact, the Mujahidin later developed in two groups, in 1970: Islamic and Marxist.
The other political group, the Fida'i organisation, which had basically branched out from the Marxist-Leninist Tudeh Party and the Marxist wing of Mossadeq's National Movement, like the Mujahidin, had emerged in the early 1960s. This organisation adopted its name in March 1971 and, again like the Mujahidin, was composed of two subgtoups.
Although the guerilla movement represented by these organisations failed to bring down the Shah's regime, it was to play a crucial role in late 1977, during the revolutionary upsurge. Of all these guerrilla organisations, the Mossadeq group from the Fida'i played a decisive role in combating the Shah's forces during the Revolution of 1979. But they did not manage to maintain and develop their unity after the Revolution. This internal disintegrity made it easier for Khomeini's government to establish itself and suppress other political groups.
The Shah's regime acted decisively against these political organizations and killed many of their members. In order to discredit the Mujahidin and Fida'i, a number of mullahs were recruited into the SA V AK, who organised numerous religious meetings in mosques and other public places. At these meetings the mullahs condemned these radical organisations, thus discrediting them in the eyes of the illiterate and the working people. At the same time they were also putting the political and social initiative into the hands of the mosque.
Moharram ceremonies were encouraged. Generally the SA V AK ignored the distribution of religious tapes, including those of Ayatollah Khomeini, but possessing the works of a progressive writer such as Samad Behranghi, would cost a man several years in prison. A certain colonel once told me that a branch of SA V AK, under the direction of Alam, was distributing these tapes and collecting money in support of Ayatollah Khomeini after 1964. The Shah's regime, and even the West, preferred to use the traditional religion and the mullahs in order to attack and weaken the radical muslims and Marxists in Iran.
In the summer of 1965 I met for the first time many of my writer friends. Sa mad Behranghi, Behruz Oihqani, Kazim Sa'adati and, some time later, Or Ghulam-Hussein Sa'idi (Sa'idi lived in Tehran and was visiting his home town of Tabriz). At first they would come to my parents' house. Samad Behranghi was writing short stories for children taken from Azerbaijani folklore and a book about the problem of education in Azerbaijan. I once asked him what he was writing and why he had aroused such opposition among the older teachers and the Department of Education. He answered, "I do not write anything extraordinary. I write what I see."
Later we used to meet at Intisharate Shams (Shams Publications). My friendship with Samad Behranghi, Behruz Dihqani and Ghulam- Hussein Sa'idi became deeper when I learned that they were honestly and passionately devoted to serving the masses by their pen and voicing their silent griefs and shortcomings. At a time and in a society where all political parties are banned, freedom of speech is outlawed and historians do not dare to write the truth, the works of such writers and their socio-political literature becomes very valuable. In order to understand the history, the society and the political and economic conditions of the people in Iran (especially since the coup of 1953) we must read and understand the works of writers like these.
Although the Shah's "White Revolution", with its modernisation and social reforms, offered the peasants, workers and civil servants relative prosperity or advancement, this prosperity or advancement remained uneven and was often short-lived. The peasants, for example, who had benefited from the land reforms implemented in the 1960s could not make their living from the land which they had bought. There were many reasons for this. First, the piece of land allocated to each peasant was too small to produce enough crops to provide both food for his family and a surplus to sell. Second, he could not afford to pay for water, seeds and the repayments for his land. Third, even if he produced more crops than he needed for his own consumption, the price of grain in the market was so low (because of subsidised imported grain from the United States and other countries) that he could not make a profit. Most peasants eventually had to abandon their land and move to the cities, where they became construction labourers or were swallowed up by the factories as cheap labour. Those who could not move to the cities sold back their land to the landowners or others, in order to repay their debts. They then became labourers or casual workers for 'the big landowners.
At this time, Samad Behranghi had completed teacher training college in Tabriz and was teaching in the villages in Azerbaijan. He had noticed the uneven distribution of wealth in the villages and in the cities of Azerbaijan, which is a comparatively prosperous province of Iran. In his stories he effectively highlighted the gulf between the rich few, who enjoyed the financial and moral support of the Shah and his government, and the poor majority. He also stressed the gulf between the theory and practice, the moral teachings and deeds, of the government.
In his story Oolduz and the Crows (Oolduz is a popular name for girls in Azerbaijan) Samad criticised social injustice and abstract moral laws. The crow tells Oolduz how it steals soup from courtyards or catches fish from pools. "Why steal?" asks Oolduz. "It is a sin," she adds. "Do not be childish, my dear," replies the crow. "What is sin? It is a sin not to steal when my children and I die of hunger. That is a sin, my dear. It is a sin not to be able to satisfy my hunger. It is a sin to see so much soup everywhere and be hungry. . . you ought to know that it is impossible to prevent stealing by such abstract and empty advice. For as long as everyone seeks only his own interest, there will be stealing."
By 1965 Samad Behranghi had reached the conclusion that the Shah's regime suffered from two main weaknesses: one was lack of a proper educational and political mechanism and freedom; the other was social injustice, especially towards the honest and good-hearted peasant villagers. In his book Twenty Four Hours Day Dreaming, he showed the difficult life of a man who has gone to Tehran to seek a better life. (Most of the peasants from Azerbaijan went to Tehran and were employed in the construction industry. The people from Sistan and Baluchistan emigrated to Gorgan and became labourers in the large cotton fields there.)
Perhaps it was these two weaknesses in the Shah's regime which caused his downfall. Samad Behranghi had projected this idea in his book Kachale Kaftar Baz (The Bald Pigeon Flier), which tells the story of Kachal, who was a poor boy who had an old mother, a goat and some pigeons. He and his mother lived in a smoke-blackened hut. Kachal collected dry thorny bushes in order to feed his goat, and to fuel the stove in the middle of their room. His mother had a spinning-wheel on which she spun wool. Thus they managed to make a living.
In front of Kachal's hut was the magnificent palace belonging to the king. The princess used to sit on her balcony and watch Kachal's pigeons fly. She fell in love with Kachal and wanted to convey her feelings to him through gestures and her servants. Kachal also loved the princess, but could not show his feelings because he knew that the king would never allow him to marry his daughter.
After a while the princess became ill because of her love for Kachal. The king summoned all the learned men and asked them to cure his daughter. They could not cure her. But the princess told the king her secret. He became angry and threatened the princess. She would be banished from the country if she loved "this dirt".
The king decided to get rid of Kachal and his pigeons. He ordered his prime minister to send the army to punish Kachal, kill his pigeons and forbid him to fly pigeons again. The princess sent her trusted servant to warn Kachal and his mother of the king's order. Kachal was feeding his pigeons when the king's soldiers suddenly stormed into his hut. They killed his pigeons, beat Kachal and broke the leg of his mother's spinning-wheel.
A few days later, Kachal had recovered a little. He came out of the hut and was sitting under the mulberry tree in their yard, where his goat used to eat and sleep. He suddenly noticed that two pigeons on top of the tree were whispering to each other and one was saying to the other: "Sister, if Kachal feeds his goat on the leaves of the mulberry tree - which will fall after we flyaway - and then milks his goat and rubs the milk on the necks of his dead pigeons, then the pigeons will wake up from their death-sleep and do things that ordinary pigeons cannot do." (This refers to those who were arrested or tortured by the SA V AK. After their release they knew things about the SA V AK that other people did not. They knew the SA V AK from the inside.)
Kachal did what the pigeons on the tree suggested. All of his pigeons awoke and flew away. After a while they returned to Kachal bringing with them a special hat for him. The hat was magic and anyone who put it on became invisible. When Kachal's mother heard of the magic hat she begged her son not to steal. Kachal promised not to take things which did not belong to him.
He put on the hat and went to the district where the rich factory owners such as Haji Quli Parchabaf lived. "How has Haji Quli gained his wealth and money?" Kachal wondered. "From his factory," he thought. "Who works in his factory?" he asked himself. "The workers work and make money for Haji Quli and Haji Quli does not dirty his hands," he exclaimed out loud. Then he argued, "If the workers do not work, then the factory will close and Haji Quli will lose his money. So the money and wealth of Haji Quli comes from the work of the workers and this should belong to the workers."
Therefore, Kachal, believing that Haji Quli's wealth was not rightly his own, walked into Haji Quli's house and saw him sitting with his wives having afternoon tea in the garden. Kachal saw honey, cream, toast and tea in front of Haji Quli. Because he was hungry, Kachal tried some of them. He lifted Haji Quli's glass of tea and drank from it. Haji Quli started praying fervently and his terrified wives screamed and ran away. Kachal entered Haji's house, collected many valuable items, opened the safe and took all Haji Quli's money. He came out and distributed all the money and items among the workers. He told them, "This belongs to you. Spend it on your family." When he had finished a little money was left over. Kachal bought some food with it for his mother and himself. Kachal also used the hat to visit the princess in her palace.
Haji Quli and the other rich manufacturers and landowners went to the king and persuaded him to act against Kachal. They said to the king, "What sort of king are you? Can't you protect our property?" The king set his entire army against Kachal. A battle began, between Kachal and his pigeons on one side and the king's army on the other. While the commander-in-chief tried to catch Kachal, his pigeons flew over the army and showered the soldiers with goat droppings. The soldiers were alarmed and the commander in-chief was wounded. Finally, the army were forced to withdraw. (Ironically, the Shah's army was defeated by the poor in the shanty town of southern Tehran. In the story Kachal symbolises a social outcast, and a poor but a wise character.)
The princess was united with Kachal and she was taught how to spin wool by Kachal's mother. Kachal and the princess lived happily ever after.
Samad Behranghi's story might seem rather simple and childish, but his vision is sharp and the prediction is apt. In the story the king, while giving support to Haji Quli and the other rich factory-owners, suppresses social relationships and love. He was prepared to kill the pigeons, who symbolise freedom, and Kachal, who represents reason or wisdom. Society lacks justice and political freedom. Although the book was written for children, it was also meant to be read and understood by adults. It was written in this style in order to avoid the attention of the SA V AK, who would have prohibited its publication. Nevertheless, the SA V AK came to fully understand the meaning of Sa mad's works soon after his death, because of the influence he left behind among the people.
Ghulam-Hussein Sa'idi, a well-known Iranian psychiatrist and leading playwright, who died in 1985, realised the power of superstition and influence of the mullahs in the villages and even in the cities of Iran. In his Tars va Larz (Fear and Trembling) he takes us to the fishing villages of Southern Iran, where life is dominated by the sea and its changes. If the sea is calm and fish plentiful, the villagers are cheerful and the village itself bustles with activity. But when the sea is rough and the fishermen are unable to work, the shadow of fear and superstition covers the village and everything becomes lifeless.
The villagers live in fear of want, and tremble at the threat of death. It is not only the sea or natural elements which cause this fear in the village, but the existence of certain parasitic beings, such as the mullah and a man called Isaac, who calls himself a doctor. The mullah is after women and good food; the doctor is after money. Originally, the village did not have a mullah. One day, however, a man with a briefcase arrives at the village. The villagers are naturally curious about the stranger. One says, "He has come to round up conscript soldiers"; another says, "The gendarmerie always collects conscript soldiers; he has perhaps come to issue birth certificates."
The stranger meets the headman of the village and asks if there is a mullah in the village. The headman replies, "What do we want a mullah for? We neither need to write letters nor do we need prayer, thank Heaven." The stranger says, "Just as well you have not got a mullah, because I am a mullah and know how to write. If anyone wants to send a letter or needs a prayer note, he or she could come to me - I want to stay here for some time."
After some conversation, the headman, as a matter of custom, invites the stranger to stay at his house. The mullah eats a large meal and then goes to bed. The following morning the mullah gets up early and walks through the village, returning in time for breakfast. He recounts the different kinds of palm tree he had seen in the village. "You know, Kadkhuda," says the mullah. "I like to eat these dates very much. . . all of them are blessings from God, and each has a special benefit. One kind of date cures a pain in the waist, another cures headache and another is suitable for a married man." "That is obvious," answers Kadkhuda. "If somebody can find all these and eat them, he will certainly feel better. But, mullah, there is not so much here that you can eat them every day. Haji Mostafa is the only one who is fairly well off, but his orchard is not very large. He has a big family and also helps the needy. He is a man of God." "That is true," replies the mullah "but I have read in a book that all these dates that grow in orchards bear a secret. . . You know, Kadkhuda," continues the mullah, "every village that does not have good women, good dates and good water should be deserted. How old do you think I am? I am much older than you. Look, I have not got even one grey hair on my head. But can you show me even a single black hair on yours? Do you know why? I have always taken life easy and enjoyed myself. Wherever I travel I find a good woman. I also eat well. By the way, Kadkhuda, who is the owner of that large door at the top of the alley?" "Which door?" asks Kadkhuda. "There are two horns mounted on the top of the door, which has large decorative nails." "Oh, I know," says Kadkhuda, "it is Zakariyya's house. Why?" "I was passing by," answers the mullah, "and saw a pretty woman who was carrying water and who went to that house. By the way, Kadkhuda, has that lady got a husband?" "Oh, she is Zakariyya's sister, and has not got a husband. She was married, but her husband divorced her and went to the island." "I knew," said the mullah, laughing, "that she did not have a husband. It was obvious from the way she walked. Now you see, Kadkhuda, what a nice place I have come to. After an hour, go to Zakariyya's house and propose that I marry his sister. See if he agrees to let me marry her. Tell him that I am a servant of God - a mullah. I can write, I also have money. If he agrees, congratulate him, and sort out the problems on my behalf."
A few days after his arrival in the village, the mullah marries the woman. After a while he deserts her and she dies giving birth to a child. The mullah, it turns out, has been following the same pattern in the surrounding villages.
Again, in his Chub bi-dastha-yi Varazil (The Stick- Wielders of Varazil), Sa'idi shows how non-political the masses are and how the only place they know of to escape to is the mosque. The Shah had closed ap political doors, but he kept the doors of mosques open.
Varazil is an imaginary village which is attacked by wild boars. Many peasants lose their crops and finally all get together to debate the matter.
One suggests that without a gun and gunpowder they cannot kill the boars.
Thus they decide to employ some hunters who can do the job for them. After a lengthy investigation they are told about a man, called Monsieur, who lives in the city. One of the villagers is appointed to go and ask for Monsieur's help. Monsieur is interested in the story because of the boars, and decides to send two of his hunters to the village on condition that they are provided with good food and accommodation.
When the hunters arrive at the village 'they are given the use of a large house, and the villagers agree to take turns to provide them with food. The hunters eat an enormous amount. They hunt at night and eat and sleep during the day. This continues even after all the boars have been killed. Finally, they exhaust all the food supplies in the village. When the villagers protest and, armed with sticks, ask them to leave, the hunters threaten to turn their guns on them. In despair, the villagers return to Monsieur, who advises them to employ two more hunters to dislodge the first two.
The same pattern of food and accommodation is repeated. After eating and sleeping well, the new hunters challenge the original hunters who are lodged in the building opposite. The two groups confront each other with their guns. The villagers gather in the square to watch. The hunters take aim at each other, and prepare to fire. Then suddenly, they turn their guns towards the villagers. The crowd panics and tries to flee to the mosque. (The two sets of hunters clearly represent the British and the Americans.)

By the end of 1970, crop production in many villages had reached such a low level that the villagers were forced to buy grain from the cities. Then there was an oil boom between 1970 and 1975 and agriculture was further abandoned by the government. Hovida, who was prime minister at the time, boasted that Iran could afford to import anything it wished. So wheat and rice came from America, eggs and chickens from Israel and fruit from Spain and other countries.
The Shah offered loans and grants to European, African and Asian countries. At the same time he neglected the villages, the hospitals and the homeless people in Tehran and other big cities. If the Shah had spent the money given to the Western countries on the people of Iran, and had given political freedom to the political parties (at least to the liberal parties such as the Mossadeqists), a real political foundation would have been built which would have established a relationship between the government and society. Then he might have survived external pressure. But the Shah did not have or establish a social and political foundation, whereas the mullahs already had one. He was not close to the people, but the religious leaders were. For this reason, when the Revolution took place and all the underground groups participated, the mullahs were the only organised group who could fill the vacuum. Europe, realising that the mullahs were the best bid to combat the radical and democratic forces in Iran, backed Ayatollah Khomeini and his Islamic Republic.
In February of 1979 when I wanted to fly from Tabriz to Tehran, the weather was bad and all flights were cancelled. There were many Iranians and foreign correspondents from The Guardian, Washington Post, New York Times and other newspapers - waiting in the airport departure lounge. We decided to travel by train and went by taxi to Tabriz railway station, a few kilometres away. When we arrived at the station there was a long queue at the ticket office. We stood in the queue and started chatting. I learned that these foreign correspondents were returning from a province in Kurdistan, where they had interviewed Izziddin Husseini and other Kurdish leaders. The correspondent from the Washington Post was standing next to me. "How do you see the situation in Iran?" I asked him. "The situation is frightening," he said. "We do not want the guerrilla organisations to take over the Revolution."
In the train they were preoccupied with Kurdistan and Azerbaijan and kept asking me questions. One asked me if I thought Kurdistan and Azerbaijan wished to be autonomous. I replied that I did not know. When, in turn, I asked him for his opinion, he said, "It would be disastrous if the Marxists take over the government in Iran." "Do you mean Russians?" I asked. "Oh no, there are enough Iranian Marxists to take over the government if they get a chance." But I did not hear a single word against Ayatollah Khomeini and his Prime Minister Bazargan.