June 9th, 2008

I spent my last day in Esfahan by returning to the bazaar and buying souvenirs for myself and others. In the evening I wandered over to the Armenian quarter of the city – a warren-like neighborhood across the river. I was surprised by how well done up it was. It resembled a bohemian Latin quarter in a European city, with intricate narrow cobblestone streets, charming fountains and churches, overpriced coffee shops, and of course – tourists. The main cathedral of the Armenian quarter was unexpectedly stunning; although it was innocuous outside, the frescoes inside were magnificent – I felt I could have been in a church in Europe. Unfortunately they didn’t let me take any pictures, but the old man at the door did try to sell me 2000 Tomans worth of postcards featuring the frescoes.

A trippy teahouse in Esfahan

The Armenian Quarter in Esfahan

The Vank Cathedral - Armenian Quarter Esfahan

I had been thinking for a few days about the Iranian culture of Ta’arof - the overenthusiastic desire to assist others and make guests – particular foreigners – more comfortable. In essence, Iran is the one country in the world where you don’t want to blend in as a “local.” Instead you want to stick out like a sore thumb, thus inviting the curiosity and generous hospitality of Iranians. I noticed that most people consider me to be Iranian – until I open my mouth – that is. So ordinarily, I’m forced to fight my way to the counter of a crowded restaurant to settle my check instead of my money being helpfully grabbed by an Iranian cueing to pay and my change efficiently returned to me before I even have time to blink. It’s also much harder to strike up a conversation in a teahouse or restaurant when I’m dining alone and prone to boredom. I can also forget about being spontaneously invited into a local’s house and shown around – an experience more than one of the other tourists I met had had. And I certainly haven’t had the chance to interact with too many women, because while they interact freely with foreign men, women still don’t approach ordinary Iranian men in the street.

However, there is a definite upside – when I want to be left alone, I can be, unlike other tourists who I see incessantly swarmed by hawkers at bazaars. I can quietly walk along the bazaars of Esfahan enjoying the clamorous atmosphere and choose the things I want to look at instead of them being thrust upon me. I also pay the local price for taxis – which is nice. If I’m ever taking an early morning bus or late night train – and am clearly in a very unfriendly mood – I’m not approached by an Iranian eager to practice their English. When I let on through my accent that I’m not actually Iranian, I usually get a warm response and the questions begin – but only If I approach first. I still very much enjoy the shock a lot of Iranians express at the fact that I’m not Persian – when they could have sworn by my looks that I was.

I travelled from Esfahan to the ancient desert city of Yazd by overnight bus. I arrived early at 6 in the morning. I took a taxi straight to the hotel recommended to me by a friend in Esfahan. It was smack dab in the old city under the shadow of the towering Jameh Masjid (the Friday mosque). The hotel was a restored traditional Persian mansion – centered on a leafy courtyard with a graceful pool of water in the middle. All around the courtyard comfortable looking diwans lined with carpets and cushions were placed for the enjoyment of the guests. It really felt like a Persian palace. After a quick shower, and a quicker breakfast on the terraced roof – from which I could enjoy an excellent view of the mosque - I set out to see the sights of the city. It was 7 AM and was determined to beat the harsh late-morning sunshine. I delved straight into the old city – the sea of ancient domed mud-brick buildings which stretched as far as the eye could see.

The Silk Road Hotel - near where I stayed in Esfahan

A view of Yazd's Old City with the Jameh Mosque in the background

The Hotel Orient - where I stayed

As I walked through the narrow lanes, the early morning sunshine played brilliantly in the narrow alleys and through the twisting domes of the covered walkways. The streets were devoid of any human presence – it was Friday morning – everyone was sleeping in, so I it was as if I had this treasure all to myself. Every few houses, I came across a collapsed or ruined building – the structure having completely collapsed through old age and neglect. I passed one such building and was drawn inexplicably towards it. There, in the absolute silence of dawn, I descended the broken steps one story down into its foundations. The light shone in through the broken walls and ceilings and played on the piles of rubble in an almost magical way. I took pictures as quickly as I could. I felt somehow as if I didn’t belong there – that I was intruding on this ancient building’s destruction. I’m not superstitious –but I felt the presence of not altogether friendly spirits in that place. In fact, I felt like an unwelcome guest in the whole town, as if I was intruding on the decrepit solitude of this ancient site. The centuries of history and experience were watching me as I bumbled through its alleyways; I felt infused with the extraordinary antiquity of one of the oldest continually inhabited towns in the world.

The corridors of the Jameh Mosque

A lone man walks through the lanes of Yazd's old city at daybreak

A collapsed building in Yazd's Old City

A deserted open courtyard in the old city

A monument in the middle of the old city, supposedly built by Alexander the Great


The empty streets of the old city

If the old city of Yazd left an impression on me, it was nothing compared to what happened next. I chartered a taxi to take me to the outskirts of the city, where two ancient Zoroastrian towers of silence lay perched on top of two desolate hills in the desert. Iran - and in particular Yazd - is the original home of the Zoroastrian people. The adherents of the world’s oldest monotheistic religion - and indeed one of the oldest living religions - were scattered all across the globe with the spread of Islam to Persia over 1200 years ago. Many of them came to India where they form the largest concentration of this ever-dwindling community. Parsis, as we know them in India, believe in the purity of elements, so they do not bury or cremate their dead, because they believe this will pollute the ground or the atmosphere respectively. Instead they traditionally take their dead to the tops of “towers of silence” and leave them there where their bones are soon cleaned by scavenging vultures.


The ancient towers of Yazd stood like two lonely fortresses on twin hills. The desolation and silence of this place was even more complete than that of the old city. I walked through the ruined and abandoned buildings at the base of the hills – houses and storerooms left untouched for incalculable years. I then raced up the taller hill and climbed through a narrow opening at the base of the tower and entered the central atrium. I read later that the towers had gone unused for nearly four decades, but at that time, I half expected to see a half-eaten corpse. As I edged closer to the rim where the bodies were ceremoniously placed for the vultures, I felt that sense of trespass return – except this time it was much stronger. This place was not just ancient, but it was sacred. Thankfully there was no sign of any human bodies. I took a few pictures from the extraordinary vista and left as quickly as I came. At the base, I looked back at the tower and its awesome surroundings and thought that if I was ever to let vultures feast on my dead remains – it would be here in this tremendous place. I remember thinking to myself in a moment of dizzy high-mindedness that this place represented much more than a monument to the ancient faith of Zoroastrianism. This was not just the history of a small community of people; this was the history of humanity. This was where mankind emerged out of the forests of Africa and built civilization – to challenge the harsh desert and bring nature under its control for the first time.

One of the towers of silence

The other tower of silence

By 9:30, the heat was becoming difficult. I decided to hightail it for the hotel where I could lounge in the cool and shaded comfort of the courtyard. In the evening after a refreshing nap, I sipped tea and chatted with one of the hotel staff who had helped me check-in that morning. In the five months that he had worked here, he had picked up quite a bit of English, and was working hard to become better. He told me he was Afghani, but that he was born in Iran. His mother’s family was Tajik and his father’s from northern Afghanistan. They had met in Iran – in Yazd – and had settled down. That was where Cyrus (name changed) was born. Even though it was the country of his birth, Cyrus was not allowed to become an Irani citizen. He was classified as an Afghani refugee and was forced to live the life of an undocumented immigrant in the country of his birth. There are over 2.5 million Afghan refugees in Iran, and for the most part, they are not allowed to own any land, are only allowed to work as manual laborers and are not allowed to enter national universities. Iran, for its part has hosted Afghan refugees and refugees from other Central Asian nations largely without any outside help and support; it is amongst the largest refugee populations in the world. The difficult nature of the situation is evident with tensions between the Afghans and wider society running high. Iranian racism is reserved for the Afghans and they are blamed for most of Iran’s crimes. They are also constantly harassed by the police and authorities.

Cyrus is working at the hotel illegally as he doesn’t have permission to work as anything but a laborer. The manager is kind and has protected him. But Cyrus needs to go by a more Irani name lest he arouse suspicion amongst the guests. So his colleagues around the hotel call him Ali – they are all in on the ruse. Things are not easy however: a recently sacked employee complained to the police about Cyrus to make trouble for the manager. The police said they would deal with the issue after the week-long holidays are over. “Maybe they’ll forget,” I said hopefully to Cyrus. “They will never forget,” responded Cyrus with a cold certainty. Cyrus doesn’t want to die in Iran, although he was born here. He wants to get out – get an education: to Pakistan, India, Australia, Europe, America – anywhere. Even in this matter, the barriers seem insurmountable; the gates and reception desks of embassies and consulates are manned by Iranians. When he states his business and identifies himself as Afghani, they shout at him, abuse him and order him to leave the premises. They tell him that he should go back to his own country – Afghanistan. Until recently Cyrus didn’t even have an Afghani passport. He just had one issued a few months ago. Cyrus is 19, exactly my age. In fact, I’m a month older than him. He’s trying his hardest to learn English so he can escape his circumstances. He’s reading the Kite Runner. He finds it difficult, but at least it’s about his home – where he has never been. All this trying and struggling may be for nothing however – the police could come for him any day now, and who knows what might happen then.

Zahra and Amir