Chai, shirini and the Internet
Loving two of Tehran's cafes for very different reasons
October 27, 1999
The Iranian
I have two favorite cafes in Tehran. They belong to different times,
different epochs even. They are in geo-socially distant, absolutely disparate
parts of town. And they both cater to the educated and the intellectual
(or the intellectual-wannabe anyway), but of unquestionably different tastes
and goals and values.
Chineh cyber-cafe in the very upmarket and exclusive Qeitarieh neighborhood
is the first true Internet cafe in Iran, and the frequent visits to the
cafe by various Western news agencies in its early days (more than a year
ago), from BBC and CNN to Reuters and USA Today, attests to its very novelty.
Internet is a very controlled medium in Iran, and this constraint is exercised
not only through state limitations on Internet service providers (ISP),
but also through pricing. The majority of ISPs tend to be state agencies
and organizations (i.e. universities, state-sponsored think-tanks etc.).
Those few ISPs which operate "independently" from the state only
cautiously provide access to individuals (rather than companies and organizations)
and even then, charge prices which essentially limit the use of the Internet
to those in the stratosphere of the class system.
The fast-disappearing middle class of Iran cannot easily afford access
to the outside world. Rumor has it (and I can say confidently that this
rumor is far more than that) that these "independent" ISPs have
also had to make the proverbial deal with the devil and at any given time
provide the list of URLs accessed by their customers to the ominous and
omnipresent Ministry of Information. Additionally, the most popular and
efficient ISP in Iran provides access to the Internet through satellite
connections (thus its name Safineh or spaceship) and no one can operate
a satellite connection LEGALLY (and this is the key word) without state
permits. To receive such a permit, political connections are absolute necessities.
Despite all these very real obstacles, Internet is beginning to take
hold in Iran. Since the very obvious success of Chineh cafe, I have seen
another cyber-cafe in another affluent neighborhood (Darband Street), and
have heard of more popping up in various locations. The consumers of this
particular combination of services are computer-literate, well-off, and
well-connected to the "outside." The service is quite expensive
by Iranian standards (more than 3000 tomans or almost $4 per hour), and
the neighborhood in which the cafe is located is difficult to reach by
any sort of public transport, and as such price and class censorship obviously
determine the type of customers the cafe has. In fact, on every occasion
that I have visited the cafe, the seats in front of the computers have
been occupied by middle-aged men surfing the web-pages of Wall Street investment
firms, the business pages of CNN and CNNfn and Bloomberg. Young kids surfing
the net for fun are few and far in between and on the couple of occasions
that I have seen them using the net, they have been checking out the web-pages
of American universities.
The cafe is extremely European in its setting; wrought iron chairs around
tiny private tables, plants every where, a marble bar (no alcoholic drinks
of course), pleasant discreet lighting, and an Italian espresso machine
(an expensive rarity) differentiate it from other coffee shops in the city.
What makes the cafe a favorite of mine, however, -- other than the fast
and reliable connection to the Internet -- is its owner and employees.
The owner of Chineh cyber-cafe is a very chic youngish bearded gentleman
who belongs to the new breed of religious new-thinkers in Iran. He has
served in the war between Iran and Iraq voluntarily, his daughter is named
Zeinab (the original Zeinab was the sister of Imam Hussein and is a symbol
of political religion), and he himself seems to be well-connected to the
Ministry of Culture. He seems open-minded and tolerant and in his conversations
with strangers is warm and friendly. On the few occasions where I have
boldly engaged him in a political argument he has been polite, interested,
and not at all confrontational nor patronizing or missionary as other religious
(or right-wing) intellectuals -- particularly the war veterans -- in Iran
tend to be.
All other employees (the guy behind the bar, and the gregarious and
amiable technical consultant) are happy to see you, remember their customers
and are just as happy to leave one to oneself. I like Chineh, also because
in its small, calm and quiet confines, there seems to be an air of individuality,
a polite recognition of a space within which one can lose herself in solitude
like nowhere else in an Iranian common space. Here in Iran, solitude is
considered a blight, not a blessing and seeking a moment of silence away
from the crowd, particularly if the crowd is related to oneself, is deemed
anti-social and even impolite. That is why, being able to stare at a screen
without any interruptions, knowing that I am just doing what I want, without
fear of abusing some sort of social norm or even worse, hurting someone's
feelings, has become my sanctuary.
Cafe Naderi is also my sanctuary, and I love it in a completely different
way. It is socially as far away from Chineh as one may imagine. It is a
part of Tehran's history, perhaps Iran's history. It is located below Hotel
Naderi in what is now the center of town and not too far from Tehran's
theater district and Tehran University. The cafe has been there for more
than fifty years now, if not more, and has seen within its vast, grubby,
and plain walls the formation of god knows how many parties, artists' leagues,
unions, and political organizations. Rumor even has it that the Tudeh Party
heads used to meet here for coffee and pastries around the time of World
War II. Behind its high windows, there is a lovely garden which must be
divine in the summer and inside, the space can not be more humble and simple:
a pastry counter at one end and rickety unpretentious tables from one end
to the other. The waiters look like they have worked here all their lives;
they are all elderly, amazingly sociable and kind, and they all -- without
exception -- have called me "dokhtaram" ("my daughter")
when speaking to me without seeming patronizing or disdainful. They all
smile and joke around with the customers, something that I have rarely
seen elsewhere in Tehran, perhaps because in most restaurants the customers
don't deign to speak to the "help" as equals. Not here.
Here in Cafe Naderi, the composition of the crowd changes from day to
day and even from hour to hour, but it changes just a little. This is my
favorite place in Tehran for people-watching, and on several occasions,
I have actually arrived at the cafe at breakfast time (around 8:00 a.m.)
and chosen to stay on until mid-afternoon, devouring my daily dose of six
newspapers, endless cups of tea or Turkish coffee, and -- I am ashamed
to admit -- too many rich, light, sinful cream-puffs ordered specially
from Naderi Confectionery next door. The waiters seem quite accustomed
to such eternal customers and do not mind you taking up a good table right
next to the window for the entire day.
In the mornings, Cafe Naderi teems with the most interesting group of
its customers: they are elderly gentlemen, all spiffily dressed in black
turtlenecks or old three-button suits, often wearing berets or chapeaux,
sometimes gorgeous old raincoats, occasionally carrying canes. They all
look like they have been coming here for ages. The waitstaff know them
by name; a great number of them seem to be professors who teach or at one
time have taught at Tehran University. Many others are artists, writers,
painters, and film-makers. I have seen famous faces among them, but all
receive equal -- and equally delightful -- treatment from the cafe. Many
seem to know each other, as they tip hats to one another upon entry; many
others seem to meet regularly here for their breakfast, or after-breakfast
tea. I love this group particularly because I can spend endless hours imagining
who they may be and what kind of lives they may have led; what adventures
they must have had and what they do now. I eavesdrop on their conversations,
pretending to read my papers; and I am moved by the absences I find so
apparent of all those men and women these customers seem to reminisce about.
From mid-morning to mid-afternoon the cafe becomes the forte of the
young university and/or the artistic crowd. Occasionally, they are a university-age
couple on a discreet date, but more frequently, they are young, feverish
men and women, gathered mostly in groups and engaged in passionate arguments
about art, film, politics and the love lives of their friends. I often
look at them wistfully, because there is a sort of innocent cynicism in
their outlook of the world which I remember from my early twenties. The
young crowd at Cafe Naderi is very different than the young crowd I have
seen in the affluent neighborhoods of North Tehran or in the hustle-bustle
of South Tehran. There is a level of engagement with and enthusiasm about
social and political issues here that I have not seen elsewhere. I have
a feeling that the university students who gather here are the ones that
shall be most effective in determining the course of art and politics in
Iran in the years and decades to come.
At Chineh, I enjoy my solitude with a screen. This cafe seems to only
call the future, it rebelliously negates the past, stubbornly insists on
looking forward. In the noisy commotion of Cafe Naderi there is another
kind of peace; there is a continuity, a sense of permanence and perpetuity.
Much has changed in the lifetime of Cafe Naderi. One feels -- at a very
visceral level -- that thee young and old sipping tea under the high ceiling
of Cafe Naderi have seen and lived through coups, wars, revolutions, exile,
prison, transformation and change. They have created, they have fought,
and many -- too many -- of them who have had tea and pastries here have
gone away, been executed or died. There is something about the character
of this cafe that reminds you of this more than anywhere else, more than
all else. Nevertheless, at Cafe Naderi you feel that life will go on once
we are all gone, and if that is true, then there is hope.
* Laleh
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