"All things new are good." Perhaps as a perverse reaction
to ten millennia of history which weighs heavily upon the Iranian soul
and society, all things new are idolized and the old is approached with
a mixture of curiosity, revulsion, and boredom, interspersed with inventive
plans to milk it for dream-like sums of easily-earned hard cash. While
in the United States, any building older than 50 years is usually protected
by zealous "Historic Society" types, in Iran, entire old neighborhoods
- some dating centuries - are demolished to make way for ugly uniform new
development.
In Mashhad, a large diameter around the Imam Reza shrine has been cleared
for a vast cement park in order to accommodate the millions of pilgrims
who are the bread and butter of the city. In Shiraz, I saw the remains
of gorgeous old homes demolished between the shrines of Shah-Cheragh and
Astaneh to make room for a gargantuan mosque complex which I can't even
begin to imagine whether and how would ever be filled by human bodies.
On my visit, the sensuous arches and old brickwork of the scarce walls
that remained were sad reminders of all that once was and no longer is.
In smaller cities, the functions of native architecture in mud-brick
and adobe - its insular character, its adaptability to yearly renewal and
repair at low cost, its eco-friendly quality - all have been forgotten
in favor of cement-block homes whose front, only the facade, is covered
in marble brick or thin decorative bricks, while the rest, the cement blocks,
the unattractive baked brick can all be seen from other directions; a bitter
metaphor for a society which pays so much heed to surfaces and appearances,
unaware or indifferent that its naked unattractive ass hangs out for all
to see.
"All that is new is good". Well-meaning relatives always want
to take you to the chic malls and shopping strips and streets. Some of
the younger women are bored to tears by the magnificent ruins of Persepolis,
this "bunch of rocks and stones," and consider the awesome Chogha
Zanbil "a hill of dirt," the incredible Throne of Solomon
a "pile of rubble," preferring an afternoon of extravagance at
the malls around Cinema Sa'di in Shiraz or Mohseni Square in Tehran.
Aside from the lucrative trade in smuggled archeological artifacts which
enrich corrupt officials of all color and creed, ancient ruins are lost
to pollution, to natural corruption, to neglect, to forgetfulness, even
to election campaigns. When even the divine tile-work of the most exquisite
mosque in Iran -and arguably the world- the 16th century Masjed-e-Shah
of Esfahan becomes a bulletinboard for tacky council election posters,
what is safe?
"All that is new is good." In a rush towards modernity, old
families sell their old handmade silver and termeh (heavy hand-woven silk
cloth) and Qalamkar (hand-painted fabrics) to dusty antique shops in order
to replace them with the lovely machine-made and preferably Western variety
of goods. The antique shops in turn find amenable and eager customers in
hordes of German and English and French and Italian and Japanese tourist
who willingly spend the revered dollar for a piece of someone else's history.
The irrefutable symbols of progress, modern bridges and modern monstrosities
of public monument and mausoleum are honored with a reverence not afforded
the ancient wonders of architecture. The utterly plagiarized tomb
of Abu Ali Sina built in the latter half of 20th century receives far
more visitors than the original 10th century tower - Gonbad-e-Kavus - it
shamelessly copies. The meager suspension bridge of Ahwaz, rusted and humble
that it is, is cherished with far more awe than the near second millennium
old bridges at Shushtar. In all cities, some 20th century ode to the Empire,
usually constructed during Reza Shah's era of state-building, draws visitors
in droves, while the more ancient wonders rot slowly in the sun.
Simply said, what is native, indigenous, and part of the fabric of a
nation, culture and history, is rapidly, intensely replaced with what is
new, transplanted, and often mass-manufactured. Somehow, there is glory
in conformity here, and a hunger for modernity which translates into discarding
of history. The magnificent museums of Tehran, repositories of all that
myth and beauty and history are deserted while the new malls of Mirdamad
teem with masses of humanity.
This revulsion for the past is perhaps exacerbated by the coercive forcing
of history and tradition upon the population to the exclusion of all else,
and without an intelligent plan of education. It is natural that when a
number of middle school girls are brought forcibly to the Carpet Museum
and one can see that they are visibly bored to death, that they will hate
the carpets, hate the field trips, and touch the carpets out of sheer rebellion
or boredom. No one explains that the reason behind the stern "Do not
touch" sign or the barking forbiddance of an old guard is that the
natural oils of human hands can damage valuable old specimen already falling
apart from passage of time. Kids that have seen rougher version of these
delicate masterpieces underfoot at home, and who have accepted the valuable
commodity as an everyday consumer product with no other intrinsic or artistic
value, are often unable to distinguish the 200-year-old silken carpets
as something extraordinary and prized.
But at least at the Carpet Museum, there ARE signs and there ARE stern
old men who lovingly guard the old rugs. At the Chogha Zanbil, other than
a couple of disinterested young men at the entrance and a few rusted signs
in the same location, nothing prevents idiotic children and adults from
carving their names into 4000-year-old bricks bearing immeasurably valuable
and important cuneiform texts. I can't even begin to talk of the 16th century
palaces of Ali Ghapu and Chehel Sotoon in Esfahan, where 400 year old murals
are scratched away by crude instruments to memorialize some immensely stupid
nincompoop who wants to record some day in history upon the face of a work
of art. And there are no protective screens covering these valuable (and
perhaps too-naked and un-Islamic) paintings from abuse.
But aside from the archeological sites which -unfortunately, or perhaps
fortunately- few Iranians visit, the march of all things new, this irrevocable
call to "progress" and "modernity" affect other things
too: the ingenious, eco-friendly qanat system used for irrigating farms
in semi-arid lands, whose history is buried deep in the fogs of time, has
long been abandoned for deep mechanized wells that easily access water
tables that can not be so easily replenished. The Bandari architecture
of Persian Gulf littoral towns -which captures the smallest winds and provides
proven methods of insulation and cooling, is slowly disintegrating an deliberately
being forgotten. The ancient remedies sold in "Attari" shops
-eagerly researched and analyzed elsewhere in the world- are being pooh-poohed
and forgotten by an educated class which is too eager to take an American
antibiotic or pain-killer regardless of its side effects or long-term consequences.
The old cotton and wool fabrics which breathe and keep the wearer cool
or warm as required are set aside so that polyester - the venerable unbreakable
invincible polyester- can enhance and magnify the natural body odors of
every poor soul in the city who is forced to climb on top of each other
in buses and bazaars and other closed spaces.
The slogans "all that is new is good" and its sinister sister
"all that is foreign is great" are so prevalent and ingrained
that a cheap and cheaply-made Korean plastic sandal is preferred to the
equally cheap and beautifully crafted guivehs of years gone by. The buyers
of ceramics of Laljeen have now been so limited to tourists and interior
decorators that their production has been curtailed and the ceramics find
inadequate and unworthy replacement in polyethylene dishes made in France
or China. It is such that old skills are lots and since there is no industry
or industrial planning to speak of, the workshops dissolve in unemployment.
Cultural products also suffer much the same fate. Since the right wing
has monopolized the state-owned radio and television and since it only
plays traditional music (of usually mediocre and grating quality), and
entire generation of young Iranians have -as a form of resistance to all
things state-sponsored- turned their back vehemently on traditional music.
Guitar and keyboards are far more chic and hip instruments to learn than
the ancient tar and santoor. Since tradition has been translated into oppressive
rules governing social and private spheres, a rebellion against the claustrophobic
rules has eventuated in wholesale discarding of the past.
The more the state supports traditional art forms -such as the miniature-
the faster and further the young artists and audiences run away from these
art forms. The relative absence of freedom of expression has resulted in
the artists restoring to esoteric and obscure symbolism and to a pronounced
renunciation of sociopolitical content for fear of its consequences. Foreign
cultural forms which have been so enthusiastically adapted -the sit-down
concerts in concert-halls, the theater- are only slowly beginning to assimilate
traditional forms of entertainment -the roo-hozi, the puppet-shows, the
epic storytelling of wandering bards- and only by the most brilliant artist
and writers, most of whom are only now being allowed by the Ministry of
Guidance to publish or perform after 20 years of repressive censorship.
In this, the land of "ancient civilization" where every educated
and semi-educated person utilizes on long gone glory as some sort of inherent
and obvious evidence of our inherent and obvious superiority, the actual
disregard for the real past -not the concept in abstract- is so glaring
and so prevalent that I wonder how much of our oral tradition, our folk
history, our identity is slowly dissolving in the catharsis of modernization.
In this part of the world, despite pronouncements of venerable pundits
in the West, history is not dead. But there are multitudes who are too
happy to assassinate it so that from under its bloody exhausted remains
the phoenix of prosperity can rise.
* Laleh
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