The Rock Stars of Shiraz

Karim Khan Zand's Citadel
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I take a walk just before daybreak, in the quiet before traffic has swelled to the point of making the streets almost impassable (you have to walk with faith, my friend, into oncoming cars, and hope they will have enough humanity to break for you.  Not always, I'm afraid...).  The Citadel of my ancestor and ruler of the Zand Dynasty, Karim Khan Zand, is as silent as Shiraz at night, after the street has emptied and storefronts closed down.  It is imposing and grand, with one leaning tower that even experts from Pisa could not straighten; a plaza just outside that leads to the bazaar, also build by Karim Khan, will soon be populated by merchants selling everything from paperback books to nomadic jewelry to freshly roasted pistachios.  It all exists just at the end of Zand boulevard.  So if you haven't gotten the idea yet, this is Zand heaven.  Shiraz is to Zand as Graceland is to...okay, I'll stop.

Mohammad Reza
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I wandered across to the Pars museum.  Have I mentioned this is the cultural phase of the trip?  We are now on to experience the relics of the past, see the old debris left by centuries of conquest, defeat, conquest, defeat.  Persepolis, baby.  Persepolis.  Xerxes. Cyrus.  Darius. This is the cradle of civilization.  Not to mention castle remains strewn across the countryside.  It is a rich history.

So, the Pars museum...ah, back to the Zands (mid to late 18th century--the Zand Dynasty was so short-lived it often doesn't even warrant mentioning in books that cover this period of Persian history.  But Iranians are well aware of it, and the leadership of Karim Khan is still legendary here--a mighty but generous ruler who never took the title of shah, but instead kept regent, so as to better identify with the people.)  His remains are now across the street at the Pars Museum, along with his sword and a few other Zand artifacts.  A sign hung at the entrance, absolutely no photographs. Of course, they didn’t have postcards to purchase either. I met the director, Mohammad Reza, whose English isn’t much more than my Farsi, so we communicated in gestures and expressions, words from my dictionary chosen to represent whole ideas. (Leila, I wish you were there!) I pulled out my driver’s license to show I am a Zand. With that, he sat me down for tea. Mohammad Reza, it turns out, is something of a Zand expert, having studied them for some years now. Currently, he’s writing a book on the Zands (in Persian, of course) based on his research. He mentioned John Perry, a Zand scholar from the University of Chicago. By the time we were done, he agreed to let me take any photos I wanted.

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I skipped Persepolis this trip, having visited before.  Instead, I was content to spend time just wandering.  I walked the nearby bazaar, built also by Karim Khan, and found a gabbeh rug for Ellen, made by one of the two nomadic tribes in this region. Part of the bazaar opens into a square, with shops all around. My brother Steve told me that one of the shop owners would be sure to recognize me, as he had Steve on his last visit. Sure enough, I heard someone call, “Mr. Zand, Mr. Zand!” Amazing memory, as it’s been over 3 1/2 years. I was accompanied by David and Dan, and we all ended up making purchases from his store, so no doubt he’ll remember me next time as well.

Shiraz has a much different feel than the urban squeeze of Tehran with its traffic and toxicity. At the airport I’m greeted by tall palms and warm desert air—I could be arriving in Tucson. An Iranian man tells me the women in Shiraz are the prettiest with their wine-colored lips and dark, almond eyes, and my Shiraz friends claim hipness over the competing Esfahaners. There is something about Shiraz that makes me feel like I’m breathing again walking boulvarde Zand, the air fragrant with roasted pistachios and kabobis. After all, it’s the city of wine and poetry, the resting places of Hafez and Sa’di, and their spirits move here as well, still revered by nightly visitors. At Hafez’s tomb, young people crowd beneath the canopy.  They recite from heart the sufi master’s work, many holding sparklers or candles, some draping themselves over the marble slab like bohemians at Jim Morrison’s grave. Poets are the rock stars of Shiraz. More so, because they are remembered all these hundreds of years later, continuing to inspire.  It seems about any Iranian can tell you, regardless of level of education or socio-economic background, about Hafez, Sa'di and Rumi, about  Ferdowsi's classic epic Shahnameh, the book of kings.  Poetry is the perfume that scents this culture, permeating every level.  Maybe it's helped that there's never much on TV, and they're not bombarded by commercial images.  The advertisements here, given the limitations of the female wardrobe, don't use sex to sell things.  You don't see billboards with “lifestyle” images.  At most, you might see a photo of a microwave incubating a half-roasted chicken.  It's a nation devoid of saturation marketing, and perhaps that has helped preserve these older elements of society, as they are still relevant as common cultural references and a living part of a national dialog that crosses class lines.  And I can't help but reflect on our own cultural conversation that is overwhelmed by celebrity gossip and ephemeral icons that inevitably fall victim to American caprice as they grow fat, or their hits fade bleakly from the top 40.  Our rock stars are sadly, only rock stars.