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Persian Is Sugar By Sayyid Muhammad Jamalzadeh
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Persian Is Sugar By Sayyid Muhammad Jamalzadeh
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In no other place on the face of the earth but in Iran are saints and sinners treated alike. Finally, after five long years of suffering and homelessness, I was returning home. In fact, before actually setting eyes on the sacred land of Iran from high up on the deck, I could hear the Gilaki songs of the Anzali boatmen singing "balamjan, balamjan." Soon after, the ship anchored and we were transferred to the shore in boats. There, each boat was surrounded by those same boatmen as well as many others, in the same manner that a dead locust would be surrounded by an army of ants. Every passenger was hassled by several boatsmen, oarsmen, or porters. My situation was worse than the rest of the passengers because the others were generally businessmen from Baku and Rasht, wearing traditional long robes and short hats. Additionally, they were known to be tightwads whose purse strings were not likely to be loosened up even when threatened by either club wielders or bludgeon holders. They would rather die than allow anyone but themselves to see the color of their money. Wretched me, on the other hand, had not had a chance even to change my derby hat, which I had been wearing since I left Europe. Taking me for a wealthy Haji's son and a spendthrift, chanting "Sahib, Sahib," they surrounded me. Each piece of my luggage became a bone of contention among several mean porters and lowly boatmen.
The commotion that the arrival of the ship had created knew no end. Bewildered and flabbergasted, I viewed the scene, all the while trying to figure out a way by which I could escape the clutches of these marauders. But the worse was yet to come. Two gruff passport inspectors with irascible faces emerged from among the crowd. They were flanked by several morose and stern government agents in red uniforms with hats that carried the sun-and-lion emblem. The one inspecting my passport frowned. Then he acted as if he had just heard the news of the assassination of the king or had received the irreversible decree of the Angel of Death. Taking his eyes off the passport momentarily, he looked me up and down, as if measuring me for a new suit. Finally he said, "What is this? Are you Iranian?"
"My dear fellow," I said. "What kind of a question is this? Of course I am an Iranian. My ancestors have all been Iranians. Ask anyone in the Sangalaj district of Tehran; they will all testify to my being an Iranian."
But my reply did not seem to meet with his satisfaction, which made me realize that the situation was worse than I could have expected, especially when he ordered the officers to arrest "Khan-Sahib," that is me, temporarily, while further necessary investigations were carried out. One of the officers, who tucked a rather long-stem pipe, like a sword, in his tattered sash, grabbed me by the wrist and said, "Move on."
Recognizing my situation and how precarious it was, I decided to assume a casual stance. Rather than making a scene, as I would normally do in such a situation, I drew in my horns, allowing common sense to lead the way. May God save us all, even the infidel, from falling victim to governmental officials! You cannot even imagine what these ruffians put me through. The only things of mine that were not poked about and turned inside out were my derby hat and my faith, neither of which was of any particular use to them.
Eventually, when they felt that they had carried out their administrative duties to the best of their abilities, I was locked up in a small, dark hut behind the Customs House. It was a grave-like hole complete with cobwebs, and guarded by an army of spiders.
Thinking back to the events before the appearance of the officials, I recalled a discussion between the passengers and the boatmen who transferred us to the shore. They were saying that, once again, the king and the parliament in Tehran had gone on the war path. They also said that not only governmental officials had started to pick up undesirables, but that strict orders had been issued from Tehran regarding all traffic in the region.
More importantly, that very morning a new official had arrived in Anzali from Rasht. To prove his loyalty and viability, they said, this official was burning the wet alongside the dry, as it were. His behavior was likened to that of a rabid dog that, without any apparent reason, attacks innocent people left and right. Additionally, this very official was eyeing the governorship of the region. Preparing the ground for becoming the governor of Anzali, throughout the morning, he had tied up the entire Anzali-Tehran telegraph line, transmitting information on his own activities.
For a while after I entered the hut, I was quite upset. So upset, in fact, that I could not see any thing. As my eyes got used to the darkness, however, I discovered that I was not alone. The first person I saw was one of those typical Europeanized young men who would remain Iran's symbol of insipidness, foolishness, and lack of education for generations to come. I can foresee that, for the next century, Iranian theater audiences will split their sides laughing at the demeanor and behavior of those compatriots of ours.
The Europeanized gentleman in the cell wore a high collar, very much like the chimney of a samovar. Even the color of his collar matched that of a samavar, indicating that he had crossed the Caucasus mountains aboard an oil-powered engine. He sat in a niche and, in the dim light, and immersed himself in reading a "novel."
I was entertaining the thought of going ahead and proferring a bonjour monsieur, just to let him know that I, too, belonged, when a hissing sound from the other end of the cell attracted my attention. Looking in that direction, I could make out something shiny and white that resembled a cat curled over a bag of coals. In reality, however, I was looking at a Mullah who sat in the manner of school children, with his arms wrapped around his knees. His entire body was covered by his cloak. What I had mistaken for a shiny, white cat was his turban the tail end of which, dangling over his shoulder, looked like the tail of a cat. The hissing sound, of course, was the sound of his Arabic prayers.
It was now apparent that three guests shared the same cell. Considering number three as a good omen, I was about to inquire from my friends who they were and what circumstance had landed them in this cell; I even entertained the possibility of our collectively discovering a way out of our predicament, when the cell door flung wide open, and amid the commotion, a poor young boy, wearing a felt cap, was thrown into the cell. Then as quickly as the boy was thrown in, the door was shut again. It turned out that the same newly-appointed official from Rasht, had thrown this innocent, poor child into this cell to intimidate the population. Some time earlier, during the altercations of the Constitutional Revolution, it turned out, this little boy had been employed by a Cossack as a servant.
Recognizing that crying was absolutely useless, the new comer dried his eyes using the tail of his dirty shirt. At the same time, knowing that there were no guards around, he directed a volley of special Iranian curses toward almost everyone who came to his mind, all the time kicking the door and the walls of the cell with his bare feet. Once he realized that the door, flimsy as it looked, was not about to fall apart, he spat on the floor, looked around, and found out that there were other people present in the cell..
He considered me to be a European and, therefore, of no help to him. The Europeanized fellow, too, did not seem to inspire much confidence in him. Walking gingerly, he approached the Mullah. Then, after staring a while at him, in a trembling voice, said, "Excellency, in the name of the holiest of the holies, what have I done to deserve this? Wouldn't it be appropriate for us all to commit suicide and free ourselves from this oppression?"
Upon hearing these words, the Mullah's turban, like a cloud piece, moved and from underneath it, a pair of eyes emerged. Casting a weak glance at the boy's felt hat, he said deliberately and solemnly, "Pilgrim, don't allow anger to get the better of you. God loves those who restrain their anger and those who are forgiving..."
The Mullah's words stupefied the boy in the felt hat. In fact, the only word that he could grasp from among all the Arabic words that the Mullah had uttered was the word "Kazim." Thus, assuming that the Mullah had thought that his name was Kazim, he explained, "Excellency, my name is not Kazim. It is Ramazan! What I meant to say was simply this: I wish somebody would tell me why I should be buried alive in this cell."
Continuing his words with the same demeanor, His Excellency intoned in phrases interspersed with Arabic, "May the Almighty Allah reward you! I am fully cognizant of your plight. Patience is the key to relief. Keep your hopes up. Before long the reason for our incarceration will be known. With a hundred per cent certainty, one way or another, sooner or later, we will be apprised of that reason. For the time being, the best course of action is meditation and recitation of the name of the Creator. There is, indeed, no act more deserving for the individual than to preoccupy himself with the repetition of the name of the Creator."
Poor Ramazan did not understand a word of the Mullah'seloquent "Persian." He was not even sure whether the Mullah was addressing jinn and spirits or spewing religious incantations and charms. He was overwhelmed by fear. Then, as is the custom in these situations, he muttered a bismillah and began a gradual retreat. The Mullah, however, had just begun. Staring at a fixed spot on the wall, and without addressing anyone in particular, he continued, "It could be that we have been destined to be arrested; or it could be that our arrest is not intentional. If it is the latter, then our incarceration should come to an end soon. It also could happen that they might deem us insignificant. In that case, without considering rank and file, they might dispose of us by subjecting us to a slow death. We should, therefore, in one way or another, with mediation or without it, overtly or covertly, orally or in writing, seek the assistance of people we might know in high places. Recall the proverb that says, 'He who seeks finds!' Once we seek our release and find it, our innocence, both before God and in the eyes of our peers, will shine through as clearly as the midday sun..."
Poor Ramazan lost heart altogether, and walking backwards, came from that end of the cell close to where I stood. Casting suspicious glances at the Mullah, he muttered several incantations against the devil. He also recited something that to him was the equivalent of the Qur'anic ayat al-kursi verse. Having recited that verse, he ritually emitted puffs of air around his own head to assure efficacy. There was no question that he was overwhelmed by the situation. The darkness in the cell scared him even more. I felt extremely sorry for the lad.
As for the Mullah, he would not stop his babbling. Having thrown his cloak aside and bared his arms that closely resembled the forearms of a goat, he made some weird signs and gestures, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on that particular spot on the wall. The passport inspector carried the brunt of his curses. He was called "petty," "base," "infidel," "drunkard," "neglector of prayer," "demonic," "son of a bitch," and the like. Just one of those oaths delivered by the Mullah--and I recall only a few out of the hundred he uttered--was sufficient for a faithful's blood to be shed, or for confiscation of an infidel's property, or for declaring a wife unlawful to her husband. Even after all that, he was not done. As deliberate as before and with equal solemnity and sympathy, he described the lack of attention paid to scholars and to people of the cloth, emphasizing the humiliation that they repeatedly suffered for their learning and piety respectively. He carried on and on enumerating the consequences of preoccupation with evil both in this and the next world.
Increasingly the Mullah's speech became abstruse and, eventually, reached a point that not only Ramazan, but Ramazan's grandfather as well, would fail to comprehend. Even I, who boasted of a knowledge of Arabic; I who had spent a good portion of my precious youth parsing and declining Arabic forms as part of my formal education; even I who had mastered the weak and defective verbs and infinitives, was absolutely lost. None of the Arabic phrases I had learned--"I wished," "perhaps," "yes," and "no," not even the active and passive voices, were of any help in figuring out what the Mullah was talking about.
All this time the Europeanized fellow sat in that niche reading his precious novel, paying no attention whatsoever to what was transpiring around him. Only every now and then he would chew on the tip of his scorpion-like moustache. He also repeatedly checked the time on his watch as if making sure that he would not miss his regular tea or coffee break.
Helpless Ramazan, dissatisfied with the assertions of the Mullah, yet in need of a sympathetic ear, found himself face to face with the only alternative. Like a hungry child, who goes to his step-mother for a piece of bread, he approached Mr. Europe. In a shaky voice, he greeted the Monsieur, saying, "Sir, for God's sake, excuse me! I am a laborer with no education. Mr. Mullah over there is an Arab. He seems to be in league with the devil and does not understand proper language. Can you tell me why I should be thrown into this cell to die?
Hearing these words, Mr. Europe jumped down from his niche, closed his book, and stuffed it in his rather large pocket. Then smiling, he approached Ramazan, saying. "Oh, brother, brother," and extending his hand to shake hands with the boy. Ramazan, on the other hand, unable to understand the import of the situation, stepped back a bit. Embarassed, Mr. Europe reached for his moustache instead, and brought his other hand into play, placing both on his chest. Then, by placing his thumbs inside the sleeve openings of his vest, he freed his other fingers to beat on his stiff, starched shirt as if it were a drum. Finally, acting debonair, he said, "Dear friend and compatriot! Indeed! Why have they placed us in this cell? I have been sitting here racking my brain trying to find an answer to this same question; but as of yet, I have not come up with an absolument answer, either positif or negatif. Besides, is this not absolument comique for them to treat me, a diplomé, from the best of families, as if I were... a criminel and a nouveau? Then again what can we expect of this thousand-year despotism that enjoys the fruits of illegalité and caractère arbitraire. A government that takes pride in its being constitutionnel must have an open and legal tribunal to prevent its people from becoming subject to tyranny. My brother in calamity! Don't you find it to be so?"
How could helpless Ramazan fathom such elevated thoughts. Even if we disregard all the French words, how could the poor child know that "rack one's brain" is the literal translation of the French for the Persian verb "to think"? In such situations, Persians would use something like "as hard as I kill myself" or "no matter how hard I beat my head against the wall..." Similarly, becoming "subject to tyranny" is a French term denoting "being oppressed." No wonder that upon hearing the word "subject," which in Persian translates as "peasant," Ramazan explained, "Sir, I am not a peasant. Only twenty steps away from this cell, there is a teahouse. I work as a waiter there."
Mr. Europe shrugged his shoulders, and continuing the drum beat on his shirt, paced back and forth, not paying the slightest attention to Ramazan. Rather, he continued his ruminations outloud, "Révolution without évolution is inconceivable! We, as the youth of the land, must accept the responsibilité of guiding the people. On my part, I have written a rather lengthy article on this sujet proving, with blinding clarity, that no one should abdicate his responsabilité to others and that everyone should fulfill his duty to his country according to his possibilité. That is the way to progress. If we do not do this, décadence will threaten our very existence. Unfortunately, we have not been successful in communicating our thoughts to the people. In this regard, Lamartine makes a most apt remark..."
Following that, Monsieur Europe recited several couplets from a French poem which I happened to know. It belonged not to Lamartine but to Victor Hugo.
Hearing these strange and incoherent words, Ramazan went berserk. He ran to the cell door, incessantly crying and shouting. His cries, which in time, gathered a crowd on the other side of the door, eventually elicited the following tirade from that side. Someone with a truly harsh voice, shouted at the boy, "You there! You son of a bitch. What the heck's your problem? Is someone grabbing your balls or what? What's this racket about? If you don't shut up this very instant, I will have them come in there and put the muzzle on you, do you hear?..."
Ramazan, desperate, lowered his voice but continued his sobbing and pleading. Beseeching the community in a whimpering voice, he said, "Tell me, you Muslims. What crime have I committed that I don't know about? If I am a thief, have my hand cut off; if I am guilty of something, flog me, pull out my nails, nail my ear to the gate, pull my eyes out of their sockets, shod me, shackle me, pour hot wax on me. Otherwise, for Gods sake, release me from this cell and from the clutches of these mad demons. God knows, I am about to go crazy. You are forcing me to share a grave with three loonies. One of them, may God strike him dead, is a European. A mere look at his face requires penance. He stands over there in the corner like an owl, eating you alive with his eyes. The other two do not comprehend language as if a jinn has struck them dumb. Whose responsibility will it be, before God, if they attack and strangle me!?..."
Poor Ramazan could not keep quiet. Choking and weeping convulsively, he continued his protest. Again the same gruff voice from behind the door threw a volley of curses at him, curses that I cannot repeat. I felt truly sorry for the boy. Stepping forward, I reached him, and placing my hand on his shoulder, said, "Son, I am not a European. To hell with Europeans, all of them. I am an Iranian, a faithful brother of yours. Don't be afraid. Nothing is going to happen to you. You are a proper young man. Why are you panicking like that?..."
When he saw that I spoke Persian, more importantly when he realized that we spoke the same language, he grabbed my hand and repeatedly kissed it. His delight knew no end, as if he had been given the world. He said, "May I be sacrificed for your words. You must be an angel sent from above to rescue me..."
"Dear boy, please calm down," I said. "Don't let your co-workers get wind of this or you will become the butt of their jokes for the rest of your life..."
"May your calamities find those two madmen. I was going out of my mind. I very nearly lost it, for real. Those two did not understand a word of what I said. What demonic tongues to they use!"
I said, "Brother, those two over there are neither jinn nor madmen. They, too, are Iranians, our ethnic and religious brothers."
Upon hearing this, Ramazan looked at me as if to assure himself that he had not made a mistake. Then laughing outloud, he said, "For God's sake, sir, do not pull my leg. If they are Iranian, why do they speak in tongues absolutely incomprehensible to the rest of us?"
I said, "Ramazan, they, too, speak a variety of Persian, however,..."
But it was apparent from the start that Ramazan was not convinced that they were Iranians. I knew I had to change my strategy and was reassessing the situation to restate my thoughts when the cell door flung wide open. The jailer entered and said, "Come on, tip me for the good news, and take your leave. You are all free to go..."
Rather than jumping with joy upon hearing the good news, Ramazan grabbed me and said, "By God, tidings like this are brought to prisoners who are intended to be handed over to the executioner. Oh God, save our souls!"
But it became apparent soon after, that Ramazan's fears were unfounded. The morning passport inspector had been recalled and in his place a new passport inspector had arrived, a similarly imposing, self-sufficient, and ambitious fellow with his eye on the governorship of Rasht. Our being set free seems to have been his first act in unraveling the orders of the previous inspector. We thanked God for that.
When we were about to leave the cell, we saw the same officials bringing in a young man who, from all indications, seemed to be a native of Khui or Salmas. This young man, too, had a special Persian accent which, later on, I found to be a gift from Istanbul. Using Turkic phrases, he "protested" his situation in no uncertain terms and sought peoples' "mercy" and "requested" to be heard. Ramazan cast a look at the youth and said, "In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful; here is yet another one. Oh God, why have You decided to send all Your demented beings and demons to Anzali? Nevertheless, thank You for that which You bestow, and for that which You don't!"
I wanted to tell Ramazan that the fellow that they took in was also an Iranian who spoke Persian, but I feared that he might think I was pulling his leg and lose heart. So I let the matter rest. Instead I went about finding a carriage that would take me to Rasht. Several minutes later, when the Mullah, Mr. Europe, and I were leaving Anzali for Rasht in a shared carriage, Ramazan ran after us. Upon catching up, he handed me a handkerchief full of sweets and whispered, "Excuse the straight talk, sir, but I believe that their madness has affected you as well. Otherwise why would you want to travel with that lot!"
"Ramazan," I said. "I am not a coward like you."
"God speed," he said. "Whenever you find you do not understand them, help yourself to these sweets and remember me!"
The carriage driver's whip brought the horses to a trot and set us off on our new journey. I should add, it was a pleasant trip, especially when we saw yet another passport official speeding in the direction of Anzali.
The Government and People of Iran
Iranians are generally swarthy and of average height. Although they speak a great deal, their accomplishments are not noteworthy. They are witty and partial to comedy, yet they are known to cry a lot. Their language is so smooth and persuasive that it can charm a snake out of its hole. Iranian kids are mostly afflicted with a disease that leaves them with a scald-head. Iranian men generally shave their head but allow their beard to grow long. What is most astonishing about this country is that it does not have any women in it. One sees little girls of five or six, but there are no women to be seen. I have given this matter of absence of the opposite sex among the population a great deal of thought but, as yet, have not been able to come up with a solution. I had heard about "women cities," i.e., cities in which women, rather than men are in full control, but I had never heard of "men cities." There is a rumor in Europe according to which each Iranian man holds a large women's quarter (haramkhane). But truly, my compatriots must be out of touch with reality! How can each man in Iran have a house full of women while in the country itself you cannot find even one woman? Ignorance is bliss! One day, on the street, I observed that people had surrounded a youth with long hair, a clean face, a long dress, and a silk sash. Thinking that they had surrounded a woman, I headed in that direction. At last, I thought, I was about to see an Iranian woman. But no sooner did I arrive there than I discovered that the fellow was a dervish. Dervishes are singers. In Iran there are no operas or live theaters. Singers perform their songs in the streets. Instead of the ticket that you need to buy to enter a theater in Europe, in Iran the singer hands you a green feather. The entrance fee for the opera, too, is quite inexpensive. Besides, there is no obligation to pay. It all depends on how you feel about payment for the performance.
I had an Iranian friend who had a number of children. Actually he was my best friend. One day inquiring about his wife I asked, "By the way, where is your wife?"
His reaction astounded me. His whole face turned copper red, his eyes widened, like the eyes of a mad man, and his whole attitude toward me changed. I realized that I had made an unforgivable mistake. I asked for his indulgence. From then on I came to understand that in this country not only there are no women but that there should be no mention of the existence of women,
Another strange thing in Iran is that some of the people, in fact nearly half the population, wrap themselves in a black bag so thoroughly that their entire body, from head to toe, is covered. There is no opening in the bag, not even for breathing. They walk about everywhere, carrying this black bag with them. No one is allowed to hear the voice of those confined to the bag. And those moving about in the bag are not allowed to do certain things. For instance, they are not to enter public places like teahouses and the like. They have their own special bathhouse. In formal gatherings, such as in a rowzahs or a wake, they are given their own special places. I also should add that when alone, these individuals are pretty quiet; some are as quiet as a mouse. But once a few of them get together, the commotion they create becomes defeaning. They raise the dead, you could say. I believe these individuals must belong to a certain Iranian priestly cast, just like our own strange men of the cloth in Europe. Yet, even as priests they do not enjoy the respect of their flock. Neither is the term they use to refer to them--weakling (za'ifa)-- encouragingRather, I think, it emphasizes their lack of a social standing.
Now let me talk about the men. Categorized according to their head gear, Iranian men can be placed in three groups: those wearing yellow hats, those in white hats, and those who sport black hats.
The first group, usually referred to as "mashhadi" and "Karbala'i," are mostly peasants and servants. For some reason, they seem to have sworn to work as hard as possible and pass all their earnings to the other two groups, i.e., to the white hats and the black hats. The yellow hats are so determined in carrying out this selfless act of giving that they often work themselves and their family to death. Death from cold and hunger, even being placed in the grave without a shroud for lack of money for a proper burial, does not deter them from their charitable act. As a result, the white hats and the black hats become so rich that they do not know where or how to spend their money...
The purchase and sale of the yellow hats are, of course, a major preoccupation of the white hats and the black hats whose only goal consists of possessing more and more yellow hats. And, I should say that the price for the yellow hats is quite reasonable. In fact, the price is so low, that throughout my stay in Iran, I did not see even one instance of a single yellow hat transaction. Very much like our European tradition of buying and selling honey bees in hives, in Iran the yellow hats are sold as families with their house, hamlet, and even village. For instance, you might hear that today so and so bought one hundred yellow hat families for the such and such an amount.
Furthermore, these yellow hats are blessed with the gift of real freedom, the type that in Europe we speak a lot about, but which we fail to actually achieve and enjoy. They are so free that they can sacrifice their entire property, even their lives and wives, for the white hats and the black hats without raising the slightest objection. They are also blessed with the gift of equality. If you were to search a thousand of them, for instance, you would not find even one of them who possesses anything whatsoever that the others do not possess. In other words, they all live in blessed abject poverty. And they carry this equality to the grave with them. The fact that there are no tombstones on their graves, not even several bricks to mark the place, testifies to their equality. After all, how long does it take for the elements to obliterate any initial markers that might be placed on a new grave? This expression of equality, or "brotherhood," is carried into their vernacular as well. They all call each other "Daash," which, in fact, means brother.
Now, let us turn our attention to the white hats who are usually referred to as Shaykhs or Akhunds. To begin with, the white hats enjoy an enviable respect among the general population. Besides because their recognition is tied to their hat, whatever fabric they come across, they tie around their head. Their heads, thus, resemble a minaret on which a stork has built a nest. One day I asked an Iranian, "Why do the Akhunds tie so much material around their head?"
"It's quite simple," he replied. "When your finger is injured, don't you wrap some bandage around it to keep it from further harm. Perhaps the brains of the Akhund are damaged and they intend to prevent fresh air from reaching them!...
Throughout my stay in Iran, I made a point of finding out what professional guild these white hats belonged to. But to no avail. I gathered this much that whatever profession it is, it must be part of a secret society. Also it ought to be a profession that involves a lot of manual dexterity. I believe this because people constantly kiss the hands of the white hats.
One day I said to one of my Iranian acquaintances, "I know that these white hats belong to a profession that involves some sort of manual activity. But I do not know what profession that is." He said, "Theirs is truly an industry on which Iran's very existence hinges. Without this industry, all the country's affairs will come to a full stop and the country will self-destruct.
"What is the name of this sublime profession?" I asked,
"Bribery," he said.
I felt quite mortified as I did not know the meaning of the word and, at the same time, did not want to reveal the extent of my ignorance of the culture. So I simply kept silent and let the matter rest. I still don't know the meaning of the word. It is also possible that there is no such word and that my acquaintance was pulling my leg...
In any event, whatever the profession, I believe, the thumb and the forefinger play a major role in its performance. I say this because the white hats constantly rub these digits against each other. Could it be that they keep them well exercised? They have gone so far as devising a means for the proper exercise of the digits. It consists of running a string through the holes of a number of colored rocks. They work this device night and day to keep those fingers in full working order.
Now, a word about the tribe of the black hats, whom the Iranians call "khans." All the governmental offices, both in the capital and in the provinces, are controlled by the members of this tribe. They have a large assembly that is very much like a mason's lodge. In reality, it is a private club. But whoever from the outside can enter it, he will find himself to be in clover. They call their assembly "divan." The word itself is derived from the word "div" which means demon, a creature that is found quite regularly in Iranian myths. And it is truly an apt name for the place as everyone knows that divs react to events in reverse of what they are expected to do. For instance, if you do a div a favor, the div will respond by making you his first morsel. If you tell the div the truth, he will become your worst enemy, and if you tell him a lie, he becomes your best friend. These black hats act in exactly the same manner. That is, perhaps, why they refer to their assembly as the "divan."
According to the rules of their own assembly, these black hats are duty bound not to take a step or utter a word that is not directly beneficial to themselves. I had heard in Europe that the principle of self interest had been invented by a British philosopher. But it is abundantly clear now that even before that philosopher's ancestors had been born, Iranians had been major practitioners of this trait. And therein lies the logic that European civilization is a gift of the Orient.
Most of the energy of these black hats is expended on establishing tranquility in all parts of Iran. And they go about it in a most proper fashion. For instance, they know well that the root of all calamities in countries like Iran rests in money. They do their utmost, therefore, to prevent the population from possessing any money. If they find out that someone is in possession of money, they move as quickly as possible and dispossess him of it. In fact, they have established special squads throughout the country to see to the poverty of the populace. Their efforts in this regard have been very fruitful; they have eliminated much harm that could otherwise have befallen Iran...
A group of these black hats who, contrary to tradition, shave their beard, curl their moustache, and truncate their hats and wear them askance are referred to as the "fokolis." These fokolies are willing to entertain certain changes or "reforms" in the constitution of the divan or assembly. For instance, they believe that the full import of the constitution has not been borne on the white hats or Akhunds. Some of the white hats, they feel, continue to enjoy prosperity, thus disrupting the harmony that is being cultivated in the land. This situation, they believe, must be rectified so that, at the end, the white hats and the yellow hats become truly equal. I agree fully with the fokolis who have, after all, been educated in our own European tradition. And I pay homage to our own European system of education that inculcates this sense of equality among people.
And now the final, precious word. Esperanto, the hypothetical language that will be made up of elements from all the living languages of the world, is already in existence in Iran. In fact it is the sole language of the fokolis. The other languages are incomprehensible to them. For us Europeans, of course, the fokolies language is not difficult at all. It is a concoction of European languages spiced by Persian, Turkish, and Arabic.
This was a summary of my opinion and observations regarding Iranian women and men, as well as of Iranians in general and their government.