A whipping feathery crack sliced through the calm afternoon air of a day of prayers, picnic trips, horse carriage rides, and lazy shops. Esfahan opened the thick cover of her voluminous history with the dramatic curtain-raise of a hundred pigeons circling the overwhelming Imam Square that boasted of the colourful pasts of the Sassanid, Seljuk, Mongol, and the glorious reign of Shah Abbas I of the Safavid period. It had seen siege fell, held, and the burning and rebuilding of a clash of titanic minds, will and creative wealth. Its skyline today welcomed travelleres from far and wide. The many green lawns become a fixed tradition for families to share in the all common Iranian love of soaking up the sun around the city's courtyard, digging into home goodies surrounded by the protective gazes of the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, Imam Mosque and a labyrinth of shops that coalesced in a heady combination of offers like a modern day Ali Baba's pickings within the belly of the Bozorq Bazaar.
Rich carpets that flowed in the most pastel of silk and shimmered in the thickest of wool began where the smaller cotton, tribal kilim paused. Bronze makers clinked in unison to the bass oratory emitting from the wood carpenter sections, only to be interrupted by a cave of lamp makers while children and young adults alike skipped alternatively between the lanes cut in the middle by a concave artery passing the city's dust washed down from pipes providing precious mountain cool water to ensure the city's needs for ablution, fountain-like admiration, quenching of a dire thirst and the watering of the many pots of flowers, shrubs and trees that adorned the museums and parks bearing the holy translations from the Karim Quran throbbed like an excited heart that knew of greater things to come.
Esfahan was packed with healthy curiosity from many Iranians, especially "Esfahani" (my own nickname for the many lovely people I had met here) that moved so freely from the Armenian Christian quarters of Jolfa to across the ancient bridges that guided you back into the thriving Islamic centre. They all wanted to help you. Some were cheaper and funnier (and more thrilling) rides to get from one point to another, usually drivers that were about to head somewhere and decided to leave slightly earlier to chance on the luck to make a few extra Toman and practiced a few of their nearly forgotten English phrases. We couldn't pass by one helpful stranger that helped us to locate the extremely efficient post office before three more gentlemen pointed us along the way like a child playing connecting the dots. Women offered us peanuts and sweets, school children bellowed out their hellos while passing motorcyclists shouted even higher above the crescendo of their roaring engines to ensure we were never truly alone in this awesome city.
The light of the day played by the lure of nightfall to open up an entire wonderland of knowledge and kindness. Shop vendors striked (now, don't fall over yourself!) a balance bargain, cooks were pleased to feed you non-stop until I was beginning to take on a love of the local chicken stew dish in which my stomach was happier by the rate that my waistline was woeful over the filling up!
It was hard to not marvel in awe at the simplicity and humble beauty of the sea of aquamarine, topaz and citrine that cut a striking difference to the hues of turquoise as bountiful as sand in the deserts that lined the journey along the way into this place. Every design of the monuments were done with the thoughtful remembrance of the greatness of Allah, where asymmetrical alignment stood strong to testify that none other than God alone was rightfully the creator of perfection. Even the subtle art of the many door knocks of their double-door fronts in the houses everywhere, beside hinting to the purdah practice of segregating non-family males from enquiring with the resident females, hence a different knock produced from using the two varying door knocks, also led to the inspiration of the Arabic script of Allah when you combined both brass carvings. If you looked further, the national flag bore a similar resemblance.
We were invited by an inquisitive yet knowledgeable, almost a surreal reincarnation of Omar Khayyam - an Esfahani who was a "Mashadi" (another of my nick names) by blood but living here with his family while pursuing his Masters in Persian literature. We chatted with Kamal as well as his quieter brother-in-law, Mehdi, who was an extremely well-learned mathematician about a wide range of subjects including the politics within and without, the anti-theological logic behind the persecution of the Sunni Muslim here and their lack of access to housing, education and civil rights, the almost exclusive non-interaction between the Muslims and the remaining odd 7,000 Christians in the other side of the river, the donning of the hijab and its future, the economy, the issue and military service centering the areas such as Baluchistan and the finer distinction between Iranians and the many Afghans and nomadic tribes that seemed to roam the city like faded ghosts that nobody noticed.
Our conversations led to a sharing of poetry, an appreciation of the evening Shiite call to prayer, the extension of our learning regarding the long feud between the Caliphate and their Imam lineage as well as listening to the calling of Hussein as the recognised deputy of the Prophet in which it rang out to the faded corners of the world. The many shrines and taking a peek into the most private chambers of a Shiite's belief and practice of their observed prayers, communal interaction and differences stretching from a Jemaah prayer to their very considerate allowance for both men and women - never once in any way to suggest slacking off but instead, the support of a system devised through the nuances of prayers, where, when, who, how to ensure the entire congregation stood as one without losing their individualistic flavour. It was very different from the practices back in our country although I doubted as many Sunni Muslim in Malaysia being so worldly conversant of the variation beyond succumbing to the generalisation gathered from the tube. I must said that having Kamal and Mehdi to guide us through the subtlety really helped in demystifying the harrowing misconception of such a misunderstood religion sect.
Their hospitality extended to an invitation to join them for dinner at their homes. Even here, their thoughtfulness never ceased to amaze me with their always ensuring the guests were never made to feel awkward. We seated, ate and drank as naturally as they had made us felt in a magical, sublime manner such as comparable only to the best known event management that I had seen back home. We chatted further regarding the many other towns in Iran that we hope to see in the future, my own personal wish - witnessing the Ashurah in Mashad. After copious rounds of cardamom-infused tea, Kamal called up from his network of extended families that could only be honed through a lifetime of residing and growing up in the same place, and escorted us back home despite our protestation in having troubling him enough already.
It wasn't for anything asked in return. He refused to receive any payment from us. It was almost hard to fathom and I felt quite like a parasitic leech but I respected that this was the norm and I only reminded him repeatedly that we hope to return the favour the next time from our side. He was ever gracious, but hinted that it would be very difficult for him to visit Malaysia. In fact he didn't believe he would ever get a chance.
As quickly as I had been addicted to the hopefulness of Esfahan, the prevailing underlying current of sadness faced by the people that I would be leaving behind as my journey moved on, came raining down on me.
For a place so positive, it was bitter medicine to swallow to accept that many Iranians believed that they will never escape the tyranny of an autocratic government. As much as they loved a lot of the aspects and there were many I must said - safety, efficiency - they had to live with corruption, with the misconception of the Western powers, the trickling brain drain, and the almost evasive light at the end of the tunnel for many who had all the higher learning yet none of the employment opportunities to contribute their might back into the country. Certain basics of human rights were, in my humble opinion, violated such as the refusal to issue travelling papers until you had completed your military service - two years of service in the most violent of the edges of their world in a tribal, Sunni dominant area that most likely would see them killed for non-combatant confrontation.
It was bleak and it rendered me feeling guilty. Guilty of the fact that they had showered so much kindness and goodness upon us and I had been so childish in my own obsession with my own travel fatigue whilst the Iranians faced something much more permanent. I took my own liberty and blessings in much more serious note now that I had experienced a slice of their world.
In this I wish to say, to the people of Iran, may the grace of a kinder future and the love of mutual respect, harmony and peace be a new river that feeds your nation. And to the government of Iran, I can only say that we will all see you some time in the future... when you are ready for the world.
