When I landed in Tehran on a sparkling morning 44 years ago, the city looked nothing like the Tehran of today, with its tree-lined boulevards, chic dress shops and ultra-modern office towers. Then, open sewers ran alongside the streets, and honking horns compensated for the lack of traffic lights. Getting into town from the airport was like bronco-riding in the Wild West — and that was just the beginning of the adventure.
I was a flight attendant in those days, so I arrived at the hotel as part of a flight crew, some of whom went shopping immediately (including my roommate). I opted to change clothes first, so the assistant manager of the hotel kindly showed me to my room and then accompanied me inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He made it physically clear that he was going to help me get out of that airline uniform in record time, and only my repeated comments, as I fought him off, about how frequently my father stayed in his hotel saved me.
Being young and resilient, and having led a sheltered life, I just muttered “The nerve!” as I locked the door behind him. I hopped in the shower, put on some suitably modest clothing, and caught a cab to the fabled Grand Bazaar, where I hoped to meet up with my fellow crew members. The driver spoke little English, and I spoke no Farsi, of course, but he still managed to let me know that he didn’t think it would be safe for me to enter the bazaar alone. He wouldn’t let his daughter do it, he said, and he wasn’t going to let me do it either. I must have looked unhappy about this imposed supervision, because he assured me that he would just watch over me from a distance, but in the end he couldn’t resist giving me advice about what to buy and what to pay, and so we explored the miles of alleyways and tunnels together, me and my volunteer Persian uncle.
Looking back, it seems to me that these two experiences, on the same morning, in the same city, are a paradigm of what I experienced as the infinite mystery and complexity of a culture that was filled with contradictions. But then, I was affected by the altitude (Tehran is 4,000 feet above sea level), the time difference (eight and a half hours), and the fact that I had never been anywhere so exotic before. The sound of the muzzeins’ call to prayer, the sight of the Alborz mountains rising up off the desert floor, the look of the Persian writing on the street signs — all of it put me under a spell.
America is not yet 250 years old; Iran celebrated 2,500 years of continuous monarchy about 40 years ago (and then deposed its monarch). Greater Tehran has 13.5 million people, including Jews, Christians, Muslims and Zoroastrians.
When I see politicians playing to the cameras now, pontificating about what we ought to do, how we ought to intervene in Iran’s affairs, I can’t help wondering if they’re not as dumb as I was 44 years ago. We’ve intervened twice in my lifetime, both times with disastrous results. I hope we can instead have a little respect for this ancient civilization, this complex culture, this fascinating and sometimes dangerous far-away place.
Susan Harper is the retired director of the Commerce Public Library.
(0) comments
Welcome to the discussion.
Log In
Keep it Clean. Please avoid obscene, vulgar, lewd, racist or sexually-oriented language.
PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CAPS LOCK.
Don't Threaten. Threats of harming another person will not be tolerated.
Be Truthful. Don't knowingly lie about anyone or anything.
Be Nice. No racism, sexism or any sort of -ism that is degrading to another person.
Be Proactive. Use the 'Report' link on each comment to let us know of abusive posts.
Share with Us. We'd love to hear eyewitness accounts, the history behind an article.