"Come in Peace, But Regardless We Will Prevail"

Archeologist Hassan Abdullahzadeh stepping out of a 900-year-old wartime shelter, near Sabzevar, NE Iran.

Inside wartime shelter, with multiple passages, including a secret one in the back.

Art historian Abdulreza Soleimani examining a 2500-year-old Achaemenidian stone crypt

The view from inside the stone structure over Cheshmeh Shafah, from 1000 BCE

Inside the Zoroastrian temple built by the Achaemenids (650 to 330 BCE)

Inside the 18th-century mausoleum of Sufi Baba Langer

"When you come here you should be petrified,” says archeologist Hassan Abdullahzadeh, “because it becomes so obvious that nothing lasts."

The mausoleums of Sufis Baba Langer and Haj Baba Tavakol—two adjoining structures but centuries apart.

By Ali Torkzadeh

To the ignorant—or the American spy satellites that watch this land—it’s just a dirt hole in the side of a hill, barely big enough to enter.

To the Iranians who’ve lived here for thousands of years, however, it’s a message from the past, a testament to how their ancestors managed to survive countless conquerors.

The hole is actually the entrance to a 900-year-old man-made cave created to hide from the enemy. There is another entrance from the above and then hidden
from the eye, there’s a tunnel in the back that leads to other caves dug over centuries for multiple escape routes.

There are probably hundreds of such wartime shelters just in this part of the country and countless others all over Iran, most of them long forgotten to time and sand.

“It’s like a maze of rat holes in there,” archeologist Hassan Abdullahzadeh tells me as I climb the hill shortly after sunrise, sleepy-eyed, thirsty (it’s 20th day of the Ramadan and I can’t eat or drink, at least not in the public), and clueless about the rich history lesson I was about to receive.

“Over the centuries, they figured out that they need to allow for anything that the enemy could think of. Even if the enemy found the cave and poured fire on them from above, there was still a way out,” says Abdullahzadeh, who works at the Cultural Heritage office in Sabzevar, 95 kilometers away and 700 kms east of Tehran.

“And it wasn’t just a cave. Inside we’ve found bedrooms, kitchens, works of art on the walls, sophisticated pottery.

“We found a bowl-shaped oil lamp with holes on the side; we suspect it was made to throw soft light on the walls in order to relax the occupants.

“Over time hiding in the caves wasn’t just about survival but a lifestyle. They found ways to live down there in tranquility to outlast the enemy.”

The lesson to the future enemies should be that “these people are tough survivors,” Abdullahzadeh goes on.

“Throughout history they’ve given refuge to travellers. After all, they were living on a crossroad of continents and learned to deal with foreigners of all types."

There are indications that most foreigners came in peace and found hospitality here. There is even evidence that foreigners felt comfortable enough to leave their dead here to continue on their journey, Abdullahzadeh says.

“But vow to the outsider when the Iranian chooses to resist,” chimes in my other guide, Abdulreza Soleimani, art history professor and cultural heritage activist in Sabzevar. “One way or another, the foreigner either leaves or gets absorbed into the culture.

“The Iranians have been at this game for thousands of years; it’s in their blood now.”

I am in an area known as Baba Langar, named after the 14th century Sufi spiritualist buried further up the hill. What used to be the Silk Road is now an asphalt highway 20 kilometers away, busy as ever, with Eastern European and Turkish trucks zooming by to and from Central Asia.

Again, to the naked eye it’s just a few ordinary hills in middle of nowhere. Below us, old men and boys tend to the fields and herds of sheep and goat. Giggling
children jostle to be photographed by me, the latest newcomer; the women smile but nervously turn away at the sight of a camera.

To the archaeologists here and abroad, though, this area is home to a remarkable array of priceless structures spanning three millenniums and—because this area
has always been a thoroughfare—of many origins and beliefs. Moslems, Zoroastrians and even the Anahitas (pre-Zoroastrians dating back to 1000 BCE) left their mark here.

Even Buddhists went through here on their pilgirimages to the east, Abdullahzadeh writes in his latest of four books.

To climb the hill is like climbing into a time machine.

Just a stone’s throw from the shelter, there’s an Achaemenid (650 to 330 BCE) stone and mortar crypt, which most likely holds the remains of as many as 30 members of royalty.

“It’s too precious to ever dig it up and archeology has moved on from the let’s-dig-up-everything mentality,” Abdullahzadeh says.

And further up the hill I am led into the intact remains of a Zoroastrian temple, also built by the Achaemenids, where fire probably burned ceaselessly for centuries.

Besides the temple is an underground water reservoir and stone walls built into the side of the hill to keep the soil from washing away. All those were left by the Achaemenids too.

“You’re looking at a 2500-year-old wall and it’s still standing!” Abdullahzadeh exclaims. “They truly cared about their environment and worked to conserve it.”

Still further up the hill, and by now we’re panting and sweating under the puffy clouds that gently sail over us, we get to the mausoleum of Baba Langar, built
during the Safavid Dynasty (1501-1736 CE) and the tomb of Haj Baba Tavakol, another Sufi, this one from the 13th-century Ilkhanate Dynasty. Two structures a few meters from each other but centuries apart.

Then we turn to the east and descend down the hill to the natural spring of Cheshmeh Shafah—literally “fountain of healing”. The followers of Anahita believed its
water, still slowly gathering in a pool inside a chamber, had healing properties.

Pilgrims still tie pieces of cloth on the tree branches nearby as symbols of their prayers.

There’s so much more, including yet another Zoroastrian temple, a bathhouse and even a prison, all from different periods in history, all within what must be two or three square kilometers.

The Baba Langar village from above.

Qanat water is pooled above farmland for irrigation, as it has been done for thousands of years.

Abdullahzadeh is analytical now:

“When you come here you should be petrified,” he says as we descend back to the village, “because it becomes so obvious that nothing lasts. You come and go, no matter who you are and how powerful you are.

“There’s a higher power that directs us to be friends and share our resources, not fight over them.

“We want to send the world this message, to say, ‘look, this is what happened here. This is what history teaches us. We already know using force doesn’t work. So let’s set aside the fighting and live in peace.

Coming from the land of Dick, Condi and George—to some Iranians he’s known as “Little George”, the moniker popularized by Saddam Hussein when he was still in power—to me Abdullahzadeh’s statement sounds rather surprising and perhaps a bit naïve.

Instead of being angry about possible attack by the same gang that initiated the bloodbath in Iraq, both of my guides are calling for peace and cooperation.

There’s no resentment here. They believe there’s enough for everyone to share.

“They have things we need and we have things they need,” Soleimani says. “It just doesn’t make sense to fight.

“But if they choose to attack, well to me the outcome is already known,” he adds. “Just look around you. Iranians survived all this time. Why would it be different this time?”

I think of the arrogant neocons in Washington who would scoff at this kind of talk; their faith is in their guided missiles and their uncanny ability to wag the dog’s tail, even five years after September 11.

I recalled something I heard Ronald Reagan say during a televised speech when he was in office: “ … Americans were born to lead the world.”

Soleimani doesn’t lose a beat. He swings toward me, looks me in the eyes, and responds, quintessential of an Iranian, with a poem:

“Baad avardeh rah, Baadash bord.”

The best translation: “Easy come, easy go”

"Iran is Not a Location"

Wine, music and ascension to God. Plaster molding marvel reflects the kasrat-beh-vahdat concept at the entertainment hall in Ali Qapu Palace, Isfahan, Iran.

Tears have come to me twice so far from merely walking into a room in Iran.

The first was at Kashan’s Sultan Amir Bathhouse.

And then today, as I walked into what 400 years ago was the king’s entertainment hall at the Isfahan’s Ali Qapu Palace.

My guide and friend Abdulreza Soleimani was talking but I can’t recall what at the moment.

I was mumbling to myself: “What happened to you Iran? What happened?”

This was the room where Shah Abbas I entertained. The musicians were hidden in tiny quarters on the four sides of room, from which their music would spill into the room but they could not see the inside of the hall.

It's all plaster! Close-up of 400-year-old plaster moldings.

"Before and after plaster molding repair at Ali Qapu Palace. The right side—the modern work isn't as straight as the left side—the 400-year-old original.

Restoration artists at work at Ali Qapu Palace, Isfahan, Iran.

“Listen to the silence,” Soleimani pled with us.

“Do you hear the silence? This was the kind of silence the music penetrated. You see, in this age there was actually a philosophy of silence.”

The king sat in the middle of the room, where I stood now, surrounded on four sides with 3D plaster moldings shaped like bottles of wine and other containers, perhaps hundreds of each, in row after row, each row building upon the other, and changing shape and size, and giving way to other themes, until they met in the center of the dome.

The concept is called “kasrat-beh-vahdat”—literally “plurality to singularity”—one of the oldest and most revered concepts of Islam. Plurality—represented by all the beauty I was surrounded with—is the world and its people. Singularity—the golden center of the dome I was starring at—is God.

It says to mankind all things end in God and all things come from God.

I strode closer to the plaster moldings. Each representation of the wine bottle—in which sometimes actual bottles were placed—was perfectly identical to the other and in complete symmetry with the other elements.

How could they pull off that kind of perfection 400 years ago?

“You have to remember that the people who did this work were artists who had devoted their lives to expression of art and spirituality,” Soleimani said.

“You and I want wages to work. But the artist of 400 years ago was in the business of satisfying himself. He gave himself to his work.

“Hafez created a collection like no other but did not make a penny.”

Why even bother? Photos would never do justice to the dome at the king's entertainment room at Ali Qapu Palace, Isfahan, Iran

He showed me new plaster work created with modern equipment. The shapes were off. They symmetry was not as perfect as the 400-year-old.

How could the ancient people be more exact? What were their tools?

“The tools of the heart!” Soleimani snapped back. “What tools did Rumi use to ascend to the heavens?”

“You see Ali,” he turned toward me. “You have to understand that Iran is not a geographic location. Iran is a way of thinking; it’s a way of loving.

“When you’re back in America never think of yourself as being from a place. Think of yourself as devotion, of thought—that took thousands of years to form.”

The architects and their artisans used "the tools of the heart," says art historian Abdulreza Soliemani, speaking at the king's entertainment hall at Ali Qapu Palace, Isfahan, Iran. Beautiful tourist on the left not part of the entertainment.

Lessons of War

Inside the mosque, the only functional structure remaining today at the 14th century Aa-Ghaleh fortress, 75 kms NE of Sabzevar, NE Iran.

What remains of the entrance to the "arg" (or the citadel) at Aa-Ghaleh fortress.

Entrance to the mosque, on the other end of Aa-Ghaleh fortress.

Archaeologist Hassan Abdullahzadeh on what used to be 10-meter-high, 4-meter-thick walls protecting the fortress of Aa-Ghaleh

What used to be housing for soldiers living directly under the fortress walls.

By Ali Torkzadeh

You can choose to turn your homeland into a state-of-the-art citadel and put your faith in weapons and seemingly impenetrable walls, but is that a good solution for the long-term?

The ancient Persians who lived and farmed here, on the edge of the Dasht-e Kavir desert in what today is northeast Iran, did just that.

The Aa-Ghaleh, founded in 1312 CE by the ruling Mongolian Ilkhanate dynasty, was one of those fortresses, built to last any attack. Its remains, even after centuries of neglect and much of it buried under desert sand, say a lot about the security-obsessed people who lived here.

I am walking the kilometer-wide “shaar” or the common area of city with Hassan Abdullahzadeh, archeologist at the Cultural Heritage office in Sabzevar, 75 kms away.

Behind me is the mosque, the only part of Aa-Ghaleh that remains in functional shape today and is undergoing long-awaited reconstruction. Everything else is nearly unrecognizable from the ravages of time.

There are still standing parts of the “baaroo” or the outer walls of the city, composed of three to four meters of mud, piled high to as much as ten meters. Behind the wall is the moat, four or five meters wide. It was filled with water to provide yet another impasse against attacks.

The common people lived in the shaar;the rich and the royalty lived in the “arg”, roughly the equivalent of the Western citadel, an even more secure area, a city within the city, with battlements and multi-story buildings of rock and mortar.

The arg also served as the final refuge for the rest of the people when the outer city fell. People would rush in before the gate would roll into place.

There could not be a more secure gate to the arg. It could not be burned or broken because it was made out of pure rock, two meters in diameter and perhaps as much as 1.5 meters thick!

What remains of the arg today speak of luxury and architectural excellence. An octagonal area immediately behind the gate, known as the “hashti”, is at least 10 meters high and about 20 meters wide. This entire space used to be covered by a single giant roof and kept warm during the winter with giant fireplaces on four sides.

The people who lived here paid a price for security on daily basis, Abdullahzadeh explains.

Building other gates would have been too risky—and expensive, considering the drawbridges required to cross the moat—so even getting to farmland immediately behind the walls was a chore, requiring daily commutes around the outer walls—sort of like traveling the maze at today’s airport security checkpoints.

Then there were the taxes paid to the rulers, who stayed in power in the name of fighting terror—much like the way modern taxpayers finance wars dreamed up by leaders who prefer foreign adventures over boring domestic administration.

“War permeated everyday life,” Abdullahzadeh says. “When the farmer went out to the field, he had a shovel in one hand and a sword in the other.

“We’ve found a Koran verse posted, calling on the people to go out and enjoy nature, but it surely was difficult to enjoy anything if you had to worry about the safety of your family everyday.

“No one lives here today; even the walls they thought would last for ever are crumbling away."

“That hardened these people into a special breed, to be able to live generation after generation juggling loyalty to God, the sword and the family, and still manage to produce architectural wonders and beautiful poetry.”

The lesson here, Abdullahzadeh says, is that solving conflicts through force and then hiding behind fortress walls does not pay in the long-term.

“They built all this, all these walls, all this weaponry, spent so much of their resources on security,” he says, excitedly gesturing with his arms, “but eventually it all turned into dust.

“No one lives here today; even the walls they thought would last for ever are crumbling away.

“The other lesson is that conquerors didn’t get much either. You see, they are not around anymore either. I find that especially amusing.

“Let’s say America attacks and takes over this land,” Abdullahzadeh continues. “But what are the Americans going to do with desert land? And surely the people whose relatives where killed during the attack aren’t going to help them. So how are they going to make things work?

And, of course, I can’t help but immediately think of the nightmare unfolding about 1500 kms to the west of us, in the place where some very foolish conquerors thought they would be greeted with sweets and flowers.

We walk back to the car and head back to Sabzevar. It’s October 18th, 2006 and the 25th day of Ramadan. It’s mid-afternoon and everyone’s hungry, even I, even though I’m not fasting.

But my mind is elsewhere. I had just read on the Internet that average death toll in Iraq has risen to 43 a day.

If only decaying mud could rise up and speak of what it saw. But would even that make a difference?

Music of Architecture

Inside the great room at the Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque, Isfahan, Iran.

“Ali, do you hear me?” my father says.

He’s at least 35 meters away. He's not shouting and he's turned away from me, his face closely tucked in one of the corner of the giant domed hall at the Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque in Isfahan, Iran.

The light is poor and I can barely see him.

But to hear him? Logic says that should be impossible. Yet, I do hear him—albeit in a low, grated tone. I saw giggling tourists do the same thing in the vestibule at the Ali Qapu Palace, across the Naghsh-i Jahan Square from where we are now.

Then my guide, art historian Abdulreza Soleimani, grabs my shoulders and positions me in the exact center of the 20-by-20 meter room. The breathtaking domed ceiling—bejeweled and sparkling with literally thousands of hand-painted miniature shapes—towers perhaps 30 meters above us.

“Say something, anything.”

“Okay, I’m in Isfahan!” I yell.

I hear myself reverberating through the room. But the resonance is instant. It’s not really an echo. It doesn’t interfere with my speech.

It’s like speaking into “a hundred Bose speakers,” is how my my father puts it.

“This is a component of what they call music of architecture,” Soleimani explains. “It’s the literal kind and it's very common. Iranian architects did this for obvious reasons; to allow for sound amplification technology that didn’t yet exist.

“Another form of music of architecture—the kind that is most often referred to in research—is music that is woven into structures.

“When you listen to Persian music, say the Chahargah, you have a prologue, a beginning and so on. Slowly you are taken to a certain height before you land back down.

“Same with architecture. This morning we walked up the steps of Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque, then we entered the vestibule and then a hallway that led to another hallway, and so on.

“Then you were facing the walls in the great room, where every tile, every shape has been calculated to raise you to a higher realm. Then other shapes are to take you to even higher planes. Until, of course, you meet the center of the dome, the height of your experience before you are led back down and out the door. Kasrat-beh-vahdat is taking you to meet God.

“This is the music of architecture. The Iranians who designed these structures were not just building buildings. That was the least of their concerns.

“They created an experience, an experience of the heart and the spirit, to worship, to sing praises to the heavens and allow us to experience the same even centuries later.”

Naghsh-i Jahan: Answer to the "Loneliness of Liberalism"

Naghsh-i Jahan Square, view from the iwan at Ali Qapu Palace.

Could brick and mortar help harmonize a society?

In the West, the question might bring to mind building border fences to keep out illegal immigrants and terrorists.

The Iranians of an age long gone had something else in mind.

I’m standing in Naghsh-i Jahan Square of Isfahan built by Shah Abbas I when this city was the capital of the Safavid Dynasty.

The label "square" does not do it justice. It’s more like a rectangular arena the size of perhaps four or five football fields, so big that during this hazy day people on the other side are not visible.

What's the king doing? Where are the mullahs? Naghsh-i Jahan Square, one of the largest in the world, held the answers in the Iran of 400 years ago.

It's one of the largest squares in the world and one of UNESCO's World Heritage Sites.

The four sides are lined with artisan shops, each with an identical façade. Behind them run the bazaars for various types of crafts, their dark noisy corridors peppered with dusty rays of sun.

The top of the façade is even throughout, a straight line around me. That's the Persian architect’s way of establishing cohesion and stating respect for oneness of all, says my guide and art historian Abdulreza Soleimani.

There are four places that the skyline does break. On the north side is the entrance to the Isfahan's Grand Bazaar; on the east, the Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque; on the south-side the Shah Mosque; and on the west, the Ali Qapu Palace.

“You have every organ of society all meeting in this one square,” Soleimani explains. “The bazaar represents commerce. The Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque was really a school, so it represented academia. The Shah Mosque represented religion, and the Ali Qapu [Palace], that was were the king sat.

“Every element of society was not only here, they actually could watch each other,” he goes on. “Sheik Lotf Allah knew what was going on across the street with the king and likewise the mullahs at the Shah Mosque were in touch and simultaneously accountable for what they were doing.

“This is how the square instituted a kind of equilibrium and accountability between the top elements of the society.

“It also provided a rhythm and humanity to life. If one morning the Haj Agha across the square didn’t open up his shop, the other shopkeepers would send a messenger to his home to find out why.

“Say the news comes back that he’s dead. Then the entire square would shut down. Everyone would pull down their shutters, go and bury their colleague, then come back, open up his shop, put his son in charge, and only then go back to business as usual.

“Then there was the productivity aspect. If I’m a copper artistan here and hear others clanging away with their hammers, this would inspire me to also be productive. But if I was on the other side of the town, then I would be alone there. I would never be as inspired to contribute, to create, to fabricate art.

“You see, the square inspired community and thereby provided security and peace of mind. Because people were part of the community, they could concentrate on their craft. It’s that peace of mind that allowed people to create the kind of world-class art you see here.

“The community ruled, not the individual. The fabric of community was so strong that no one man—not even the king—would dare to force himself over it.

“Later on, during the Qajar dynasty and the influence of the West, the palace moved away from the square, like it is in the West. Now the king was dependent on the intermediators—today’s lobbyists. He fell out of touch with society and, as you know, that’s when things went downhill with Iran.

“And the society fell in love with the liberalism of the West, the worship of the individual, which leads to a dictatorship of the self.

“Yes, they have more material things; the individual imagines and builds fantastic things, but at the end of the day he’s alone; he’s less of a human. In Europe, a person actually prefers to be with a dog or cat sitting at home instead of interacting with other human beings.

“They call it democracy and freedom, but in reality it’s about the individual being out of control, doing as they wish, not respecting and not benefiting from the wisdom of the community.

“Now tell me, what kind of a person is not a dictator? The person who is just.

“But just people are rare in the West. We know that because the amount Westerners spend just on their dogs and cats would easily wipe out starvation in Africa. But they won’t do it.

“This is how we know that liberalism has not produced justice.

The academics at the Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque could literally watch the Ali Qapu Palace across Naghsh-i Jahan Square, one of the largest in the world.

Back at the hotel, my father and I learn from EuroNews that journalists have laid siege to Tom Cruise’s hotel ahead of his wedding this weekend.

Some people have paid 100,000 euros to watch the wedding, the satellite television report says.

“A hundred thousand euros! Can you believe that?” I exclaim.

It’s applicable to where we are. An Iranian medical school graduate might make as little as $300 a month but an apartment in Tehran can easily cost $500/month to rent.

“It’s the sick system, not the people,” my father says with a contemptuous hiss. He glances back at me and flashes his trademark I-told-you smile. He is referring to the countless debates we’ve had over the alleged immorality of the West.

“When you are raised a certain way, this is where you end up. It’s the system; it’s not Tom Cruise. Mr. Tom Cruise would never be Tom Cruise outside this system. It’s the system that turns people into these pointless lives.”

I respond: “The system gives people what they’re asking for. The journalists are just providing a product.”

“Precisely,” he smiles again. “That’s what I’m saying too. If they are just peddling a product, then they are not journalists anymore. It’s corporate profit-taking, not journalism.

“Please forgive my language, but it becomes pimping.”

Panorama #1 (57kb)

Just north of village of Kharaghani, Shahrood area, NE Iran.

Spiritual Architecture: "The mind can't do it"

"The mind could not create such beauty," says art historian Abdulreza Soleimani, at the mihrab, inside Sheik Lotf Allah Mosque, Isfahan, Iran.

“Do you see this little turquoise piece,” says my guide, art historian Abdulreza Soleimani. “How many of pieces like this one do you think there are just on this wall?”

He’s pointing to a piece perhaps one by two centimeters, one of the thousands upon thousands of slices of tile, larger and smaller, cut into odd shapes and put together like pieces of puzzle.

It’s called “moaragh”—the art of creating breathtaking mosaics by putting together odd-shaped pieces.

We’re standing inside the Sheik Lotf Allah Mosque, one of the components of the world-renowned Naghsh-i Jahan Square in Isfahan, Iran. The sheik taught students from the very spot we stood—the mihrab—overlooking the 20-by-20 meter room around us. The tile walls led to the dome towering above, perhaps 30 meters high.

One shot couldn't do it justice. I keep going back and back and back to show the enormity of what surrounds me.

“Now,” Soleimani continues, “how do you suppose the artistan of 500 years ago put these pieces together without the aid of any modern technology, no computers, nothing?

“And he did it almost as fast as the hand could move,” and Soleimani starts slapping his hand up and down the wall like he’s trying to catch a crawling insect.

He did it that fast? I ask incredulously. How could he?

“He did it because he was not relying on his mind; the mind could never create such beauty.

“These men where in an irfani state of mind, something you might call a trance. Man can bring himself to such places in spirituality that the self is eliminated; the mind ceases to make decisions, and the heart takes over.

“Like Abu-Said Abul Khair prayed, as he was about to address a crowd waiting outside the mosque, ‘God, make it so Abu-Said is gone; that they hear not me, but you.’

“Don’t be surprised. We are surprised because we’re not connected to that mentality.

“Back then they lived in a kind of harmony between mankind, nature and architecture. Thus they were far closer to God.

“Therefore, for them the creation of such structures, so much beauty, was not fantastic; it was normal.

“You and I stand around in awe. We’re flabbergasted; we can’t comprehend. But that’s because we’re cut off from that culture. We’re lost our connection to the realm they lived in.”

Time of Architecture

The reflection on the inside of the dome pointing downward. It's around 12 noon.

You’re studying at the Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque. You want to know the time but the sheik is thundering from the mehrab. And by the way, it’s the 15th-century Iran.

The solution: just look up, at the spectacular hand-painted dome towering 30 meters above.

Iranian architects used the side windows to reflect the sun’s position into the dome, forming a long band of reflected light that serves as the hour-hand of a clock.

Unearthing Iran's Past, One House at a Time

Before and after of Ameri House, the 230-year-old home of a former military commander based in Kashan, Iran. It required excavating a dozen or more meters to unearth its cellar and hidden passageways.

The before photos remind me of post-war Germany. No bombing necessary here, though. Disinterest in one’s past did the job.

No after photos necessary either. The impossible stood in front me; the 230-year-old Ameri House of Kashan back in its full glory, a veritable witness to persistence, thoughtfulness and love for Iran’s heritage.

It’s also testimony to the idea that revitalization of historical structures can be economically profitable. They draw tourists, generate income, boost local pride and awareness, and motivate others to do the same.

For me, they bring enchantment and wonder. They also create many more questions.

Why was so much beauty left to rot like a pile of garbage? How much more of Iran’s past is dying under sand? I asked as I walked the fragrant courtyards and occassionally peeked at the faces behind the throngs of chador-clad tourists.

The Abbasi House, 205 years old, is known for its complex architectural design (left); scene from the Sultan Amir Ahmad neighborhood, filled with many other valuable properties awaiting restoration.

Kashan, completely leveled by earthquake in 1778 CE, is believed to be one of the oldest centers of civilization in the world. The nearby remains of the community of Sialk, discovered some 60 years ago, are believed to be about 8,000 years old.

“We’re working on the theory that some of the civilization of Egypt originated here” based on the tools and artwork unearthed, says Mostafa Moghtadaee, a Tehran architect who spearheaded the restoration of the houses in Kashan.

Ameri House is one of five properties so far restored or improved from previous restrations at the behest of Moghtadaee, partner with the firm Beenesh-o-Fann Consulting Engineers, and co-founder of the Kashan Cultural Foundation.

Tehran architect Mostafa Moghtadaee (left) spearheaded the restoration of the houses in Kashan, pictured here with artist and researcher Marjan Modarresi.

He says he found the structures, at one time home to the rich and famous, in ruin or poor maintenance some 20 years ago. He was able to convince a former mines and metals minister, Hosein Mahlooji, to provide government funds to buy and restore the properties, in some cases digging a dozen or more meters into hardened earth to reach the original floors.

The work began 13 years ago. The accolades came in later.

• The Ameri is recognized as the single largest house in Iran, with 12,000 square-meters on about 9,600 sq/mt of land.
• The Tabatabi House, 195-year-old, has been noted by UNESCO for its unique wind-catcher, according to Abulfazl Mohammadzadeh, guide with the local Cultural Heritage office.
• The Abbasi House, 205 years old, is known for its complex architectural design.
• The 180-year-old Broojerdi House is famous for ts intricate plaster-mouldings.
• Finally, the Sultan Amir Ahmad Bathhouse—well, no verbal accolades necessary for that. Just walking in brought tears to my eyes. Read upcoming article.

Moghtadaee says the renovations have prodded local businesses to renovate other old structures to use them for their offices. Tourists arrive by the bus-load. Many new jobs were created. The look and feel of the Sultan Amir Ahmad neighborhood, home to the structures, have changed for ever.

"You should see what visitors, especially the Italians, write in the guestbook," he says.

"The foreign tourists are besides themselves," Mohammadzadeh adds. "They beg us to let them on the roof [of the Ameri House] to photograph the windcatchers." Entering the roof is prohibited to respect the privacy of the neighboring homes, he explains.

Stained glass laid in thin slices of plaster inside the reception room at the 195-year-old Tabatabi House.

The tourist visits are growing, although Moghtadaee explains that they rarely stay overnight because Kashan lacks good hotels.

“Last Norouz season they sold 650,000 tickets,” Moghtadaee says. “Just the income from the tickets, postcards and posters sold could fund many more restorations.”

The income, however, is not benefiting the project, he says. Once its benefactor, Minister Mahlooji was out of office, Iran's Cultural Heritage ministry took over and the funding went dry. By law, the tourist income goes to the central government coffers, not to the projects that generated the income.

“They not only stopped the funding; they aren’t even maintaining what’s been restored,” Moghtadaee says. “They literally throw blocks in our way. This is the nature of politics going on.”

Restoration on eleven other structures purchased is at a stand-still, the properties under lock.

“I’m still working with them even though I’m not getting paid; the little salary they would pay is not even worth the trouble of collecting,” he says.

“I do it because I simply love doing this. When I come here, people gather around me with questions, hungry for direction, because there is no one here to make decisions.

“There is a method of working in every system and you just have to figure it out,” he says with resignation as we rode the bus back to Tehran. “Here in Iran, we manage to do our work, go after what we love, pursue our personal enjoyments too."

Tourists at the 180-year-old Broojerdi House (left); the intricate plaster-moulding works on the vestibule's ceiling (middle) and the reception room (right)

Walls Were Needed to Live in Peace

Haji Asghar, 75, landowner and farmer, Bastam, NE Iran.

“This land has been in my family for generations. It was passed on to me from my mother.

“Thanks to God, it is very fertile. Only an occassional cold weather causes trouble. But even the green tomatoes that we have to pick to avoid the frost, we pile them and put a plastic sheet over them, and eventually they will become red too.

“The wall you see here is from before Islam. It’s that old [at least 1300 years old]. The person who told you it’s only 60 years old doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“This entire town was surrounded by this wall and many turrets for security, to keep out the trouble.

“When I was a child the Turkmen used to descend down from the highlands and steal horses and children.

“One of my relatives was stolen when he was a child. The next time we saw him, he was a grownup man with his own Turkman wife and children.

“People lived in the fear of the Turkmen until Reza Shah devised a solution. He invited the leaders of the Turkmen to give them an award. But the whole thing was a setup.

“Four or five [Turkmen] came and stood up to give speeches. Then on signal, they were shot one after the other. After that, this area was secure. The Turkman problem was solved.

“That’s how law and order was enforced back then. They even had a method called “otto”. They’d tie up one leg to one vehicle and another leg to another vehicle and the two vehicles would go to opposite directions.

“The people of Bastam were always very poor. I am illiterate, but when I was a kid as soon as someone who could read came around, we’d gather and have him read to us anything we could get our hands on.

“We found out that the Bastamis were so poor that when they marched to Karbala [in today’s Iraq], by the time they got there, they no longer had any shoes. They had worn away. Nothing to eat either.

“Hazrateh Masoumeh [sister of Imam Hussein] told Imam Hussein, ‘look at these people. Pity them for their poverty.’ Imam Hussein responded that these people should be cursed and ordered that they should not be allowed to take water from the Euphrates.

Growing tomatoes next to history: “The wall you see here is from before Islam. ... This entire town was surrounded by this wall and many turrets for security, to keep out the trouble."

“This was because the Bastamis had gone there to fight against Imam Hussein. They were Shi’i but were fooled into acting against him through publicity.

“That’s what publicity can do. It can get you to do crazy things; it can be a terrible thing."

Wine, Women and War: Beginning of the Downhill

The beginning of the downhill: Could they have possibly imagined where their country would be in 400 years when Iranians dared to concoct such flamboyant beauty?

When Shah Abbas II wined and dined foreign dignitaries at the mind-bogglingly beautiful Chehel Sotoon palace in the early 1600’s, Iran was a power to be reckoned with.

When I arrived here a few hours ago, Iran was writhing in pain in the dustbin of history as it has for at least two centuries.

Chehel Sotoon means "40 columns". Forty is a revered number in Islam. There were only 20 columns. The reflection in the pond provided the additonal 20 columns.

As I walked the same iwan where European ambassadors came to pay homage, it suddenly occurred to me that the grand time Shah Abbas was having was really the beginning of the downhill. Europe was galloping out of its own nightmare; Enlightenment was already in its birthing pains; and a ragtag band of religious zealots had just become the first of New World immigrants who would eventually control a third of the world's economy.

But Iran? If the murals inside the palace are any indication, the king and his cohorts were either fighting boundary wars with medieval weapons or swirling in silk in their harems.

Wine, women and war. It was like an episode of the Six Million Dollar Man, except this was no fiction. Europe was waking up as Iran was going to sleep.

“This was just about the time they lost their khod-bavari”—Persian: belief in one’s self, Gohar, one of the guides at Chehel Sotoon, told me.

“When they went and saw Europe they lost themselves. In response, they started copying instead of being themselves—just like the Iranian youth of today. It’s just a lot worse today.”

A 40-column palace and a swarm of royal sycophants or a teetering wooden bed under the shade and peace of mind? I'd choose the latter over the former any time.