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. |
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?