Chapter FIVE

My Return to Azerbaijan

Returning from Mashhad to Tehran we took the road which ran south of the Elburz mountains and passed through Shahrud, Damghan and Semnan. But returning from Tehran to Tabriz we took the coastal road along the Caspian Sea. We stopped at Rasht city for a few hours.
Rasht seemed very pleasant and green - full of orange and lemon trees. It had wide streets and attractive bazaars. The people there spoke Gilaki and Persian and had a sweet accent. The people in the shops and restaurants were very helpful and kind. Women worked in some shops and restaurants. In a restaurant where we had fish a pretty Russian girl with long golden hair served us. My parents did not approve of the girl's serving in the shop but they did not say anything. More women could be seen in the streets without a chador than in Mashhad, Tabriz and even Tehran. They wore colourful headscarves and dresses. Rasht did not seem to be a religious city; at least I did not see any mullahs in the streets.
Rasht is famous for its rice and my father bought a sack of it which we took back with us to Tabriz. From Rasht we proceeded to Ardabil, an ancient, historical city. In contrast with Rasht, it seemed dominated by religion. I hardly saw any women without a chador. Ardabil was the city of the Safavids (the dynasty who ruled Iran from 1500 to 1722), the city of legends.
We stayed in the city and its surroundings for a few days. The heroes of my childhood stories were reborn and came to life by seeing the Ardabil, Talish and Sabalan mountains with their mysterious and beautiful valleys. Sabalan had snow on her peak and hot water on her slopes and in her valleys. The honey of Sabalan is famous all over Iran and I almost lived on honey and sangak bread. The honeycomb melted in my mouth and was the colour of sunflowers. My mother was terribly worried about my eating so much honey, and on the last day of our stay there, when we were on our way to Tabriz (and even after we had returned home) she poured yoghurt into my stomach believing that it would counter any detrimental effects of the honey, which she thought likely to cause spots all over my body. In fact I did have some spots, but not as many as my mother had feared: I had them all over my forehead. Children were usually discouraged as much as possible from eating two things - honey and cheese. It was said that cheese made one unintelligent.
The most significant and deep memory which had excited me by seeing Ardabil, Sabalan and Talish mountains was the heroic story of Babak Khurram-Din, or Khurrami, who defended the people of Azerbaijan and fought against the caliphs of Baghdad. (Babak was a follower of Mazdak's ideas and his followers called themselves Khurram-Dinan - the people of happiness or the followers of the religion of happiness. The name 'Khurram' is said to be taken from the name of Mazdak's wife who, after the execution of her husband by Anushirvan (the son of Qobad), continued to spread the message of her husband.)
Ardabil-Mughan and the shores of the Aras river (now the border between Soviet and Iranian Azerbaijan) were the lands of my childhood hero Babak Khurram-Din. I remember that Izzat used to sit by the field next to his house with his face towards the red mountain of Own-Ali saying, "Babak revolted against the Abbasid caliphs and fought against the strong army of Baghdad for 22 years. It is said the Abbasid's dominion was so vast that the sun never set on it." The story he told me went like this:
Harun al-rashid had the most sophisticated, entertaining and beautiful court in the world. He copied the emperors of Persia and their court style. In the Abbasids' realm there lived numerous nationalities, who were often discontented living under the suppressive and unjust system. Whenever any chance was created by changing circumstances they revolted and demanded liberty and independence. One of the revolts which disturbed the pleasure and sleep of the Baghdad caliphs was the revolt of the Khurramiyan in Azerbaijan. The movement under Babak's leadership fought against three caliphs: Harun al-rashid, Ma'mun and Mu'tasim. Babak's struggle against these caliphs took 22 years. (Here, when Izzat was telling his version he used to become excited and often repeat, "The determination of the people of Azerbaijan is great and unmatchable . . .".)
At the beginning of the ninth century Azerbaijan was under attack from different directions: by the Khazars from the north, the Byzantine Empire from the west and the forces of the caliphs from the south. Azerbaijan had to either fight against these forces or accept defeat. The people wanted to fight against their enemies and were looking for a leader. Babak, the son of Merdas (a shepherd), who was born in the village of Bilal-abad, accepted this responsibility.
Meanwhile, there was a deep conflict within the Abbasid Caliphate, particularly between the Arab and Iranian aristocrats. There was great rivalry concerning the future successor to Harun al-rashid: The Iranians supported Ma'mun, who was born of an Iranian mother, and the Arabs supported Amin. Ma'mun had Amin killed by an Iranian army leader and assumed power. The Iranians dreamed of the old Sasanid period and the Persian Empire, and wished to revert to those days. For this reason the Iranian aristocrats encouraged famous Iranian army leaders such as Maziyar and Afshin, who served Baghdad, to disobey their orders from Baghdad. In spite of the conflict between Iranian and Arab leaders, neither party showed any interest in the revolt in Azerbaijan. In fact, the Iranian aristocrats helped the caliphs to overcome their enemies. Although Baghdad and these Iranian army leaders regarded each other with deep suspicion, Mu'tasim managed to persuade Afshin, who was a remarkable army commander, to fight against Babak. It was Afshin who finally, by sheer trickery and the help of a traitor, succeeded in arresting Babak and his brother Abdullah.
I had several friends who were called Babak. One whom I got to know in later years was a very politically conscious person and supported the Tudeh Party (the Communist party of Iran). The story of Babak was told to children in their homes and to adults in the tea-houses of Azerbaijan. The names of Ardabil, Mughan and those of mountains such as Sabalan and rivers like Aras were legendary names to me. When we arrived at Ardabil and I saw the Sabalan mountain covered by snow on the top and hot springs in its foot, I thought I was sitting next to Izzat and listening to his story of Babak. My imagination was translated into reality. Further north were the Talish mountains where Babak lived, in an area called Bazz.
As the story relates, Bazz was Babak's fortress from where he fought against the caliphs' armies. Babak defeated the army of Harun al-rashid and Ma'mun and now was fighting against the army of Caliph Mu'tasim under the command of Afshin. Each caliph had promised to give the governorship of Azerbaijan to anyone who would put an end to Babak and the Khorramiyan movement. Azerbaijan was regarded as the flower of the Abbasid realm. Harun al-rashid had given it to his beloved wife Zubaideh Khatun. My history teacher, once commenting about this, said, "Azerbaijan is not an object to be offered to army chiefs or a king's favourite wife."
Zubaideh used to spend her holidays in Tabriz. It is said that Zubaideh Khatun had once been suffering from a fever and was cured after she spent some time in Tabriz. From that time the city was called Tab-riz (the place where fever drops or is cured). I wonder how far this theory is correct! But my schoolteacher also once said, "People do not name or change the name of their city for the sake of a caliph's wife." However, the story I heard as a child tells how Zubaideh Khatun lamented and shed tears about missing the beauty of Azerbaijan and the lovely days of her engagement in Tabriz. Zubaideh, sitting in the harem next to Harun, said to him, "Alas, those happy days of our engagement past. How dear to each other we were in those days. How can I forget those days and not regret? It was at the beginning of our engagement that you gave me Aze:baijan as a gift. Once we went on a journey and walked round the Caspian Sea and returned to Tabriz. While in Tabriz you ordered a spring to be diverted to the front of my summer palace and you named it after me, 'Zubaideh Khatun spring'. This year whenever I drink from that cool and sweet water it reminds me of our deep love for each other. I miss that tove and those days, the days without sorrow and worry. I will never forget those bunches of flowers that you used to gather for me while we were walking in the Tabriz countryside . . . Have you forgotten those lovely days and nights?" "How is it possible to forget those sweet memories?" answered Harun al-rashid.
Zubaideh Khatun had a great influence over Harun al-rashid and could bewitch him with her beauty and charm. Whenever she wanted to get rid of anyone she disliked she used to use her power over Harun with great might. She wanted to get rid of Jafar Barmaki, the vizier who was supported by the Iranian aristocrats and other influential persons. He had married Harun's sister Abbaseh, but Harun did not let them sleep together in case they had children who would succeed Harun. Jafar used to see Abbaseh secretly and they had two sons who were brought up in secret and kept away from the Caliph. Zubaideh Khatun knew all about this and was worried about Barmaki's influence. One day, Harun was lying with his head on Zubaideh's lap and his arm around her waist. "My darling," he said, "I repeat that God is in Heaven and Harun is on earth. As God has not a partner, so in our kingdom there is no rival for me. No matter whatever the vizier wishes. His station will not exceed that of my dog. . ."
(Here, Mohsen once commented, "Exactly like our country, Iran, where the prime minister is lower than the Shah's dog. It is a shame." "The prime ministers are proud of being even the slaves of the Shah, let alone his dogs. I respect dogs more than those hypocrites and traitors," Ismail added.)
Zubaideh seemed content and said, "I beg the Almighty God for unsurpassed glory for my darling leader. For this reason I have not been able to talk to you about things which have been disturbing me. May I talk to you now?" "What things can cause disturbance in the heart of my darling?" asked Harun. "Jafar!" answered Zubaideh. "Jafar?" asked Harun. "Yes, Jafar," Zubaideh answered. "The same Jafar that you call 'brother'. For years he has been wanting the Caliph's throne. I have no doubt that if he has the opportunity he will make you, the Caliph, and our son Amin, both blind. Do you remember one day when he was sending me to Tabriz and what he said on the way? He said, 'Anyone who trusts his enemy has turned against himself and he who makes enemies happy has killed friends.' Let me tell you frankly that the free hand you have given him has annoyed many of our sincere friends and they have begun to turn away from you. I have even heard that Abu Nuwas, your special companion, is thinking of going to Egypt . . . only your palace guards obey Jafar. Is this cunning Iranian worthy of so much trust? I take oath to Holy Mecca that if they can they would raise the banner of Blacksmith Kaveh. They have God's plans and thinking mind. Have you not noticed what remarkable skill they have in playing chess? Ma'mun, who defeats Abu Hafiz, his chess teacher, has inherited this talent from his Iranian mother. . . In.the chess game of politics you have to be very careful with Iranians, otherwise we will face great troubles. I tell you this, that sharing a mother's milk makes two people brothers. Thank Heaven that the Amin's milk has been separate from that of Ma'mun . . ."
(Here, the storyteller, to the great amusement of his listeners, used to act as the Caliph - laying his head on an imaginary queen's lap and remaining silent for a few seconds. Then, to our excitement, he would continue.)
This silence gave Zubaideh, the Queen, encouragement and excited her. The atmosphere seemed favourable to tell the Caliph about all the people she disliked and to denigrate them. Now, after having spoken against Jafar, it was the turn of Alkindi, the great philosopher and influential intellectual in the court.
(Once, I was telling this story of Harun and Zubaideh to my father and Ismail. When I reached this point in the story my father said, "Reza Shah is persecuting the poets and philosophers and so far many have lost their lives. I wonder if, like Harun al-rashid, he also is under the influence of his wife?" And Ismail commented that the priests or mullahs must have had a hand in the plot against the philosophers and intellectuals, as they wanted to see the world without a sun and society without thinkers.)
"Does my Crown know," continued Zubaideh, "that if that student of Plato is not dismissed from the court the Iranians will dominate us? This unbeliever-scholar has nothing to do except fill the mind of Ma'mun with his dangerous and untrue thoughts. I myself have heard him several times saying to Ma'mun, 'The Caliph is making a great mistake when he massacres the Khurramiyan. If things progress like this, then who is going to pay taxes? Perhaps the dead will be taxed! With an empty treasury what will happen to the Caliph's kingdom?' Alkindi was acting as though no one in the court was more sympathetic to the Caliph than he."
Having said this, Zubaideh's heart was still full of her complaints, plans and plots - and she wished the night would never end, as she spoke of her journeys to Tabriz and of Marajil, Ma'mun's mother.
The Caliph did not like to hear all this, especially during such a night, but Zubaideh being his most beloved wife, he had to listen. On the other hand, he knew that there was no end to Zubaideh's complaints and jealousy. So the Caliph turned to Zubaideh and said, "My beautiful angel - I have a request." "I am obedient to the Leader of believers," answered Zubaideh. "Why don't you want to talk about us and make me happy with your sweet words? It is a pity that my beautiful darling would make the pleasant atmosphere of our bedroom cold and sorrowful by these words. Do you remember our engagement days? I used to take you personally to the Tabriz countryside. Have you forgotten the poems that you used to sing for me there?" "No, I have not forgotten."
(As the story was being narrated in the heart of my family one winter night, I recall at this point my brother Ismail ironically sang:

"When we step on Tabriz
The heat makes our love rise;
When we step on Tabriz
We forget all our troubles.

For Babak and his people Azerbaijan was the motherland of culture, creation, living and joy, but to the Caliph and Zubaideh it was just a holiday resort," he added. "The court of Harun must have been covered by beautiful Persian carpets," Ibrahim remarked - and all burst into laughter. "Why don't you sell him some of yours?" Ismail muttered.)
The night ended but Zubaideh's hate for Jafar and Alkindi never ended. On another occasion I heard my teacher defend Alkindi against the argument he should not have worked in the court of Harun al-rashid. Ismail agreed with him: "Philosophy has been part of life in Iran and philosophers have had links with the people, and often were forced to work in the court."
Alkindi was sympathetic towards Babak and was also a follower of the ideas of Mazdak. He had sent books to Babak and had even visited Babak secretly in his Bazz stronghold. On a very cold winter night, so it is told, Abdullah and Maavieh, two of Babak's brothers, had helped Alkindi, who was an old man, to climb the mountain to Babak's tent amid heavy snow. Babak welcomed him at the tent: "Hail to you, great philosopher!" "Hail to you, great leader," answered Alkindi. "If I am not mistaken, you are Alkindi from the court of the Caliph?" "The great leader is not mistaken," replied Alkindi.
The philosopher seemed exhausted by the cold and looked through his greenish eyes directly into the eyes of Babak. Drops of ice were hanging from his eyelashes. His chin, covered with a beard, was trembling and the few teeth that he had left were chattering against each other. His pockmarked face was weary.
(Here, my mother once said, "Poor old man - why did he trouble to climb the mountain in such a cold winter amid snow? Why did Babak not go and meet him somewhere near the foot of the mountain?" "Perhaps the initiative, as usual, came from the philosopher and Babak was taken by surprise," Ismail responded.)
Babak took the old man's arm and brought him next to the fire, inviting him to sit on a block covered with white sheepskin. “Please sit down. It is warm here – and take off your cloak,” said Babak. The philosopher tried to take off his cloak but he was not able – his fingers were frozen. Babak helped him and draped the cloak over a large jar. The old man was aware of the smell of hide and felt in the tent. He understood that Babak was not brought up in palaces. He was a lion, bred and brought up among mountains and fields. Babak’s headquarters seemed to him full of wonders. Here there were no perfumed woods as in the court. Instead, burning in the fireplace were thorns and bushes.
Babak also sat on a block of wood, facing the philosopher. The old man’s tongue could not yet move and speak because of the cold. His eyes were full of wonder and questions: “This is the great hero, Babak, who has stood against the storm of the Azerbaijan mountains and has fought against the unlimited army of the Caliph?”
Babak, being aware of the value of knowledge and the learned, told himself, “The caliph is helped to rule by the intelligence and wisdom of these learned men. Six thousand learned men from various nations are gathered round the Caliph. The Caliph was not only usurped the lands of these nations, he has also plundered their brains and spiritual treasures. The knowledge of a learned person is equal to a thousand swordsmen. The ruler who prefers to use his sword rather than his intelligence and insight will face defeat.”
The warmth of the fire eventually brought the philosopher round. Sometimes he rubbed his hands together and sometimes he touched his beard, which was now free from ice…the servants brought food…in Alkindi’s eyes Babak seemed more dignified and awesome than his fellow philosophers. The warmth and food broke the silence of the philosopher and he started the conversation with a smile: “If wisdom and imagination ruled in the world, then swords would have never been used.”
Babak nodded his head in agreement: “Unfortunately the ruler’s ambitions and whims supersede their wisdom and imagination”
The philosopher wanted to learn more about the outlook of this mountain leader and so he asked, “Among the leaders in history which one is dearer to you? Ispartakos [Spartacus], who was the leader of the oppressed? Or what about Alexander Magdooni [of Macedon]?”
“I hate cruel conquerors,” Babak answered, and continued in a serious tone, “Caliston [Callisthenes], Alexander’s companion, has called him ‘guardian of the world’, but in my opinion Alexander enjoyed destruction more than construction. He cannot be regarded in the lands of the Orient as a blessing. Alexander set the libraries on fire. He burned the holy book of Zoroastrians. Is it possible to approve of this kind of destruction? What did Alexander offer to the people of the East except torture, hunger and deprivation…? Caliston is mistaken with regard to Alexander. Ha was neither the guardian of the world nor a learned man or prophet.”
(My teacher once said: “The West had painted aggressors as great heroes in their history books and films and does not respect the feelings of other people. Even Reza Shah is depicted as a great hero by some Western Orientalists.” When I came to Britain in 1960 I read several books in English about the Persian royal family and Reza Shah. I compared my childhood impressions of Reza Shah with what the books said about him – and I found a gulf between reality and fantasy. In fact I found many “Orientalists” to be unsympathetic and cynical in their attitudes towards the peoples and their culture. I wondered why, if they were so prejudiced against other peoples and their culture, they should bother to study such subjects at all and regard themselves specialists of a culture or society without even being able to speak the language of the same people.)
Alkindi liked intelligent and enlightened people. Babak, right from the first instance, had made a good impression on a philosopher. If he could, he would have preferred to stay with Babak rather than with Caliph. The philosopher seemed to regret having mentioned the name of Alexander. Babak sensed this, and changed the subject by offering a cup of drink.
After a while, Alkindi started talking again: “Does his leadership think that he will be able to stand against Islam and the muslims’ Caliph?”
Babak, with the meaningful smile on his lips, looked at the philosopher’s face with his oak – coloured eyes and, seeing him waiting for answer, said, “My great philosopher and honourable guest ought well to know that I have not been and I am not against Islam or Arabs. I do not know whether you know that there are many muslims among my close friends, who carry out the religious duties freely. Many of the Khurramiyan have even helped them to build their mosques. Our struggle is against oppressors and plunderers, not the ordinary poor people. Our struggle is against those who use the Quran and Islam as a means of domination and oppression. I tell you frankly, I am fighting against the Abbasid caliphs, not against Arabs or muslim…”
The philosopher interrupted Babak: “Is it possible for the Leader to clarify what he means by plundering, oppression and disregarding human lives human lives? What is the difference between the Caliph’s army and the Khurramiyan army, who both have sent human beings into a whirlpool of destruction? Both armies kill and destroy cities, villages and crops. Both offer only destruction, calamity and tears. Ma’mun wants to expand and strengthen his kingdom under the name of Islam and you want to do the same under the ideas of Mazdak.”
When Alkindi had finished, Babak seemed hurt. He stood up and said, “Does the great philosopher not see any difference between the war which is for selfish ambition and greed and the war which is for the defence of human dignity and the right to live freely on one’s own land? What can one do when a great thinker like you considers us as fighters and interested in killing? I can understand how much money our enemies have spent in order to change opinions against us. They have spread unjust rumours that we enjoy killing … but lies and cunning will not last for ever. The people cannot be fooled for ever. Victory and success will come with the truth – and this will be achieved by the human beings. Everyone has a duty to struggle against lies until their deathbed. By casting out lies from the world the rule of truth will start. On such a day all wars, killings, oppression and exploitation will disappear and will be replaced by peace and happiness for all …”
The philosopher felt himself weak in the face of Babak’s analytical mind. “Truly this man of the mountains must be an extraordinary person,” he said to himself.
When Babak’s army was defeated he was imprisoned by Afshin and brought to the court of Caliph Mu’tasin. Alkindi was sitting on the left of the Caliph and thought back to his meeting with Babak and felt sad. He, in fact, advised the Caliph to spare Babak’s life, but Sheikh Ismail (the court priest) encouraged the Caliph to kill him. The event of Babak’s execution was related by Mohammad Awfi in his Javame al – Hikayat (his collected stories):
Ibn Sayyah related, “when Babak Khurrami was imprisoned, I and a few others were his defenders. We were about to go to the Caliph and Babak was advised that if he were taken to the Caliph and if he were to be asked by him, ‘Are you Babak?’, he should say, ‘Yes, Oh Leader of believers, I am your slave and have sinned and hope that you, Leader of believers, will forgive me and will not kill me.’ When Babak was taken to the Caliph, he was asked, ‘Are you Babak?’ Babak answered ‘Yes’ and kept quiet. We looked meaningfully at him and pressed his hand to tell him to say what he had instructed him to say. Indeed, he said nothing. He neither grimaced nor did the colour of his face change”.

Khaja Nizam al – Mulk, the famous vizier of the Saljuq Turks wrote of another scene from Babak’s execution, which might show the wonderful spirit of this revolutionary shepherd. It must be added that Khaja Nizam Al – Mulk, who belonged to an aristocratic family and also believed in a strong central government, was hostile to these movements. Nevertheless his record is interesting:

When one of his hands was cut off he dipped his other hand in his blood and rubbed it on his face. Mu’tazim said to Babak, “Oh dog! What is this action?” He answered, “There is a logic in this. You wanted to cut off my hands and feet, and people’s faces are red because of their blood. When the blood disappears from the face it becomes pale. I have made my face red with blood, so as soon as the blood has drained from my body you ought not to say that I was pale because of fear.”
(Quoted by Ehsan Tabari in The World
Outlook and Social Movements in Iran)

After this the Caliph tortured and killed Babak and hung him in a place which was later called “The tomb of Babak”. For many years the body of this hero remained there. Later on Mazyar, another of his heroic fellow countrymen, was hanged in the same place. Caliph Mu’tasim, in order to silence the people of Iran and extinguish any spark of revolt, ordered that Babak’s embalmed head be taken and displayed all round his kingdom.

Babak met the same destiny as Mazdak, yet the revolt in Iran never did die down. From the medieval age up to the Constitutional Revolution of 1905 many movements took place. Khursaw Gulsurkhi, the Iranian revolutionary poet, who was executed by the Shah in 1974, wrote about Babak in his Selected Poems:

Where is the redness [fire] of the cities of Babak Khurram?
Where is a free Kaveh once more?
…
A revolutionary eagle flies within me,
It has never uttered a word of weariness,
It has never kow – towed to authority,
Don’t ask me to climb down,
Let no one see the pale face of Babak …

It was the middle of winter when we returned to Tabriz. Everywhere was covered with snow and everything was frozen in the garden. It was 20 degrees below zero!
Humai and Izzat and their daughter Fatima were in my parents’ house. I was so pleased to see them. I had particularly missed playing with Fatima. My parents had brought them presents: material for Humai to have a dress and chador made and Izzat a suit. Fatima had golden earrings which she loved.
Humai wore a cotton chador, decorated with pretty patterns of flowers. She liked it, but I, as a child, had mixed feelings toward the chador. On the one hand I liked it when I used to lie in my mother or nurse’s bosom and was covered by such soft material. In summer I used to sleep under it and cover myself from the hot sun or flies. However, I also associated the chador with several unpleasant experiences. My mother and sisters used to disappear behind their chador whenever a strange person – cousins or male friends – visited us. This sudden transformation disturbed and annoyed me because as a child I did not like to be separated from them, especially so suddenly and unexpectedly. I disliked it even more when I used to walk in the street with my mother or Humai (also at times with my sisters) all heavily veiled in black outdoor chadors. I still remember how my mother and sisters were terrified to go out with a chador during Reza Shah’s rule. This was forbidden, and the police used to unveil women by force and sometimes even hit them. Imagine a mother being treated like this in of her child. I remember one occasion when I was going to the bath – house with my mother. We had come out of our house and were walking towards the main road. Just before we reached it my mother suddenly let go of my hand and ran away, leaving me behind. I was surprised and frightened. Looking around I saw a policeman approaching. I was terrified and ran back home and waited for my mother. After an hour or so she returned and explained how she had seen the policeman and ran and sheltered in the house of one of the neighbours. She still looked pale and shaken. I felt angry inside against the police but I did not understand the situation. To a child its mother’s reaction to the surrounding world and events is very important; it can create security and peace in a child or disturb and destroy him. I was disturbed by seeing my mother frightened.
Looking back (although I have always been against chador), the way in which Reza Shah, during his reign from 1925 to 1941, tried to forbid it being worn seems as crude and cruel as Ayatollah Khomeini’s imposing its use on Iranian women since the 1979 Revolution. Both policies (indeed both regimes) seem to me to be different sides of the same coin. I, as a child, was terrified by Reza Shah’s police and Iranian children today are terrified of Khomeini’s Pasdar (revolutionary guards). Much later, when I was arrested by SAVAK, I did not think about imprisonment, torture or even death. I thought about my mother. I did not want her to see me in a situation which might terrify her or fill her with grief. This was the weakest spot within me. I tried to hide all bad news from my mother, and even my nurse.
To explain to you the things which were happening around me at this time, but of which I saw very little and understood practically nothing, it seems appropriate to give a brief outline of the historical background.
It was a time of great change in Iran – and the rest of the world. I do not really remember my parents speaking about the events at the time, though I am sure that what they said to each other was bitterly critical of Reza Shah. I am indebted to one of my former students at Edinburgh University, Dr Najileh Khandagh, whose PhD thesis “The Political Parties in Iran 1941 – 1945, with special reference to the Democratic Party of Azerbaijan”, has provided the basis for the account which follows.
By the 1930s, Reza Shah had established himself as an absolute ruler and tried to consolidate his position financially by improving the tax system, monopolizing foreign trade and establishing a state bank to replace the existing British – controlled bank. The country’s wealth was being accumulated in the hands of a small majority, among which Reza Shah was the leader. At the time of the coup d’état which brought him into power in 1921, and in 1925 when he declared himself as a Shah of Iran, Reza Shah possessed neither land nor money; but by the time of his abdication he was one of the wealthiest Iranian landowners and one of the richest men in the world.
Also by the time of his abdication, all the major landowners, tribal leaders and politicians who had opposed him, and all the leaders of political parties such as Taqi Irani, had been killed, imprisoned or expelled.
During his reign Reza Shah wished to reduce the British influence in Iran, although it was his that had placed him in power. In order to do so he received the support of Germany. German industry and commerce was introduced to the Iranian economy on an increasingly large scale and Germany became the main recipient of Iranian exports in the pre – war years.
By 1939, Germany’s importance in Europe had risen dramatically; it had also established a secret fifth column within Iran. Encouraged by Germany’s strength, Reza Shah entered into an agreement which allocated to Germany an increased measure of raw materials and the right to built a railway through Iran, as well as to use Iranian air space. By 1941, Germany’s influence in the Iranian governmental institutions and even its army was widespread. Furthermore, Germany commanded emissaries and agents, especially in the north, who were capable of carrying terrorist activities or sabotage operations in Soviet Azerbaijan.
In order to fully utilize Iranian territory against its enemies, namely Britain and the Soviet Union, Germany wished Iran to enter World War II and therefore put forward this proposal on 17 August 1941. Despite the promise of arms, Iran claimed neutrality, which led Germany to plan a military coup within Iran which would bring its policies into line.
After the invasion of the Soviet Union on 22 June 1941, the Soviets warned Iran three times of the danger of German espionage activities. On 16 August the Soviet Union and Britain handed a formal note to the Iranian government, demanding the suppression of German activity in Iran. In return they promised to respect Iranian independence and neutrality, and to work towards developing friendly relations. They conceded that Iran might keep those few Germans who were doing genuinely important technological work. The following week Iran replied that the number of German residents in Iran was not as great as was supposed and the Iranian government believed that the expulsion of Germans from Iran without any logical reason was against the neutrality of the country.
The Soviet Union and Britain were not satisfied with this reply. They were unable to make Reza Shah to understand the immediate danger, both for himself and for them, and could no longer afford to allow this danger to develop unchecked. They had no choice but action. At 4 a.m. on 25 August 1941, Allied troops crossed the border and attacked Iran by land, sea and air. The British entered at three points from the Persian Gulf to the Turkish Border. The Soviet Union struck in three areas, in the north – west pushing towards Tabriz and Bandar Anzali, and in the north – east advancing towards Mashhad.
Reza Shah that he could not rely on immediate German assistance, but he continued to believe in Germany’s final victory in the war. In an effort to maintain his political position for such an eventuality, he commanded his troops to resist. But this action effectively sealed his own fate, for the Iranian army quickly disintegrated and the Allies managed to occupy all the important centers in the south (British) and in the north (Soviet) of the country.
On 16 September 1941 Reza Shah was forced to abdicate, partly due to Allies pressure and partly on account of a lack of popular support. He was deported to Mauritius, then to Johannesburg, were he died in 1944. His son Mohammed-Reza Shah took his place.
Although my farther and his friends opposed the Soviet/British invasion of Iran, nevertheless they seemed pleased that Iran was freed from the dictatorship of Reza Shah and the influence of Nazi Germany.
Besides my memory of my mother’s escaping from the police, I have three other memories of this time. The first two come from before the fall of Reza Shah and convey something about him, while the third memory may be from before or just after his last days in power.
There was a police officer in our district called Kazim Khan. He was well known for his loyalty to Reza Shah (and was very strict towards the women who wore the chador). He was a fearful character. He used to put on his uniform, and decorations, and stand outside the alley which led to his house. He was truly a symbol of Reza Shah’s dictatorship and a manifestation of his policies among the people.
One hot summer’s day, perhaps just before the end of Reza Shah’s rule, Kazim Khan, as usual wearing his uniform and well armed with a long sword and pistol, was standing in our district at midday. My farther and I were walking past and my farther, greeting him, said, “Kazim Khan, why are you standing under such a hot sun? Do you think Reza Shah is watching you from above?” There was no response from Kazim Khan except a grim look.
My farther used to mention the names of three people in his conversations with his friends: the pro – British Sayyid Zia Tabatabai, who led the coup d’état against Ahmad Shah and became prime minister in 1921; Davar, Reza Shah’s minister of justice and Mukhtari, his terrifying police chief. It was said that Mukhtari (indeed, by Reza Shah’s order) had eliminated a number of intellectuals, poets and political thinkers. I remember I had heard of the assassination of Mirzadeh Ishqi (1893 - 1924), who was an outstanding literary and political figure. I had learned about him from different people, notably my history teacher, Mr. Rezai. He used to say that Ishqi was one of the most outspoken and revolutionary poets of the Constitutional Revolution era. He also used to mention Mirza Muhammad Taqi Bahar (the Poet Laureate, 1880 - 1951), who came from Mashhad and was a close friend of Ishqi. Bahar later gave up his court career and, with profound conviction, entered the service of the Constitutional Revolution.
Ishqi was born in Hamadan, in the north –west of Iran near Kurdistan. His farther, in fact, was called Abulqasim Kurdistani (Abulqasim from Kurdistan). Ishqi knew Farsi, Turkish and French. He started writing poetry at an early age and was editor of a famous newspaper, The Twentieth Century.
Mr. Rezai explained how Ishqi had opposed the 1919 treaty between Britain and the pro – British Vusuq al – Dowlah (Prime minister 1918 - 1920) and Sayyid Zia Tabatabai. He wrote against Reza Shah’s rise to power. One of Ishqi’s poems became famous and is widely believed to have cost the poet his life. It is a humorous satire in which the figure of his Excellency Jonbol (John Bull) appears with a donkey, which represents the Republicanism of Reza Khan. The poem appeared in the last issue of Ishqi’s newspaper, with a cartoon on the front page depicting His Excellency Jonbul mounted on the donkey of Republicanism drawing near to a jar full of syrup which Jonbul intends to eat. The caption warns that Jonbul has already feasted on the goodness of the country and now wants to plunder Iran further using the popular guise of Republicanism.
The poem tells the following story:

There is a village in a vicinity of Kurdistan Called Qasim – Abad.
The events which I relate happened in that village.
There was a village headman called Kaka Abdin.
He was in charge of the people in that area.
He had a huge jar of syrup which he had saved up and acquired by his own effort.
There was a bad thief called “Yassi”who continually troubled the people in the village.
He was Kaka Abdin’s neighbour.
Heaven save us from inconsiderate neighbours.
Whenever Abdin left his house
Yassi would quickly enter his door
And sit by the jar of syrup.
He kept sweetening his mouth with that syrup.
As this action was repeated so the syrup decreased, until one day the village headman noticed how much of the syrup had gone.
He carefully examined all round the jar until he noticed a strange footprint round the jar.
He followed this footprint here and there
Until he reached the gate of Yassi.
He called Yassi from his house and demanded “Why do you trouble your neighbour in this way?”
That cunning syrup – thief Yassi stretched his neck out of the door.
Kaka asked him:
“What right have you to eat my food?
I have saved the syrup for my own use.”
The culprit was just about to deny everything when Abdin said,
“Look on the ground, and see clearly your own footprints.”
Realising that the game was up, Yassi could do nothing but say he was sorry.
“Yes, I did it Kaka, but excuse me.
Forgive me for the sake of Hazrat Mola
If I do such a deed again
Then banish me from this land”.
Soft – hearted Abdin out of pity forgave the crime and Yassi felt ashamed.
However, some time after this conversation
Greed overcame Yassi once again.
With nothing sweet to taste, he lost control.
His sweet tooth stole his patience and calm.
Aware that he had made a bargain with Abdin not to steal his syrup again
That wicked person pondered and then decided to use a trick.
He went and mounted a donkey and rode the donkey into Abdin’s house.
He put his hands into the jar and ate as much syrup as he wanted.
He satisfied his greed while on the back of the donkey and, still mounted, made his way out of the house.
Kaka returned and went to the jar to check the syrup.
He soon saw that something was amiss.
The syrup in the jar had gone down.
He carefully checked round the jar but only saw the donkey’s hoof prints.
He lowered his head into the jar and clearly saw Yassi’s hand print.
Abdin was amazed. He didn’t know what to make of it and who to blame – the donkey or Yassi.
He talked to himself and lamented.
“Oh God, who has done this?
If it’s the donkey, he hasn’t got a hand to leave marks in my pot!
If it’s Yassi, then Yassi hasn’t got hooves!”
Abdin hit his head with his hands and shouted out of his bewilderment.
“The hand prints are the hands of Yassi and the footprints are those of a donkey. I can’t figure this out!”
I am telling this story so that present – day children can understand that if someone wants to mislead others about what he is doing, he changes his feet into hooves.
Anyone who has goods in his house
Also has a neighbour like Yassi.
My dear friends, our Yassi is none other than His Excellency Jonbol, that is, the English.
Jonbol always do the work of Yassi.
He does it through diplomacy.
He sees our country as desirable and has cheated us.
He thinks that Iran can be plundered and eaten like syrup.
England had made a treaty with Vusuq al – Dowlah, then saw that it was not fruitful.
The Vusuq government accepted a bribe from England but failed to carry out England’s plans.
When England became disappointed in Vusuq
She caused a coup d’état which disturbed Iran.
This was done through Sayyid Zia…
The coup d’état did not make England’s mouth sweet, nor did this henna make her hands colourful.
England soon realized that what is done openly is immediately spoiled by the nation; recoiling from the name of England, the people quickly disclosed her aims:
Accordingly England decided “I had better succeed in such a way that my name is kept out of it.”
Pondering for some time, England chose the path of Yassi.
She decided that “I had better put forward the idea of Republicanism for discussion
And thus take the bridle in my hand.
I can use the people who want a Republic like a donkey and do better than I have done before
When the idea of Republicanism is raised, Iranians follow like donkeys, so I will put hay in their path and everyone will come under my control.
If everything goes well I shall ride on them, lure them all away and empty the jar of syrup. Republicanism is the latest thing, the sign of modernity appears on its forehead.”
England secretly plays the part of Yassi of Iran. She eats the syrup while the donkey is blamed.
For this reason she cooked up something with the “Socialists” and thought it better to go into one sack with them.
She mounted on the donkey to steal the syrup and receive five million pounds.
She put the sign of Republicanism on the donkey and secretly stretched her hand into the jar of syrup.
Suddenly the intelligent Iranians became suspicious of both donkey and rider.
The started to protest: “What sort of Republic is this? What an odd appearance!
The feet are Republican and the hands are English!
Catch the thief! Catch the thief, Oh Police!
My people, this Republic is false.”
Suddenly the people hissed it away.
The donkey became scared and ran off.
The donkey neither succeeded with money or force.
The syrup remained and the gentleman became pale.

Before his rise to power and before he made himself a shah, Reza Khan (as he was known at the time) had put forward the idea of Republicanism, but later gave up the idea. Many times I had heard my farther and others say that “England had put Reza Khan in power”.
Another person I remember people talking about was Dr Taqi Arani. He was a physics professor, born in Tabriz, brought up in Tehran and graduated from a German university. He was one of 53 intellectuals who were arrested and imprisoned by Reza Shah’s police in 1937 for having an interest in Marxist theory and discussing the ideas of Socialism and Communism. They were put on trial according to Reza Shah’s law of 1931 which forbade this. Arani’s defence and his challenge of Reza Shah’s laws were well known. At the trial, I heard, he had compared the tribunal of the Nazi kangaroo courts, and declared that the 1931 law violated the constitutional right of free expression. Arani received a sentence of ten years’ solitary confinement and died in prison after 16 months. Many believed that he was murdered by Ahmadi, the prison doctor of Mukhtari’s police. Arani, besides being a successful scientist, was a philosopher, literary critic and founder and editor of Donya (The World) magazine, which later became the ideological journal of the Tudeh Party (The Communist Party of Iran). Dr Arani became the spiritual leader of the Tudeh Party, which was formed in 1941.
At the same time I had heard Muhammad Kamali (Baji – jan’s husband) talking about the Lahuti movement against Reza Shah in 1921. In Tabriz, Major Lahuti, the commander of the local gendarmerie, had rallied his troops to challenge Reza Khan (1921 - 1925). Lahuti was also a revolutionary poet in his own right. Muhammad Kamali had a copy of his book of poetry and used to read for us. I only remember the following lines:
I am writing for the happy moment of the red wine,
When from the East Revolution rises with the red sunshine.
Happy that day from the blood of the rich
The ocean of Revolution becomes full of red bubbles.
Yappy that moment that, with the power of the Hammer and Sickle,
The peasant puts the red rope on the king’s neck,
It is obligatory to wash in the blood of priest (mullah), police and king
In the religion of Revolution according to the holy script of the red book.

Lahuti was from Kirmanshah, in the north – west of Iran and part of Kurdistan, and rose against Reza Khan but did not succeed. He escaped first to Turkey and then to Soviet Union.
My third memory may from just before or just after Reza Shah’s last day in power. It must have been between our return from Mashad and the arrival of the Allied forces, when I first became aware that Iran under Reza Shah was threatened (with subjection by the Nazis, with Reza Shah’s help or, if necessary, without it).
My memories of the Second World War, though limited, are very distinct. We lived in the basement of our house during this period. At night we would light an oil lamp and draw thick blank curtains. We had been told that the Germans might attack at any time. Either the Turks or the Germans dropped bombs in several places in Tabriz: their aim was to cut off the supply line between the south of Iran (the Persian Gulf) and the Soviet Union. I remember, too, a stream of trucks loaded with supplies heading towards Jolfa (a border town between Soviet Azerbaijan and Iran) and then to the battlefront. These trucks passed day and night along the banks of the Mehran rud (Mehran River) which passes through Tabriz. The left side of the river was allocated only for these trucks.
There were Russian soldiers in Tabriz at this time. I even saw some women soldiers. The relationship between people of Tabriz and the Russian soldiers was friendly. The people offered them cigarettes and fruit and sometimes food. The soldiers seemed to have a hard life: I could imagine where they slept. There were some people, however, who supported the Germans. Swastikas were to be seen here and there in the city. There were ideological followers of Nazism in the Iranian army, and Reza Shah himself was said to be sympathetic with Germany.
Both the German and Allied planes used to drop propaganda pamphlets no Tabriz. Sometimes the pamphlets did not succeed in scattering as they were meant to and once a bundle of papers dropped in our garden. As soon as the children saw these planes appear in the sky they would rush out of the houses and wait to catch the floating papers before they touched the ground. This became a popular game during the war and continued for several months.
Bread and water were soon in short supply but the people helped each other. My farther opened our door to those who needed water and sometimes he gave bread and charcoal to the poor. The workers and the poor suffered the most during the war. My farther hated the war because he lost his carpets in the Baghdad depot. It had caught fire, we were told. Many merchants, however, made fortunes during the war.
My great ambition was to see one of the German planes to shot down, to get inside it and try to fly it. I had dreamed several times that a plane had crushed in our orchard and the pilot and the plane had both survived unscathed. Then I intended to climb inside the plane. I felt pleased that our home was not damaged and my family was safe. The war influenced my games as well as my dreams; like other children, I made toy guns, planes and soldiers and played war games.
The adults would talk constantly about the war and would tell each other that the German army was advancing. This caused mixed feelings: some wanted the Germans to win and some wished for a Russian defeat over Germany, but the majority wanted peace, especially as Iran – unwillingly had been turned into a bridging supply route for the Allies. Ordinary people suffer the most during any war. The people of Iran and Iraq, for example have suffered the most during the past eight years of the current war with each other.


After we returned to Tabriz from Mashhad my brother Ibrahim and I were sent to the maktab (a traditional and religious school). I had already completed my first year of primary school at Mulavi school at Davachi Bazaar, but for my brother this was his first year at school. My farther had decided to send us to the maktab, as I learned later, in order to make us learn Persian language, to understand the Quran in Arabic and to give us a sound knowledge of our religion.
The maktab was about two kilometers away from my parent’s house and we used to leave home at 8 a.m. and not return until 5 p.m. We walked there and back: my brother was always dawdled and every few meters I used to turn back and urge him to walk a little faster otherwise we would be late. Sometimes we chatted or shared the dried fruit which our mother had put in our pockets. Otherwise we both walked solemnly and thoughtfully, stopping perhaps and gazing into a cheshma in the bottom of a well which was on our way. There were many openings to this cheshma, but most of them were covered by a large stone. The depth of the shaft to water level was not deep; at least not as deep as the cheshma in Davachi Bazaar on the way to my grandfather’s house. In the maktab itself, the cheshma, as in grandfather’s house, ran close to the surface and in order to keep it clean and prevent the children from falling in it was enclosed by a room – like place which Mirza Ibrahim, my teacher, and his family used as a cooling room. The room was almost kept locked and I was always curious to find out what was kept there. Once or twice it was accidentally left open and I peeped inside and saw only some fruit and food stored in the corner.
The road between my parents’ house and the maktab was made up of dozens of twisting alleys. Each alley had something interesting to look at or watch for hours. At the beginning of our journey, just a few minutes walk from our house, there was a huge fruit shop with all kinds of fruits either obtained direct from the orchards or from fruit markets. There were various colorful grapes, many kinds of peaches (red, white or green, small and large), all kinds of melons and water – melons, red, black and yellow cherries – all these, in the mild morning sunshine looked most appealing and tempting for a child. The coming and going of the customers and the arrival of mothers with baskets to buy fruit and vegetable always caught the attention of Ibrahim and me. We would stop and watch them for a few minutes every day – and sometimes longer, which made us late for school.
Another shop which we found fascinating was a large grocery shop. In the afternoons we would stand and watch as the milk was delivered there, carried by mules and camels from the surrounding villages. We were interested to see how large containers of milk were lifted down from the mules and camels by strong – looking villagers who wore special hats and clothes. The containers were carried into a yard next to the grocer’s shop. Once, while Ibrahim was standing across the road and watching this, I peeped inside the yard to find out what they were doing with the milk. I saw a few huge pots standing on wood – burning fires and the milk being poured into the pots and then stirred. In other corners of the yard, piled high, were stacks of blue earthenware bowls. I later discovered that they were yogurt containers and that the grocer made yogurt from the milk. In fact Masha Quli’s (the grocer) yogurt was extremely popular in the district.
Our day at the Maktab started at about nine o’clock, and we sat on the floor in a room waiting for Mirza Ibrahim to come up from the ground floor where he had his family lived. The house had two floors: the ground floor comprised two bedrooms, a sitting room and kitchen; on the first floor were a large room which was used as our classroom and a smaller room where bedding was stored, as our teacher had a rest at midday. In front of the building there was a fairly large yard completely enclosed by a high wall, with the gate situated at the corner of the yard. We used to enter the yard, walk along and go into the house, passing through a vestibule before climbing the twisting steps up to the classroom.
The classroom had a large window which was overshadowed by a tall mulberry tree. Mirza sat on a stool next to the window with a desk in front of him and a stick on his right. All the walls round the room had a number of cavities which were used as shelves for books and other things. The students sat on cushions around the room, leaning against the wall. My mother had made our cushions, as we all had to provide our own. My brother and I used to sit next to Mirza’s desk, and so were under constant surveillance.
There were 25 boys in the class and only one girl (Miss Taj), who was older than us and a neighbour of the teacher. I remember her as being a very pleasant girl who would sit, without her chador, in front of the window. She left the maktab before we did. The other students came from a variety of backgrounds. One was called Gholam and his farther worked in his brother’s butcher’s shop. Gholam always sat next to the door: he must have felt cold in winter because of the draught (the stove, which was wood – burning, was in the middle of the room). I felt sorry for him because Mirza did not treat him kindly. He used to call us one by one to sit in front of his desk and show him our homework, read some passages and receive a fresh lesson. But when it was Gholam’s turn Mirza used to call him Mr. Gulat (a sarcastic way of addressing a person and somewhat belittling). This made me unhappy and rather angry, especially when Mirza used to hit Gholam with the stick, as I liked Gholam. He was a kind and gentle boy but did not wear smart new clothes and his shoes were always torn.
There were also two brothers, Ali and Hamid, whose farther had a drugstore and lived in the neighbourhood. Mirza treated them politely, as he did another boy, Ismail, who was older than me and wanted to be a mullah. I did not like this boy because he tried to impose his opinion and personality on me. In fact one day I fought with him outside maktab and if Ibrahim had not beaten Ismail’s toe from behind, which hurt him badly, I would not have matched him. Later on he left me alone and appeared to respect me.
We had five hours of classes and plenty of breaks. We took our lunches with us to the maktab and would eat them in the yard during the summer and in the classroom in winter. We would take meat, cheese, fruit and bread; one or two other students did the same but the rest either went without a proper lunch or would go home for it. I never saw Gholam eating a proper lunch. Our teacher would eat with his wife and son. We often knew what Mirza was going to have for his lunch either by the smell of cooking or by actually seeing his wife preparing it in the yard.
The middle of the yard was full of different fruit trees – fig, plum, mulberry and apple. There were also vines, which hung over the surrounding walls – often laden with grapes. Between the walls and the middle part of the yard was a paved area where we played and ran about, and there was also a small playground at the bottom, next to the cheshma and small toilet.
Mirza did not like the students to use his toilet and so we were allowed to use a pit for urinating. He was afraid that the cesspit would be filled too quickly if everybody used it for other needs besides urinating, so when we needed to go to the toilet we were sent home. One afternoon my brother Ibrahim urgently needed the toilet and Mirza duly sent him home. Since my grandparents had recently moved nearby Ibrahim decided to go there. By the time he reached the house he had dirtied himself and my grandfather, treating him kindly, had asked him his reason for leaving school. When Ibrahim told him he said, “My heavens, I, as a grown-up person cannot control myself for a few minutes, let alone a child – Mirza must be a fool.” This incident made me angry, too, as I did not like to see my brother in that humiliating situation.
We attended the maktab for almost three years, by which time I had learnt how to read the Quran and read and write the Persian language. But Mirza’s treatment of Gholam and his sending my Brother home to go to the toilet, as well as a number of similar things had filled me with anger against him. I was looking for an excuse to leave but did not want to do anything silly and give him the chance to humiliate me either by punishing me in front of my classmates and my brother or by telling my farther.
Nawruz was ahead and Mirza was expecting his New Year present from the students as well as his monthly fees. He liked three things (besides money) most: tobacco for pipe (usually the western – type pipe but with a longer stem), henna for his beard (for dyeing it red or brown) and all kinds of dried fruit. Two weeks before Nawruz my parents a tray of dried fruit and told my brother and I to take it to Mirza and then ask for permission to leave the school at midday as my farther was going to take us to a bath – house. We took the tray, which was covered with a white tablecloth and tied.
On our way to the maktab we passed a dalan, a short, covered passage which connected one alley to another. Both sides of this passage were surrounded by quiet gardens and walled houses. Why, I suggested to my brother, should we bother going to the maktab for such a short period and then return home? It would be better to sit near this dalan and see what Mirza’s present was. My brother agreed with me, so we opened out the tablecloth and found all kinds of dried fruit on the tray. We decided to try just one of each kind and then take the rest to Mirza. Of course, the time we had done not much was left on the tray except raisins and nuts – which we could not possibly give to Mirza as a New Year present. After some deliberation we decided it would be better to divide the rest and return the tray and cloth to our parents with thanks from Mirza. So this is what we did. We went to the bath – house with our father and did not worry at all about what had happened. In fact I felt pleased that Mirza had not received the present.
A few weeks passed. One evening my father returned home as usual and we had our dinner. He then called me and asked about Mirza’s Nawruz present. I soon realized that he must have met Mirza in the street and learned that he had not received the present. As a result of this episode I was punished by my father; in the maktab I also found that Mirza’s attitude towards me had changed. He treated me in similar sarcastic manner to that of my classmate Gholam.
By this time the summer holidays were approaching. One day, making some excuse, Mirza tried to hit me with his stick in front of my brother and the others, but I grabbed hold of his stick and broke it by twisting it. This cheered up the students and made Mirza very angry. I immediately packed together my books, took up my cushion and walked out. My brother followed me. We did not return to maktab again, but were sent to a newly opened semi – religious school called Elmieh. This school was a modern one and had been opened by a leading ayatollah in Tabriz when the Democratic Party of Azerbaijan, headed by Pishavari, formed a government in Azerbaijan in 1945 and the Persian language taught in school was replaced by Azerbaijani.
There were several teachers at Elmieh School in addition to the headmaster, Mr. Naqavi. The building was fairly new, with several classrooms, and catered for both primary and secondary level. But the medium of instruction, contrary to the state schools, was still Persian. I was in the fourth year primary and there were about 40 students in our classroom, mainly from a commercial middle – class background. There were hardly any students from poor families. The school was private and charged monthly fees.
Elmieh School was situated at the entrance of the Jami’ Mosque and next to the karvan – sarais full of sacks of dried fruit where I used to stop and play on my way to visit my grandparents with my mother. Most of the students there were well - dressed and looked healthy with rosy cheeks. Some of them were so handsome that they had attracted the attention of other students and our Quran teacher, Mr. Ahrabi. The Quran teacher’s special attention towards good – looking students had aroused the jealousy and anger of other students in the classroom. The teacher was not so friendly with me, though I considered myself just as handsome – yet I did not wear nice clothes.
The students had discovered that Ahrabi was afraid of mice, so one day one of the students, Mustafa, who was rather taller than the rest, brought three mice into our classroom in his pocket. When Mr. Ahrabi was sitting and talking in his customary and self – satisfied manner, Mustafa freed the mice and let them run under the desks in the middle of the classroom. Some of the students, being aware of Mustafa’s plan started shouting, “There are mice! There are mice! Catch the mice!” Meanwhile two of the mice darted in front of the teacher’s desk. As soon as he saw them Mr. Ahrabi jumped up and fled the classroom. All burst into laughter.
After half an hour Mr. Ahrabi returned, with a long stick in his hand. His face was red and he was pretending that he was not afraid, but he was upset because the class had been interrupted and intended to find out and punish the student who was responsible. He asked everyone but no one gave away Mustafa, who was looking rather pale. Mr. Ahrabi seemed frustrated and angry. In order to save his face he made the monitor, Babak, a scapegoat by dismissing him and replacing him with another student, Mr. Golabi, who only kept his job for a few days because he could not control the class. Babak was asked to resume his responsibility. At first he refused but the rest of the class made him change his mind.
Mr. Ahrabi ended up in a special religious school training to be a mullah and some years later I saw him in the robes of a mullah. Many of the students in this class later became merchants and some went to university or became civil servants. Mr. (later Dr) Golabi became a successful lecturer at Tabriz University and after the Iranian Revolution of 1979 he turned out to be the right hand of the Ayatollah’s regime in the University and the city of Tabriz. He took an active part in the dismissal of both students and teachers from the university and administered important appointments in the Town Council. It is said that he also had a friendly relationship with the Shah’s regime.
I met him at the University of Tabriz in 1978, almost 33 years since we were at Elmieh School. He was very polite and courteous to me and we both participated in the university’s pre – Revolutionary meetings. I was on sabbatical leave, six months before the Revolution, and took an active role in the meetings of staff and students.
Then, one day, there was a rally at the university for the public and students in support of the Revolution at which I was asked to speak. When I arrived half an hour beforehand I saw Dr. Golabi with some students at the platform. I was told by one of the students that my speech had been cancelled. I felt upset and rather angry and asked Dr. Golabi for an explanation. He said, “You use the words ‘workers’ ‘peasants’ and ‘masses’ in your public talks and the people do not like this”. It was the first time that I had clashed both intellectually and politically with him. Hearing this comment and also finding out that he was mainly responsible for the cancellation of my speech, I asked him, “What do you mean by the people do not like the words ‘workers’ ‘peasants’ and ‘masses’? If the people have made the Revolution – or it is for the people – then how can you exclude workers, peasants and masses from this great event?” In answer to my comment, he said, “True muslims and believers had to decide who should talk and who should not in public meetings.” “You are Fascists – Hitler also believed he was a true Christian,” I said in wrath. I departed from Dr. Golabi but I did not change my opinion of him and the regime that he is still supporting.
Two events stand out in my memories of Elmieh School: one was when Sattar (my youngest uncle) was punished with the stick (used on his feet) in front of all students in the middle of the schoolyard. I did not know exactly what his crime had been to deserve this awful punishment, but I knew that he used to come to school late. The other event was my fight with one of the students, Hassan, who used to boss everybody and many were scared of him. One day, when I was sitting reading he came up and annoyed me by pulling the book out from my hand. I became angry and suggested, in the presence of other students, a fight outside school that afternoon. When we came out of school, Hassan and I met in a large square away from the traffic. A large number of students formed a ring round us. The fight began and received a few punches from my rival, but before he could knock me out I managed to trap his head under my arm so hard that he could not breathe and became scarlet. I asked him to apologise but he was unable to and the students eventually separated us. After that Hassan kept quiet in school and above all treated me politely – and we became friends.
Elmieh School closed after two years when the ayatollah who sponsored died, and my brother Ibrahim and I moved to yet another school called Muhammadieh and were joined by Ismail, who had been attending a state school. This was a private school set up by businessmen; it was not as exclusive as Elmieh School and the syllabus was half religious and half modern. Ironically, Mr.Ahrabi also moved to Muhammadieh School when Elmieh School closed. In this school I was preparing for the final (sixth) year of primary school and most of our lessons we were taught by Mr. Najiyan, the headmaster, and his brother Mr.Akbar, so I did not have any class taken by Mr.Ahrabi.
We had to take the final examinations in June at the Department of Education or in one of the schools other than our own. There was intense competition among the students. In my class there were students from all different backgrounds. Some, like me, had come from Elmieh School and the rest were from poorer families. One of the students, whose name was Hashim Tutunkar (tobacco grower), used to get top marks in every subject. I tried hard to catch up with Hashim but I did not succeed. I developed a special respect towards him; he was polite, serious, well – spoken, friendly and intelligent. All these qualities impressed me but I did not know whether he came from a poor or middle – class family. He did not appear to be from either.
Only ten students from my class took part in the examination, which was held in the girls’ secondary school in the town center. There were many examinees, including adults, from all over Tabriz. Hashim gained top marks overall. I was so impressed by Hashim’s marks when I went for my results that I did not bother to ask who had come second and third after Hashim and walked out of the Educational Department.
When School closed for the summer holidays I worked at my father’s factory and his office in the bazaar. One day, I was returning from the office when I saw Hashim going in the opposite direction. I greed him and was very pleased to see him. He was carrying a bundle of cotton for weaving socks. Looking pale and sad, he said to me, “I shall be unable to come to school next year. My father has recently died and I have to work to support my mother.” I felt frozen to the spot and as if the entire ceiling of the bazaar had collapsed on my head. I did not know what to say. He realized I was upset and said, “Perhaps we will meet again someday.” I did not see Hashim for a few years until the occasion when I recognized him at a coach station, but he did not see me. He looked much older and pale. I still feel deeply angry against the circumstances which prevented Hashim from continuing his studies.