Beyond the Islamic Revolution: Perceptions of Modernity and Tradition in Iran before and after 1979 9783110399882, 9783110399592

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Beyond the Islamic Revolution

Worlds of Islam – Welten des Islams – Mondes de l’Islam

Im Auftrag der Schweizerischen Asiengesellschaft – On behalf of the Swiss Asia Society – Au nom de la Société Suisse-Asie

Edited by Bettina Dennerlein Anke von Kügelgen Silvia Naef Maurus Reinkowski Ulrich Rudolph

Volume 8

Beyond the Islamic Revolution Perceptions of Modernity and Tradition in Iran before and after 1979

Edited by Amir Sheikhzadegan and Astrid Meier

This publication was made possible due to the support of Swiss Academy of Humanities and Social Sciences (SAGW).

ISBN 978-3-11-039959-2 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-039988-2 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-040005-2 ISSN 1661-6278 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at: http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2017 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover image: Parastou Forouhar, “Red + Green III_C” Typesetting: jürgen ullrich typosatz, Nördlingen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents Notes on Transliteration

VII

Amir Sheikhzadegan and Astrid Meier Introduction 1

Part I: Main Intellectual Trends Ramin Jahanbegloo Intellectuals and Society in Iran since 1953

17

Amir Sheikhzadegan The Trajectory of the 1953 Military Coup and the Course of Liberal Islam in Iran: A Sociological Analysis 31 Katajun Amirpur Constructing and Deconstructing Othering: Polycentrism versus Westoxication in Iran 60

Part II: The Voices of the Less Visible Roswitha Badry Insurmountable Hurdles to the Countering of Patriarchal Gender Discourse under a Clerical Oligarchy? Experiences of (Islamic) Feminists in the Islamic Republic of Iran (1979–2009) 89 Erika Friedl Heirs of Modernity in Rural Iran

112

Part III: Social Change in the Mirror of Art Katja Föllmer The Rebellious Man and the Courageous Woman: Social Criticism and Gender Relations in Iranian Film Production before and after the Islamic Revolution 131

VI

Table of Contents

Tobias Nünlist Between Change and Persistence: Reżā Julāʾi’s Short Story Miti-Jenn as a Mirror of Social Developments in Iran 155 Note on Contributors

177

Index of Names and Places

179

Notes on Transliteration Throughout this book, the transliteration of Persian names and terms follows the system of the Encyclopaedia Iranica (www.iranicaonline.org/pages/guidelines). Arabic words are transliterated according to the norms of the International Journal of Middle East Studies. In cases of proper names that have common English spellings, such as places and individuals, we opted for the English spelling (e. g. Tehran, Shiraz, Reza Shah, Khomeini, and Ahmadinejad instead of Tehrān, Širāz, Reżā Šāh, Ḵomeini, and Aḥmadinežād). The same holds for Arabic and Persian terms that have entered English lexicons (e. g. mullah, Ayatollah, and Khan instead of mullā, Āyatollāh, and Ḵān), as well as for the names of Iranian scholars who have published in languages other than Persian. Dates are given according to the Common Era calender. In the case both the Islamic (Hijri) and the Common Era calender are used, dates appear in the following form: Hijri/Common Era. The common form for Hijra dates is the solar calendar, with the lunar ones being marked with the abbreviation “h.q.” (for Hijri Qamari).  

 

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-203

Amir Sheikhzadegan and Astrid Meier

Introduction The Islamic Revolution of 1979 has marked Iran’s recent history to an exceptional degree and counts as an event of global importance. As unexpected as the results of the demonstrations of 1978 and 1979 were at the time, it seems quite impossible today to imagine the Iran of the last Shah, that of Moṣaddeq or the Pahlavi period as a whole, let alone the Constitutional Revolution or the Qājārs. Yet these names and the corresponding events are constituent elements of any Iranian reflections on modern history and collective identity. When we organized a symposium on Iran on behalf of the “Swiss Society for Middle East Studies and Islamic Civilization” in 2008 and 2009, Iranian politics were high on the agenda of the world media. The focus was on the supposed Iranian nuclear weapons program, the reelection of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and the demonstrations against the manipulation of the election results, known as the Green Movement. Some commentators prophesized the imminent downfall of the ruling regime, yet the Islamic Republic seemed to have reinvented itself from inside by the presidential elections of 2013, which saw the victory of the moderate candidate Hassan Rouhani. It remains to be seen whether the alleged “historic” nuclear deal of 2015 between Iran and the world powers will have any substantial impact on Iran’s political system. Politics and political history are, however, not the focus of this volume. The contributors are more interested in the long-term transformations of the society that have roots in the period before the Revolution. Viewed from the outside, Iran’s society today seems to be full of contradictions: religious and secular, modern and traditional, theocratic and democratic, to name but a few of the epithets often used to describe it. These contradictory images awakened our interest in the various dimensions of the transformation processes that have shaped the recent history of Iran, with a special focus on the question of how images of tradition and modernity have played into, and been transformed by, societal change in the country. Much research on societal change in Iran is being done, and scholars in and outside Iran debate with an increasingly global academic community a myriad of aspects of the social life of this country. With regard to the temporal dimension of societal change, the debates cover two different scales. One approach looks at the “longue durée”, focusing on the continuities, discontinuities and gradual changes of Iranian society from a long historical perspective. Typical examples of this type of research are Homa Katouzian’s works on the dialectics of arbitrary rule and social disorder in Iranian his-

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-001

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tory,1 Ahmad Ashraf’s studies of Iranian identity,2 Afsaneh Najmabadi’s study of gender relations in Iran from the Safavid period up to the present time3, and Willem Floor’s work on sexual relations in the country.4 This type of study sometimes focuses on a special social group; examples being Richard Tapper’s research into the social history of the Shahsevan5 or David Yeroushalmi’s edited volume on the history of Jews and their artistic achievements in Iran.6 The second strand of scholarship limits itself to a more recent period, the time of tajaddod-ṭalabi, the quest for modernity; a common point of departure is the Constitutional Revolution of 1905 to 1911, Enqelāb-e Mašruṭeh in Persian. Most studies that belong to this group focus on a specific period, such as the Constitutional Revolution, the Pahlavi era or post-revolutionary Iran. Only recently have some scholars tried to surmount the dividing lines between specific periods and historical junctures.7 In many of the existing studies of collective images of self and other in Iran, the notion of modernity is of central importance. Iran is a particularly interesting case of this global phenomenon as the divide between what is perceived to be modern and what counts as traditional has been complicated by nativist constructions of “Iranianness” or of being Muslim. Images of modernity in Iran have very often been a “cultural translation”8 of concepts associated with modernity in Europe. Depending on one’s interests and/or inclination, one would take a concept such as rationalism, empiricism/positivism, industrialization, individualism, democracy, secularization, nation state, or a combination of such concepts, as the manifestation of modernity.9 Iranians, however, were not only fascinated by modernist narratives of history, society and mankind, but also receptive to intellectual movements which were critical of modernity, be it in its philosophical foundations or in its manifestation in material life. Of particular appeal were post-colonial theories, existentialism in both its French and German manifestations, the critical sociology of the

1 Katouzian 2003. 2 Ashraf 2006/2012. 3 Najmabadi 2005. 4 Floor 2008. 5 Tapper 1997. 6 Yeroushalmi 2012. 7 Some examples of this strand of research are: Najmabadi 2005, Ashraf 1991, Chehabi 1998, Ghamari-Tabrizi 2004, Talattof 1997, Abrahamian 2008, Vahdat 2002. 8 Schulze 2003: 22. 9 Regarding its impact on Iranian intellectual discourse, Vahdat highlights two “pillars” of modernity: subjectivity and universality (see Vahdat 2002).

Introduction

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Frankfurt School, the works of the so-called postmodern thinkers, and even the radical views of intellectuals such as Ivan Illich, Paulo Freire, Erich Fromm and Everett Reimer. Each train of thought resonated with one or other group of Iranian intellectuals. The concept of modernity, as understood in the nineteenth as well as the better part of the twentieth century, was based on several presumptions of which the following were the most prominent. Firstly, it was based on a dichotomy between “modernity” and “tradition” while essentializing both. As Peter Wehling noted, it was because of this “globalized, ahistorical, and abstract dichotomy” that all attempts to define modernity became tautological.10 Secondly, it implied a normative view of both concepts: While modernity was considered rational, progressive and humane, tradition was labeled irrational, backward and oppressive. This construct served, as is well known, as a legitimization of colonialism and imperialism. The negative attitude towards tradition found its strongest expression when it came to religion, most vociferously from those of a Marxist point of view. As Armando Salvatore has put it: “The Marxian intervention that followed Feuerbach’s radical deconstruction of religion de facto severed the link of religion from practice and made it the kernel of the ideology of tradition. Religion was described as a crucial instrument of domination and as the principal manifestation of human alienation, to be transcended through the dialectics of historical materialism.”11 Thirdly, it was based on a linear, evolutionist view of human history, in which the whole world would pass through the same developmental stages as “the West”. Initially introduced by August Comte’s “Law of the three stages”12, an evolutionary paradigm was adopted by many other 19th-century theorists. One of the most popular of these models was Karl Marx’s evolutionist theory of historical development. In the post-World War II era, the American sociologist Talcott Parsons (1902–1979) presented an influential new formulation of the evolutionary

10 Wehling 1992: 117. 11 Salvatore 2007: 45. 12 According to Comte’s law of the three stages, the history of human knowledge goes through three successive developmental stages: in the theological stage, people believe in personified supernatural forces as the causes of phenomena. In the metaphysical stage, this belief takes more abstract forms. Thus God, Satan, the angels etc. replace the personified deities. In the positive stage, people look for the laws governing phenomena. The first stage is characterized by the supremacy of the military, the second by the supremacy of the clergy and lawyers, and the third by the supremacy of industry.

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approach to the development of societies. Inspired partly by Parsonian sociology, there emerged various “modernization theories” including the “five stages model”13 of Walt W. Rostow (1916–2003).14 During the Cold War, these theories were very influential in the countries belonging to the Western “camp”, including Iran. Fourthly and finally, it had a strong Eurocentric bias as it labelled Europe and other Western countries modern and progressive while considering non-European countries traditional and backward. As Mohamad Tavakoli-Targhi observed: “The conventional Enlightenment story treats modernity as a peculiarly European development and as a byproduct of ‘Occidental rationalism’. Viewed from within this hegemonic paradigm, non-European societies were ‘modernized’ as a result of Western impact and influence. Thus Westernization, modernization, and acculturation were conceived as interchangeable concepts accounting for the transition of ‘traditional’ and ‘non-Western’ societies.”15 Based on these premises, modernity served as a meta-narrative, as a “social myth” (“Sozialmythos”)16, which encompassed all aspects of individual and social life. To speak with Henri Lefebvre, “modern” turned into “a talisman, an open sesame” with a “lifelong guarantee”.17 In recent decades, however, all these presumptions have been challenged by new theoretical concepts as well as empirical findings. The dichotomy of West vs. East has been questioned by new historical findings that show the interconnectedness of the historical development of the Euro-Mediterranean civilizational space18, as well as the confluence of Hellenic and Abrahamian traditions.19 The Eurocentrist dimension of the concept has been criticized by post-colonial theorists among others. The evolutionist premise of the modernization theories is challenged by the theory of “multiple modernities”20 which postulates different paths of societal transformation. The notion that in the process of modernization, religion will gradually vanish has faded in the light of

13 According to Rostow, economic growth goes through five stages of 1) traditional society, 2) preconditions for take-off, 3) take-off, 4) drive to maturity and 5) age of high mass consumption. He believed that the Western countries were the pioneers of economic development and that the whole world would sooner or later follow their path (see Rostow 1960). 14 In his late and widely neglected work Action Theory and the Human Condition, Parsons (1978) distanced himself from modernization theory which he criticized for its simplistic view of (religious) traditions (for a short review, see Joas/Knöbl: 2004: 137–139. 15 Tavakoli-Targhi 2001: 2. 16 Schnädelbach 1989. See also Wehling 1992. 17 Lefebvre 1995: 185. 18 Salvatore 2007: 3. 19 Salvatore 2007: 3. See also Hobson 2004. 20 Eisenstadt 2000.

Introduction

5

abundant empirical evidence of the increasing role of religion in the public sphere and a questioning of the public-private divide in societies with a secular selfimage.21 Finally, the positivist dimension of the concept has lost its appeal in the face of constructivist as well as hermeneutical approaches in social sciences and humanities. Whereas modernity has been the object of hot debates, the concept of tradition has been widely neglected. Even social anthropology which considers tradition a key concept has not developed a theory of tradition, and only few anthropologists have called for one.22 In most discussions, therefore, tradition seems defined merely as the counterpart of modernity, of that which came before modernity from the perspective of progress. Tradition usually refers to objects, practices, texts and ideas which originated in the past and are transmitted through the generations down to the present where they remain authoritative and in use. This includes cases of “invention of tradition” where the legitimizing tie to the past becomes particularly visible.23 The reevaluation of the concepts of modernity regarding the role of religion in particular has renewed not only scholarly interest, but also an intellectual debate about the dynamic and critical part tradition can play in knowledge production and societal change. Talal Asad recently pointed to the seminal importance of developing an adequate understanding of tradition. Referring to his own usage, he says: “I have used the term ‘tradition’ in my writings in two ways: first, as a theoretical location for raising questions about authority, time, language use, and embodiment; and second, as an empirical arrangement in which discursivity and materiality are connected through the minutiae of everyday living. The discursive aspect of tradition is primarily a matter of linguistic acts passed down the generations as part of a form of life, a process in which one learns/relearns ‘how to do things with words’, sometimes reflectively and sometimes unthinkingly, and learns/relearns how to comport one’s body and how to feel in particular contexts.”24 Such a complex and multifaceted approach to tradition opens up fruitful debates about the various ways societies and social groups and movements refer to what they understand as modern and traditional and the historical moments at which these notions come into play. The papers collected in this volume take up this challenge and point to the diversity of attempts to define the ever-shifting

21 22 23 24

For a well-documented review of theories and empirical findings see Wilson 2011. See Boyer 1990. Hobsbawm/Ranger 1983. Asad 2015; cf. Asad 1986.

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and often contradictory notions of modernity and tradition in recent Iranian intellectual thought. From different angles and with various methodologies, they aim at a more differentiated and critical analysis of the trajectories of using these concepts. Prior to this enquiry, however, it was necessary to develop a better understanding of the dialectics of social life and intellectual discourse in order to gain a more comprehensive perception of what had happened in Iran over the previous five decades. Three dimensions of societal change were identified as of crucial interest for the contributions to this volume: a) The long-term aspect: We wanted to look beyond the rupture of the Islamic Revolution back to the period of the Pahlavis in order to understand more thoroughly the impact of the modernizing reforms of the Pahlavi regime and the counter-reforms of the Islamic Republic. b) The methodological approach: In order to come to a more comprehensive understanding of Iranian society and the changes it lived through, it was necessary to open an inter- and cross-disciplinary debate. The present volume takes up this challenge by bringing together insights from the fields of Oriental studies, history, sociology, literature and social anthropology. However, the volume also points to the difficulty in bringing the various approaches into a meaningful conversation, as the configurations of social and societal change, politics and cultural production are complex and not easy to describe. The fact that some contributions in this volume remain more isolated than others may be explained to some degree by the differences between social sciences and the humanities and the specific logic of such areas as cinema and literature. In their disciplinary “Eigensinn”, however, they point to features of social and societal change that are often overlooked in more conventional sociological analyses. c) The subjective dimension: The volume focuses on the subjective dimension of societal change as it is primarily interested in a better understanding of the self-perceptions and worldviews of Iranians. In the long-term perspective adopted, the coup of 1953 is, for the following reasons, a meaningful point of departure. Firstly, it was only in the post-Moṣaddeq era that Iran witnessed the rise of a full-fledged rentier state, even though oil revenues had played a major role in the Iranian economy since the rule of Reza Shah. The dependence on oil is a phenomenon that has, up to the present, been one of the most salient features of the Iranian state, with far-reaching consequences for state-society relations. Secondly, the role of the USA and the UK in the 1953 coup against the democratically elected Prime Minister Moṣaddeq caused resentment in the Iranian public and constituted proof for nationalists of all kinds of the colonialist

Introduction

7

attitude of “the West”: while advocating democracy, Western powers backed an authoritarian military administration. The resentment towards the outside world was reinforced by disappointment with the Soviet Union for its imperialist politics despite its rhetoric of international solidarity against imperialism. This situation led many to question the validity of values propagated as “modern”. Thirdly, with the fall of Moṣaddeq’s government, the modernist authoritarianism of the Reza Shah era returned to the political stage. At the top of the agenda, therefore, were not core values of modernity such as democracy and equality, but materialistic perceptions of it (expressed in a modern economy, infrastructure, army etc.) – a process which further delegitimized modernity and boosted nativist worldviews. Fourthly and finally, disillusionment with peaceful means of protest and parliamentarianism sowed the seeds of violent politics and triggered a trajectory that brought about, a quarter of a century later, an Islamist regime notorious for its perpetual violation of human rights. This volume brings together some of the papers presented at the conference “Iran and the World: Societal Change, Self-Images and Worldviews in Iran since 1953” which took place at the University of Basel, Switzerland, on November 13th and 14th, 2009 and which had been organized by the “Swiss Society for Middle East Studies and Islamic Civilization” (SGMOIK/SSMOCI/SSMEC). In order to do justice to the spectrum of topics treated, some additional contributions have been included in the present volume. The collection starts with three contributions that outline from different angles the most important trends in the intellectual history of Iran in the second half of the 20th century and beyond. All three essays highlight the impact of the ground-breaking essay Ḡarbzadegi (usually translated as Westoxication) by Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad in 1962 which became paradigmatic as the most influential example of “othering” for several decades. By positing that the West and values associated with it, embodied in the notion of modernity, came over Iran like a sickness, the essay cemented the perception of an autochthonous Iranian tradition, seen as essentially Islamic, that had to be protected against this threat. This striking image had a strong influence on the following generations of both secular and religious intellectuals and contributed substantially to a stereotyping of Islam as positive and “the West” as negative. In his article Intellectuals and Society in Iran since 1953, Ramin Jahanbegloo addresses the question of why and how violence became the dominant intellectual project in the pre-revolutionary era. As Jahanbegloo illustrates, the lawful, pacifist ambitions of Iran’s elites, originating in the Constitutional Revolution of 1906, were shattered by the coup against Prime Minister Moḥammad Moṣaddeq in 1953. During the 1960s, Frantz Fanon’s celebration of violence as a means of

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liberation from colonial rule became a source of inspiration for both the religious and the secular segments of the Iranian intelligentsia who were dreaming of putting an end to the Shah’s oppressive regime. It was on the violent stage set up and normalized by Mohammad Reza Shah and his Marxist opponents that Ayatollah Khomeini succeeded in establishing a violent theocracy in Iran. Those who undid Moṣaddeq’s nonviolent reforms could not know that they were guiding Iranian society towards tremendous, inexorable violence twenty-five years later. Amir Sheikhzadegan’s article The Trajectory of the 1953 Military Coup and the Course of Liberal Islam in Iran: A Sociological Analysis follows the path of this intellectual and/or political movement and its repeated reinvention against the background of societal change. Rooted in the Constitutional Revolution (1905– 1911), liberal Islam was revitalized in the 1940s after an eclipse under Reza Shah’s rule (1925–1940). The coup of 1953, however, gave rise to a movement with a different agenda. The advocates of this new liberal Islam were deeply politicized and regarded resistance to the regime as the most urgent task of a Muslim believer. Moreover, they showed a positivist attitude toward modernity and saw the salvation of Muslim societies in the adoption of modern science and technology while living Islamic values. The golden days of liberal Islam did not last long. Political repression combined with radical impulses from the world system resulted in the emergence of violent ideologies and led finally to the rise of a repressive Islamist regime. In the long term, however, Islamist repression triggered a culture of resistance which boosted, in turn, a reformist movement based on Islamic liberalism. This liberal interpretation is characterized by a new approach to Islam as well as to modernity. Striving for a “humanistic hermeneutics” of Islam, it clearly shows the influence of postmodern schools of thought and marks a radical departure from the positivist attitudes of the older generation. In her article Constructing and Deconstructing Othering: Polycentrism versus Westoxication in Iran, Katajun Amirpur traces the historical roots and the context of the emergence of a group of Iranian intellectuals whom she describes as the first true post-colonial thinkers in the Muslim world. She refers to intellectuals like Soruš, Yusefi-Eškevari, Kadivar and Šabestari who distance themselves from the clichéd depiction of the West that had dominated the works of their masters Āl-e Aḥmad and Šariʿati and who are much more familiar with various aspects of intellectual traditions of the Western world. This post-Islamist intellectual movement is, however, far from dominant within the Iranian system. According to Amirpur, the Heideggerian philosopher Aḥmad Fardid and his followers advocate the postcolonial worldviews of Āl-e Aḥmad and Šariʿati, thereby providing the ruling class with an intellectual basis for its anti-Western ideology.

Introduction

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The two essays of the second part add important dimensions to the perception of modernity and tradition by focusing on often overlooked aspects of social reality in Iran. Gender relations, a core topic of reformist intellectuals, are the focus of Roswitha Badry’s overview of feminist and other readings towards a gendered theology of Islam. The perspective of a rural-tribal community is the point of reference in Erika Friedl’s contribution. In her article Insurmountable Hurdles to the Countering of the Patriarchal Gender Discourse under a Clerical Oligarchy? Experiences of (Islamic) Feminists in the Islamic Republic of Iran, Badry analyses the ideological origins as well as the historical development of gender discourse in post-revolutionary Iran. First, she discusses the pre-revolutionary discourse on the image of women in Islam by focusing on Ayatollah Moṭahhari’s neo-traditionalist notion of complementarity of gender-specific roles as well as on ʿAli Šariʿati’s romanticized, ahistorical description of female idols in early Islam. She then distinguishes four trends in postrevolutionary gender discourse, i.e. textualists, semi-textualists, contextualists, and semi-contextualists. All these groups start from the reading of the classical Islamic texts such as the Qur’an, yet they differ in the literality of their interpretations and the degree of sensitivity to the socio-historical context of the texts as well as the necessities of the present time. Badry concludes by remarking that even though Islamic feminists can look back at an impressive record of enduring struggle for gender equality, they have not yet succeeded in bringing about a feminist theology. An overwhelming part of research on the changing perception of modernity in Iran is focused on urban populations. Consequently, we know much less about this issue in rural Iran. The small progress made before the revolution of 1979 in the anthropology of rural and tribal areas in Iran was seriously hampered by the demise of social sciences as a result of the Cultural Revolution (1980–1982) and by travelling restrictions on Western scholars in post-revolutionary Iran. The anthropological works available are relatively scarce and highly fragmented. Even rarer is research that goes beyond the ethnographic scope to document social change in rural and/or tribal communities over longer periods. In her contribution Heirs of Modernity in Rural Iran, Erika Friedl addresses this shortcoming by providing an in-depth insight into the evolution of the perception of modernity in rural communities of Iran from the pre-revolutionary era up to the present. Drawing on her long-time field research in Boir Ahmad, a tribal area in the Zagros Mountains, she shows how socio-cultural change is linked with the evolution of attitudes of the respective community towards modernity. Distancing herself from essentializing approaches to the concepts of tradition and modernity, Friedl focuses on people’s motivation for abandoning

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their customs and values, and she shows, from a lifeworld perspective, that social change happens at the level of personal decisions in everyday life. According to Friedl, Iranian villagers, contrary to the dominant stereotypes among urban populations, are neither isolated from the national public sphere nor tradition-bound people unaware of, or uninterested in, modern urban lifestyles, but rather they are in constant and creative interaction with towns and cities thus developing clear aspirations for modern ways of life. For the village of Sisakht, “to make progress” (pišraft kardan) has been the leitmotiv par excellence of social life for decades if not for a whole century. This brings us to our third part: In Iran, as in any other society, modernization has gone hand in hand with an intense dialectical relation between social change and diverse forms of artistic expression. On the one hand, Iranian artists have inspired or catalysed, if not directly caused, in some way or another, changes in the worldviews as well as self-perceptions of Iranians, thus contributing to the structural transformation of society. On the other hand, gradual changes as well as ruptures in the social structure and/or in the cultural sphere of Iran have affected, with varying degrees of intensity, the form as well as the content of Iranian art production. In this volume, we refer to two forms of artistic expression, cinema and literary prose. Katja Föllmer’s contribution The Rebellious Man and the Courageous Woman: Social Criticism and Gender Relations in Iranian Film Production before and after the Islamic Revolution takes two Iranian feature films, produced in two different periods, to show how representations of manhood and womanhood have changed since the 1960s. Föllmer demonstrates how in the beginning, Iranian movies were amateur imitations of foreign films, with modest success in Iran and without any resonance abroad. In the 1960s, a new, self-confident Iranian cinema emerged in search of an artistic expression of its own. During this period, the Iranian film industry became a medium of critical reflection on a variety of social issues including the dialectics of tradition and modernity. Yet despite the modernist ideology of the Pahlavi regime, Iranian cinema was less progressive and innovative before the Revolution than it has been since. Many pre-revolutionary Iranian films showed a conventional image of traditional patriarchal society. Even the movies preoccupied with political opposition to the status quo had mainly male characters as their leads. Post-revolutionary films, in contrast, are more innovative as well as progressive. Despite the conservative ideology of the Islamist regime with its restrictions on the public appearance of women, Iranian film industry has provided “courageous” female directors and actresses with new spheres of influence within which they explore creative means of addressing social taboos. Whereas the cinema had to wait long before finding its way into Iranian public life, modern literature has accompanied Iranian society since the early 20th

Introduction

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century. In his interpretation of the short story Miti-Jenn, Tobias Nünlist shows how the social and political processes shaping contemporary Iranian society are mirrored in an astonishing piece of Iranian literature. The writer of the story, Reżā Julāʾi, is a “third-generation” writer of literary prose who won several distinguished literary prizes. As Nünlist shows, the writer is convinced that the tortuous past of Iranian society, characterized by cruel invasions and arbitrary rule, has had an enduring impact on the present, making the Iranian psyche a sophisticated labyrinth. Julāʾi tries to explore the psychological dimensions of human existence in contemporary Iran in the light of what happened in the past. By locating his story in the era of the Constitutional Revolution, Julāʾi avoids any explicit hints at more recent political events or characters. He creates a safe space to paint an impressive image of what he sees as the roots of the malaise of contemporary Iranian society: a belief in supernatural saviors, blind followership, superstition, populism, leaders rising out of the sub-proletariat and political repression. Miti-Jenn has a complex, multi-layered and multi-level structure with a myriad of themes developing into one another, and the story cannot be reduced to a single topic. Nevertheless, tensions between tradition and modernity, particularly those between rationalism on the one hand and superstition and demonic beliefs on the other, appear to be paramount themes. Julāʾi’s writing style – his working with elements of mystical realism, constant shifts between past and present as well as between the real and the imaginary – adds to the thematic complexity. During the long time it took to produce this volume, we incurred many debts of gratitude. First of all, we would like to thank the authors for their cooperation and their patience. We are grateful to the University of Basel, the Swiss Academy of Humanities and Social Sciences and the SGMOIK, in particular to its treasurer Martha Vogel and its former president Monika Winet, for their support in the organization of the conference. We thank Prof. Ulrich Rudolph, Prof. Bettina Dennerlein and the Swiss Asian Society for including the volume in the “Welten des Islams/Mondes de l’Islam” series. Last but not least, we thank Christine O’Neill for proofreading the manuscript, Matthias Sulz and Dominik Österle for their help in the preparation of the volume. In conclusion, we would like to emphasize that this volume does not aspire to be comprehensive. It goes without saying that any endeavor to shed light on perceptions of modernity and tradition and their co-constitutive construction is necessarily limited to specific authors and specific historical moments. If one wanted to characterize Iranian discourse on these issues, it would be misleading to describe it indiscriminately as essentializing. While in various contributions to the debate presented here, essentializing elements do play an important role in

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Amir Sheikhzadegan and Astrid Meier

the construction of “we” and “other” – particularly of “the West” –, the discourse itself is far more varied and open. This seems to be a good starting point to rethink the “othering” of Iran in many parts of the world today. Amir Sheikhzadegan and Astrid Meier Zurich and Beirut, November 2015

Bibliography Abrahamian, Ervand (2008): A History of Modern Iran. Cambridge. Asad, Talal (1986): “The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam”, Occasional Paper Series of the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, Georgetown University (republished 2009 under the same title by the journal Qui Parle 17(2): 1–30). Asad, Talal (2015): “Thinking about Tradition, Religion, and Politics in Egypt Today”, Critical Inquiry, online edition. Ashraf, Ahmad (1991): “State and Agrarian Relations before and after the Iranian Revolution, 1960–1990.” In Peasants and Politics in the Modern Middle East, edited by Farhad Kazemi and John Waterbury. Miami: 277–311. Ashraf, Ahmad (2006/2012): “Iranian Identity (parts I to IV).” Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition. Boyer, Pascal (1990): Tradition as Truth and Communication. A Cognitive Description of Traditional Discourse. Cambridge. Chehabi, Houchang E. (1998): Identity and Politics in Iran. London. Eisenstadt, Shmuel N. (2000): Multiple Modernities. Cambridge, Mass. Floor, Willem M. (2008): A Social History of Sexual Relations in Iran. Washington, DC. Ghamari-Tabrizi, Behrooz (2004): “Contentious Public Religion: Two Conceptions of Islam in Revolutionary Iran. Ali Shari’ati and Abdolkarim Soroush.” International Sociology 19(4): 504–523. Hobsbawm, Eric / Ranger, Terence (eds.) (1983): The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge. Hobson, John M. (2004): The Eastern Origins of Western Civilisation. Cambridge. Joas, Hans / Knöbl, Wolfgang (2004): Sozialtheorie. Zwanzig einführende Vorlesungen. Frankfurt. Katouzian, Homa (2003): Iranian History and Politics: The Dialectic of State and Society. London. Lefebvre, Henri (1995): Introduction to Modernity: Twelve Preludes, September 1959–May 1961, translated by John Moore. London/New York. Najmabadi, Afsaneh (2005): Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity. Berkeley. Parsons, Talcott (1978): Action Theory and the Human Condition. New York/London. Rostow, Walt W. (1960): The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto. Cambridge. Salvatore, Armando (2007): The Public Sphere: Liberal Modernity, Catholicism, Islam. New York. Schnädelbach, Herbert (1989): “Die Aktualität der ‘Dialektik der Aufklärung’.” In Die Aktualität der Dialektik der Aufklärung: Zwischen Moderne und Postmoderne, edited by Harry Kunneman and Hent de Vries. Frankfurt am Main: 15–35. Schulze, Reinhard (2003): Geschichte der islamischen Welt im 20. Jahrhundert. Munich.

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Talattof, Kamran (1997): “Iranian Women’s Literature: From Pre-Revolutionary Social Discourse to Post-Revolutionary Feminism.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 29(4): 531–558. Tapper, Richard (1997): Frontier Nomads of Iran: A Political and Social History of the Shahsevan. Cambridge. Tavakoli-Targhi, Mohamad (2001): Refashioning Iran: Orientalism, Occidentalism and Historiography. Basingstoke. Vahdat, Farzin (2002): God and Juggernaut: Iran’s Intellectual Encounter with Modernity. Syracuse, NY. Wehling, Peter (1992): Die Moderne als Sozialmythos: Zur Kritik sozialwissenschaftlicher Modernisierungstheorien. Frankfurt am Main. Wilson, Erin K. (2011): After Secularism: Rethinking Religion in Global Politics. Basingstoke/New York. Yeroushalmi, David (ed.) (2012): Light and Shadows: The Story of Iranian Jews. Los Angeles/Tel Aviv.

Part I: Main Intellectual Trends

Ramin Jahanbegloo

Intellectuals and Society in Iran since 1953 Abstract: The 1953 Coup against Prime Minister Moḥammad Moṣaddeq marks a clear rupture with the lawful and nonviolent aspirations of the Iranian elites which were mainly formulated and experienced during the Constitutional Revolution of 1906. In the 1960s and 1970s, Frantz Fanon’s celebration of violence as a means of liberation from colonial rule became a source of inspiration for all those who were dreaming of putting an end to the Shah’s oppressive regime. Violence as the dominant intellectual project of pre-revolutionary Iran was embodied by the religious and secular segments of the Iranian intelligentsia. At the same time, the nativist attitudes of thinkers like Šariʿati and Āl-e Aḥmad left plenty of space for tradition to become a political statement. The two utopias of a classless society and Islamic government became the dominant narratives of dissident thought and action in the Pahlavi state. As such, the Shah’s political war against Iranian liberalism and the followers of Moṣaddeq in the 1950s and 1960s resulted in the diminution of nonviolent political discourse and the rise of the radical Left and Islamic fundamentalism in pre-revolutionary Iran. It was on the violent stage framed and normalized by Mohammad Reza Shah and his Marxist opponents that Ayatollah Khomeini succeeded in establishing a violent theocracy in Iran. Those who made Moṣaddeq’s nonviolent reforms impossible did not know that they were guiding Iranian society towards tremendous, inexorable violence twenty-five years later.

The overthrow of Prime Minister Moḥammad Moṣaddeq by the intelligence agencies of the United States and Great Britain in August 1953 occupies an immensely significant place in the evolution of intellectual consciousness and discourse in Iran. The Coup and its consequences marked a clear rupture with the lawful and nonviolent aspirations of the Iranian elites which were mainly formulated and experienced during the Constitutional Revolution of 1906. Moṣaddeq’s rise to leadership in the movement for the nationalization of the Iranian oil industry and his premiership can be explained as a direct consequence of Iran’s encounter with modernity and the nationalist aspirations of the Iranian urban middle-class against imperialist intrusions. The close affiliation of Moṣaddeq with the liberal and nonviolent values of the Revolution of 1906 and his

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-002

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advocacy of a civic nationalism in Iran reinforced his position as the head of a movement that contested foreign imperial hegemony while promoting democratic constitutionalism. The explanation of the success of the coup of 1953 against Moṣaddeq, however, resides not only in the political weaknesses of Iranian institutions of the day, but can also be found in relation to Moṣaddeq’s nonviolent personality and his refusal to act forcefully against his opponents. In addition to the tactical mistakes that were made by Moṣaddeq and his National Front colleagues, one needs to point to the role of the violent mob as the focus of political movements in Iranian contemporary history. “In the rioting of August 17 the mob was the vortex around which the balance of political forces rotated.”1 The role played by the local gang-leader Šaʿbān Jaʿfari, known as Šaʿbān Bimoḵ (“Brainless”) during the coup of 1953 and later during Mohammad Reza Shah’s regime superbly describes the use of violence to impose social control and achieve mob rule in contemporary Iran. This mob violence had no decision-making structure and came about for political reasons. But the mob disturbances which persisted in the wake of the coup of 1953 against Moṣaddeq suggest quite clearly that the coup cannot be blamed solely on General Fażlollāh Zāhedi and the foreign actors, but must also be blamed on Iranian crowd psychology as the principal generator of social hostility and political violence. There are many examples of mob psychology in modern and contemporary Iran, the coup d’état of 1953 being just one of them. From the anti-Bābi sentiments and pogroms during the Qājār era to the culture of violence promoted by the Islamic Republic and perpetuated by staging various forms of physical punishment in public, mob psychology in Iran shows that Iranians tend to behave in a different manner when part of a group rather then when they act independently. As members of thug groups they are likely to commit acts they would never commit alone. This is not due to a change in their beliefs or principles, but rather that thus, they tend to ignore or avoid their moral conscience or rational judgment. It is true that the role of mobs in the political evolution of contemporary Iran alone cannot suffice for a sociological analysis of Iranian society. But what it can reveal is plenty of evidence for structural violence in Iranian society which has complemeted the system of arbitrary rule throughout Iranian history. It goes without saying that in a society as unpredictable as Iran, mob rule has been and is still largely in the hands of anti-democratic forces which are massively in favor of a political development in the direction of organized violence. Thus, Moṣaddeq’s opponents used planned and strategic violence continuously against him and his allies in order to weaken the rule of law and democratic practices. It is

1 Efimenco 1955: 404.

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therefore difficult to think how Moṣaddeq’s nonviolent premiership could have survived, even if the Americans had not decided to prepare a coup against him.2 As Homa Katouzian underlines correctly, “Mosaddeq and the Popular Movement – whatever their shortcomings … believed in a plural as well as constitutional society and did not wish to eliminate anyone else.”3 Thus the growing tendency in the second Pahlavi era was toward total elimination of pluralism and practice of violence through the army and secret police forces. One could scarcely have expected a significantly different outcome of the arbitrary rule of the Shah after the fall of Moṣaddeq and the end of nonviolent parliamentarianism. In the same manner as his father, Reza Khan, Mohammad Reza Shah crushed all hope of democracy and nonviolent pluralism by his ironwilled arbitrary rule. All this was because the regime was founding its legitimacy on the coup of August 1953 which was anything but a lawful act of nonviolent democratization of Iranian society. Homa Katouzian divides the reign of the Shah into two periods of dictatorship and arbitrary rule. According to him, “From 1963 to 1977 power became concentrated at an accelerating rate because all opposition had been beaten, the oil revenues were accruing to the state at a rapidly increasing (later exploding) rate, and foreign powers, Western as well as Soviet and East European, became increasingly uncritical towards the regime, not least because of the absence of an organized opposition, and the increasing oil wealth.”4 It was not only the Shah and his dictatorial psychology, but also Iran’s historical dynamics of violence that prepared the road to the development and acceleration of philosophies of violence among Iranian intellectuals and opponents in the 1960s and 1970s. In the period in question, it was widely believed by the Shah and his political allies that dictatorship was a necessary evil for maintaining statebuilding in Iran. Therefore, the absence of power sharing which had begun with the coup of 1953 was continued in the process of royal autocracy. “Mohammad Reza Shah’s justification for his style of government was based on three basic assumptions: the threat of infiltration and subversion from hostile neighbors to

2 Some historians of contemporary Iran have pointed to an alleged cooperation of the National Front and Navvāb Ṣafavi in the assassination of Prime Minister ʿAli Razmārā. This conspiracy has been discussed in Ali Rahnama’s (2005) book Niruhāy-e Maẕhabi bar Bestar-e Ḥarekat-e Nehżat-e Melli (Religious Forces in the Context of the Nationalist Movement). But another historian of contemporaray Iran, Fakhreddin Azimi, brings very solid and convincing arguments to reject this absurd claim. According to him the “confessions” of Navvāb Ṣafavi in his 1334 trial – which were absent in his 1330 confessions! – were but a conspiracy of the regime to stain the name of Moṣaddeq. See interview in Persian with Azimi (1395/1975). 3 Katouzian 2004: 20. 4 Katouzian 2003: 110.

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the north and west; the masses’ incapacity for effective political participation due to illiteracy, poverty, and fanaticism; and the necessity of rapid economic expansion and industrialization free from political and parochial interests.”5 Largely due to its incapacity to analyze the political environment of Iran, the one-man rule of the Shah’s regime opened the door to violent guerrilla mentality and radical Islamic opposition. The two utopias of a classless society and Islamic government became the dominant narratives of dissident thought and action in the Pahlavi state. As such, the Shah’s political war against Iranian liberalism and the followers of Moṣaddeq in the 1950s and 1960s resulted in the diminution of nonviolent political discourse and the rise of the radical Left and Islamic fundamentalism in pre-revolutionary Iran. As such, the intellectual language of protest against the Shah and his regime was characterized by discourses that were either revivalist or revolutionary. It should be recalled, however, that the Iranian Left was more challenged by the Pahlavi state’s security apparatus than some of the Shiite clerics and militant groups. “It is important to note that throughout the 1960’s and 1970’s, while the Left and liberal/social democratic forces and their institutions were hounded and banned by the Pahlavi state, the religious establishment expanded considerably and its institutions proliferated. Networks of mosques, seminaries, and lecture halls, the publication of religious journals and books, access to the print and electronic media, and the steady stream of mullahs (clerics) emerging from the theological schools of Qom and elsewhere provided the leaders of political Islam with an important social base, organization, and resources.”6 The fall and failure of Moṣaddeq’s nationalist-liberal movement and its replacement by Ayatollah Khomeini’s radical Islamist protest in 1963 helped to fuel the violent revolutionary mentality. It was in those turbulent years and as an alternative to Pahlavi’s monarchy that Ayatollah Khomeini formulated his theory of Islamic government. “In this rather novel theory, during the absence of the prophet’s heirs – vacant since the ‘great occultation’ or disappearance of the twelfth Imam Mahdi in the tenth century – the world can be governed legitimately only by a Vali-e-Faqih – the only one who can execute God’s will on behalf of the Hidden Imam – the agency with a mandate to rule both politically and spiritually.”7 Given such social and political configurations under Islamic banners, it would have been difficult to build an anti-Shah intellectual dissent on anything but the anti-Western stand of Khomeini (as in the case of Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad) or on

5 Amuzegar 1991: 125. 6 Mirsepassi 2000: 163. 7 Amuzegar 1991: 27.

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the paradigm of Karbala and the martyrdom of Imām Ḥosayn as an active demonstration of opposition to the Shah’s autocratic regime (ʿAli Šariʿati). The principles of a Shiite Imamate were thus manipulated by Iranian intellectuals in order to unify disparate social categories into one revolutionary movement. Time and time again, thinkers like Šariʿati articulated the revolutionary content of Shiism, while making a distinction between a static and passive Islam and a dynamic Islam. “If we are Muslims, if we are Shi‘ites,” he affirms, “and believe in the Islamic and Shi‘i precepts, and yet those precepts have had no positive results upon our lives, it is obvious that we have to doubt our understanding of them. For we all believe that it is not possible for a nation to be Muslim, to believe in Ali and his way and yet to gain no benefit from such a belief.”8 To many observers, the success of the Iranian Revolution in 1979 was largely due not only to the political capacities of Ayatollah Khomeini to rally the traditional loyalties of the masses, but also to the intellectual genius of those who highlighted the revolutionary elements of Twelver Shiism in order to produce a fundamental paradigm shift from a Western model of modernization to a model of “national modernity” basically concerned with the purposes and values of a revolutionary Islam. Šariʿati set the standards of revolutionary praxis within the metaphor of martyrdom where “only blood could distinguish the boundary between truth and falsehood.” As such, “Whenever and wherever a liberated person has refused to submit to despotism and its attempts for distorting supreme values, and has preferred death to a dehumanized purposeless existence under a monstrous regime and inhuman social system, it is a response to Hussein’s call. Wherever there is struggle for liberation, Hussein is present on the battlefield.”9 The same vision was expressed by Šariʿati in a speech on the courage of martyrdom: The great teacher of martyrdom has risen to teach a lesson to those who believe that struggle against dictatorship should be waged only when victory is possible, and to those who have despaired or have compromised with the Establishment, or have become indifferent to their environment. Hossein teaches that shahadat is a choice through which a mujahid, by sacrificing himself on the altar of the temple of freedom and love, is irrevocably victorious. Hossein has come to teach the Children of Adam how to die. He declares that people who submit themselves to all forms of humiliations, injustice and oppression just to live a little longer are destined to die a ‘black death’. Those who lack the courage to choose martyrdom, death will choose them.10

8 Quoted in Bayat-Phillip 1980: 156. 9 Quoted in Irfani 1983: 131–132. 10 Irfani 1983: 133.

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The influence of these ideas on the discourse and praxis of the Iranian Revolution can be easily recognized. In other words, Šariʿati considered the revolutionary praxis as an evolution towards political consciousness and higher moral perfection. For him, revolutionary violence was legitimate as long as it paved the way for the emergence of a radical manifestation of an Islamic moral order. Šariʿati’s theory and that of Āl-e Aḥmad, therefore, proceeded on parallel lines by emphasizing an authentic cultural revival of Iranian traditions in opposition to what Āle Aḥmad entitled “Occidentosis” or “Westoxication.” Āl-e Aḥmad’s critique of the West was accompanied by his argument about a “return” to an “authentic” Iranian culture which was consistent with an Islamic identity. According to Ali Mirsepassi, “With this claim, Al-Ahmad encouraged a belief that the ‘good era’ of democracy under Mosaddeq depended on an alliance of religious and secular politics.”11 As in the case of ʿAli Šariʿati, Āl-e Aḥmad’s efforts at combating the Shah’s autocratic regime was followed by a critique of passivity among the clerics and by a celebration of the radical Islamic thoughts of Sheikh Nuri and Ayatollah Khomeini. It is interesting to note that Āl-e Aḥmad’s meeting with Ayatollah Khomeini in 1964 coincides with his support for Nuri as a “grand martyr” and a critique of the Constitutional Revolution of 1906. Āl-e Aḥmad criticizes the constitutional liberals for having executed Nuri and adds: “I look upon that great man’s body on the gallows as a flag raised over our nation proclaiming the triumph of Ḡarbzadegi [Westoxication] after two hundred years of struggle. Under this flag we are like strangers to ourselves, in our food and dress, our homes, our manners, our publications, and most dangerous, our culture… If in the beginning of the Constitutional Era the danger brushed up against us, it has now touched our souls – from the peasant who has fled to the city and never returns to his village […] to the minister who seems allergic to the dust of our country and spends the year knocking about the world.”12 Āl-e Aḥmad’s nativist claim for cultural authenticity played an important role in the re-invention of the Iranian political imagination in the pre-revolutionary period of the 1970s. Āl-e Aḥmad influenced Iran’s contemporary socio-cultural debates by presenting the Iranian intellectuals of his time as traitors who wished to be the tool of the democratization process in Iran as did their Western intellectual role models, but since they lived in an undemocratic state (the Shah’s), they served the censorship system. Āl-e Aḥmad’s clear intention in writing his famous monograph, Occidentosis, was not only to incriminate those Iranian intellectuals who viewed “technocratic rationality” as the essence of Western modernity, but

11 Mirsepassi 2000: 106. 12 Al-i Ahmad 1984: 57–58.

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to promulgate a new ideological discourse among the “third generation of Iranian intellectuals” that was an amalgamation of Jean-Paul Sartre, Martin Heidegger and Frantz Fanon. This new ideological discourse symbolized by Āl-e Aḥmad’s view of modernity earned him the reputation of a Third-Worldist, committed intellectual among the other members of the third generation of Iranian intellectuals. Some even compared Āl-e Aḥmad’s Ḡarbzadegi with the Communist Manifesto of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels and Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth in defining the role of the Iranian nation vis-à-vis the colonialist West.13 On the other hand, Āl-e Aḥmad’s upholding of Shiism as Iranians’ primordial source of identity against Western modernity placed him at the center of intellectual debates conducted by scholars such as Eḥsān Narāqi, Sayyed Ḥosayn Naṣr, ʿAli Šariʿati, Ḥamid ʿEnāyat and Dāriuš Šāyegān before the Revolution of 1979. Āl-e Aḥmad’s ideological view of modernity was an impulse for this generation of Iranian intellectuals to shape their nostalgic dispositions for traditional civilizations. What is most surprising is that while admitting the need for Iranian tradition as the non-West and as a mirror by which the West becomes visible, Iranian intellectuals obviously did not ask if the mirror might be obscure or not. Whether or not the image facilitated by Iranian traditions was a true representation of what was actually there, was not at issue. What is worth noting is that generations of Iranian intellectuals dealt with Iranian culture and tradition as opposed to Western traditions as though they were clearly shaped and as though they could be treated exhaustively as objects. All attempts to arrest the strangeness of the other but also the fascination or rejection of the West within Āl-e Aḥmad’s “Westoxication” were inevitably undercut by the irreducible affinity with Iranian nationalism and Iranian religious traditions. For over 100 years Iranian intellectuals embraced and appropriated Western political and cultural values while at the same time keeping a critical distance from them. Actually in both achieving a discourse on the West and creating a distance from it, they contributed to the creation of a dual sense of magnanimity toward the West coupled with a wounded sense of national pride and a ressentiment of the cultural and political intrusion of the West in Iran. The initial romantic “fascination with the West” which took shape among the Iranian intellectuals in the late 19th century was replaced after the Second World War with a broader romantic “revolt against the West.” Surprisingly, the universal sameness of Iranian traditions in opposition to the universal otherness of modernity became a common denominator in both right-wing romantic nationalism as in Marxist anti-imperialist nationalism in Iran. In both cases this romance regarding

13 This view was expressed by Barāheni 1969: 465, quoted in Boroujerdi 1996: 67.

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the authentic cultural and national body was characterized by feelings of cultural relativism and traditional anxiety. Different attempts to generate a sense of national pride triggered by a growing awareness of Iran’s backwardness vis-à-vis the West were translated through serious calls for Europeanization, internationalism and pan-Islamism. One must not forget that the sense of nationhood, particularly in contrast with the Western form of temporality, was a useful mechanism for voicing opposition in Iran against different political states of affairs while being a strong argument for a discourse of “authenticity.” As a matter of fact, because of the double structure of romanticizing and at the same time rejecting the West, a constant oscillation was generated between universalism and particularism among Iranian intellectuals. Particularism and universalism did not form an antinomy but rather mutually reinforced each other. The building of an imaginary glorious past under the old Persian kings or the narrating of a utopian Iranian secular or religious society were different modes of particularistic thinking among Iranian intellectuals which thought of themselves as universalistic without coming across the otherness of the other. One must not forget that throughout the 20th century, many Iranian intellectuals joined Arab, Asian and African intellectuals around the world in extolling the virtues of national traditions as a tool for purifying the nonWest from the contamination of Western domination. Such romantic resentment was often portrayed as a gesture of emancipation and liberation. For the Iranian intellectualism the “return to the roots” and the affirmation of the Perso-Islamic heritage as much as the acquisition of Western knowledge were considered a protection of one’s civilization against outside civilization. In their struggle to overcome modernity the romantic efforts of Iranian intellectuals remained imprisoned in a closed world of cultural solipsism. The metaphor of a frog in the well could be helpful in understanding this problem. The frog can never see its own well on the walls. For the frog, the totality of its well can never be visible. Therefore, it would never know that it is confined to a tiny space; it is not aware that what it believes to be the entire universe is merely a small well. In order to know that its universe is merely a well, the image of the well would have to be projected on the walls. Thus for the frog the totality of the well is basically invisible and it could be recognized only if a representation was projected on the walls. In a sense, the story of Iranian intellectuals has always been haunted by a sense of insecurity. In other words, preserving Iranian cultural and religious traditions did not necessarily mean isolating oneself from a combination of thirdworldism and the movement of counterculture predominant in the West. On the contrary, Iranian intellectuals became endowed with and aware of their own self only when they had the feeling that they were recognized by the West. A large number of Iranian intellectuals underlined Iran’s particularity on the assumption

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of Western universalism. It is no accident that the general discourse among Iranian intellectuals on Iranian uniqueness mentions innumerable cases of Iran’s difference from the West, thereby defining Iran’s identity in terms of deviations from the West. Its insistence on Iran’s peculiarity and difference from the West embodies a nagging urge to see the self from the viewpoint of the other. But this is nothing but the positing of Iran’s identity in Western terms which in return establishes the centrality of the West as the universal point of reference. In contrast to Turkish cosmopolitanism, meaning the ability of Turkish intellectuals in the 20th century readily to embrace universally applicable attributes of socalled Western civilizational values, Iranian intellectual consciousness combined Iran’s Perso-centric and pre-Islamic sense of belonging to Islam as joint foundations of Iranian identity and culture. Yet the existence of these varying perspectives, emerging out of the same national context in Iran due to encounters with the modern world, points to the very absence of particular instances of “multiply rooted cosmopolitanism” and dialogical encounters with the West among the Iranian intellectuals before the Revolution of 1979. What pre-revolutionary intellectuals in Iran did not understand clearly was that the absence of dialogue with the West did not represent an extension but the destruction of democracy. The irony, alas, was that by removing universal standards and declaring that “anything goes,” Iranians did not get more democracy but instead debased imitations of democracy. As such, when hatred of democracy became itself part of the struggle for democracy in Iran, the life of the mind lost all meaning and all hope for a nonviolent change dissipated. Violence as the dominant intellectual project of pre-revolutionary Iran was embodied in the religious and secular segments of the Iranian intelligentsia. At the same time, the nativist attitudes of thinkers like Šariʿati and Āl-e Aḥmad left plenty of space for tradition to become a political statement. As such, the Revolution of 1979 was not so much pro-Islamic as it was pro-traditionalist. Iranians, therefore, turned toward Khomeini as anti-Shah and a critique of modern values. The search for an authoritative tradition was conjoined with a longing for an independent Iran. But the roots of this new dawn of independence were established in a new dynamic of violence in Iranian society. That is to say, the Iranian Revolution of 1979 did not come about because of the failure of the Shah’s authoritarian rule, but as its direct consequence. The oil boom of the mid-1970s, while creating new economic opportunities for Iran, noticeably revealed its weaknesses at the level of providing liberal measures against political violence. Pre-revolutionary Iran was characterized by two distinct socio-cultural types of intellectuals: on the one hand those who were deeply marked by leftist readings of modernity and by the communist experience in Iran and were cut off from the religious world; and on the other hand those who believed in Islamic revival-

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ism but did not feel a philosophical urge to enter a dialogue with modernity. For both of these two intellectual categories, the true challenge was to face the paradox of remaining faithful to the critical responsibility of intellectualism while admitting, approving or facing the process of institutionalization of revolutionary Islam as a compelling discourse of power in Iran. In other words, the biggest challenge for many of the liberal and leftist intellectuals was to be able to fulfill their intellectual duty in an anti-intellectual atmosphere characterized by Āl-e Aḥmad’s holistic discourse on Westoxication and the “betrayal of intellectuals.” Therefore, in the last years of the Pahlavi regime, Iranian intellectuals appeared to be among the weakest elements in the Iranian public sphere. The Iranian Revolution of February 1979 was undoubtedly not an intellectual event but an immense political change that heralded the return of massive and long term violence to the annals of modern Iranian history. The rapid downfall of “the strongest power in the Persian Gulf region,”14 followed by the establishment of a dual sovereignty in Iran, remains for many observers and analysts an unsolved puzzle. Future generations may judge this event and the roles played by Mohammad Reza Shah and Ayatollah Khomeini in a different manner, but while the causes of the Iranian revolution might be a matter of dispute, there can be no doubt that the collapse of Moṣaddeq’s popular government, and with it the demise of ideas such as constitutionalism and a rule of law, opened once again the valves of violence in contemporary Iranian history. Whether or not destiny played a part in favor of Ayatollah Khomeini and his followers is not a subject for researchers but a matter of fortune telling. However, what remains clear in the minds of many analysts of Iranian politics and history is the fact that Pahlavi’s misconceptions and misreading of Iranian history and the use of violence eventually made the system disintegrate. Despite what the supporters of the Shah might say, he was unable to live with the cultural exigencies of urban educated Iranians and his dream of the Great Civilization for Iran became the typical illusion of a monarch who lived permanently with suspicions and conspiracies. The truth is that “the regime’s inability to develop an eclectic Iranian model for development, or to persuade the middle-of-the-roaders (if not Islamic traditionalists) of the economic inevitability and clear efficiency of its strategy was the main cause of its failure to gain popular support. The Shah’s thesis that his alternative to the Islamic and Marxist models was the only promising one was, for the most part, not widely credible.”15

14 This term was used in a major study by George Lenczowski (1978) entitled Iran under the Pahlavis. 15 Amuzegar 1991: 207.

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In a different but related manner, the Shah’s regime exaggerated the role played by the Iranian Communist Party and Marxist intellectuals in Iran. Yet, none of these avowed leftists had the political capacity or the charismatic leadership to spearhead and direct a revolution in 1970s Iran. Though most of these radical intellectuals and organizations such as Fadāʾiyān-e Ḵalq or Mojāhedin-e Ḵalq strongly identified with the use of violence as a legitimate path to end oppression in Iran, they were totally unaware of the boomerang effect of this violence against themselves and their partisans after the revolution of 1979. The fact that these organizations are nowadays controversial among Iranians raises a host of questions about their paramilitary nature during the Shah’s regime and how they managed their identity as the wielders of the means of violence. Given their heavy stress on Guevara, Fanon or on Šariʿati’s revolutionary Islam, their general focus was on the victims and on the perpetrators of state violence rather than on the violence itself. In suggesting that the means of violence were monopolized by the Pahlavi state, these organizations and intellectuals developed strong feelings about using violence in order to prepare a new society. In practically none of their writings before and after the revolution of 1979 was violence seen as something problematic that has to be constantly controlled. By contrast, violence became an object of fascination and celebration. In this respect, Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth became a handbook for all those who were dreaming of putting an end to the Shah’s oppressive regime. Fanon’s nativist philosophy and his idea of violence as a “cleansing force” and the guerilla warfare experiences of Guevara, Castro and others in Latin America were successful in taking the spirit of young Iranian radicals far from the political and religious realities of Iranian society during the Pahlavi regime and opened the door to a new wave of romanticization of violence as an approach to political struggle in Iran. Although not all military in nature, these narratives and acts of violence nevertheless find their place in Iran’s popular culture of violence. One may argue that whatever the Fadāʾiyān and Mojāhedin did or did not achieve in their revolutionary struggle against the Pahlavi state, there is not a shadow of doubt that as practitioners of violence they exposed the Iranian people to the same violence which was justified and used against them by the Islamic Republic after 1979. Thus the guerrilla warfare experience of Fadāʾiyān and Mojāhedin in the 1970s should be seen as one of many political means of popularizing and normalizing violence in contemporary Iran. On February 8, 1971, a gendarmerie post in Siyahkal in northern Iran was attacked by thirteen Fadāʾiyān guerrillas. A few months after this incident, which turned into a tragedy for all those who participated in the attack, Masʿud Aḥmadzādeh, one of the founders of the organization and a former member of Moṣaddeq’s National Front, explained the aims of the Siyahkal operation as follows: “The goal of the armed struggle in the beginning was not to inflict a military blow

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on the enemy but rather a political blow. The aim is to show the path of struggle both to the revolutionaries and to the masses, make them aware of their power, to expose the enemy and awaken the masses.”16 The Fadāʾiyān’s heroic acts of violence had a great impact on young urban educated Iranians. Interestingly, as in the case of Šariʿati’s writings, we find in the writings and speeches of some Iranian Marxists the reminiscences of the Karbala tragedy and the heroism of Imām Ḥosayn against Yazid, the Umayyad caliph. In his self-defense broadcast on national television in January 1974, Ḵosrou Golesorḵi, a Marxist poet, likened himself with Imām Ḥosayn, claiming: The life of Mawlā Ḥosein is an example of our present days when, risking our life for the dispossessed of our country, we are tried in this court. He [Ḥosein] was in a minority, whereas Yazid had the royal court, the armies, authority, and power. [Ḥosein] resisted and was martyred. Yazid may have occupied a corner of history, but that which was emulated in history was the way of Mawlā Ḥosein and his resistance, not the rule of Yazid. The [path] that nations have followed and continue to follow is the way of Mawlā Ḥosein. It is in this way that in a Marxist society, real Islam can be justified as a superstructure, and we, too, approve of such an Islam, the Islam of Ḥosein and Mawlā ʿAli.17

As such, the two processes of romanticizing violence and Marxisizing Islam (as in the case of Mojāhedin-e Ḵalq) went hand in hand with generating a momentum for the religious opposition to the Shah’s regime. The discourse of “religious resistance” as a characteristic of Iranian indigenous culture gained prevalence in response to the Shah’s “Americanized culture.” It is no wonder then that once the first manifestations of religious violence began in 1979, advocating the cause of Islamic sovereignty and Shariʿa law, many secular intellectuals and political activists did not question the roots and reasons of this violence. Instead, they found it natural and rewarding to give it their full benediction. Future Iranian generations will find it hard to believe that Ayatollah Khomeini succeeded in establishing a violent theocracy in Iran in the later decades of the twentieth century on a violent stage framed and normalized by Mohammad Reza Shah and his Marxist opponents. Looking back in time, one needs to underline that Ayatollah Khomeini, unlike Iranian Leftists, did not romanticize violence but practiced it in an unbending manner against his enemies. “Paradoxically, both Mohammad Reza Shah and Ayatollah Khomeini considered themselves agents of the will of God,”18 but Iranians saw in the latter the image of a Shiite Imam who

16 Aḥmadzādeh 1974: 6–7, quoted in Boroujerdi 1996: 35. 17 Quoted in Nabavi 2003: 91. 18 Amuzegar 1991: 113.

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would free Iran from injustice and corruption. The monumental misunderstanding, however, was that the main goal for Ayatollah Khomeini was not to establish freedom and nonviolence but to put an end to the Constitutional Revolution of 1906. In the same manner as Sheikh Nuri did seventy years earlier, Ayatollah Khomeini declared: “The Constitution is not the last word for us. Whatever is contrary to the Qur’an we shall oppose, even the Constitution.”19 This tendency to raise the violent voice of an authoritative religious tradition as the “legitimate” and “authentic” culture of Iran gave everyone in the early days of the revolution an idea of what the Islamic Republic would look like. To re-phrase the famous quotation from George Orwell: Ayatollah Khomeini and his followers did not establish an Islamic theocracy in order to safeguard a revolution; they created a revolution in order to establish an Islamic theocracy. But in doing so, they let the genie of violence out of the bottle, the same genie which had been put back in the bottle by the Constitutional Revolution of 1906 and during Moṣaddeq’s premiership. Those who made Moṣaddeq’s nonviolent reforms impossible did not know that they were guiding Iranian society towards tremendous, inexorable violence twenty-five years later.

Bibliography Al-i Ahmad, Jalal (1984): Occidentosis: A Plague from the West, translated by. R. Campbell, Berkeley. Amuzegar, Jahangir (1991): The Dynamics of the Iranian Revolution: The Pahlavis’ Triumph and Tragedy. New York. Azimi, Fakhreddin (1395/1975), interview in Persian at: http://tarikhirani.ir/Modules/News/ Phtml/News.PrintVersion.Html.php?Lang=fa&TypeId=41&NewsId=3461 (last accessed on 26.01.2015). Bayat-Phillip, Mangol (1980): “Shi‘ism in Contemporary Iranian Politics: The Case of Ali Shari‘ati.” In Towards a Modern Iran, edited by Elie Kedourie and Sylvia G. Haim. London: 155–168. Boroujerdi, Mehrzad (1996): Iranian Intellectuals and the West: The Tormented Triumph of Nativism. Syracuse. Efimenco, N. Marbury (1955): “An Experiment with Civilian Dictatorship in Iran: The Case of Mohammed Mossadegh.” The Journal of Politics 17: 390–406. Irfani, Suroosh (1983): Revolutionary Islam in Iran. London. Katouzian, Homa (2003): Iranian History and Politics: The Dialectic of State and Society. London/ New York. Katouzian, Homa (2004): “Mosaddeq’s Government in Iranian History: Arbitrary Rule, Democracy and the 1953 Coup.” In Mohammad Mosaddeq and the 1953 Coup in Iran, edited by Mark J. Gasiorowski and Malcolm Byrne. Syracuse: 1–26.

19 Quoted in Amuzegar 1991: 120.

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Lenczowski, George (1978): Iran under the Pahlavis. Stanford. Mirsepassi, Ali (2000): Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization: Negotiating Modernity in Iran. Cambridge. Nabavi, Negin (2003): “The Discourse of ‘Authentic Culture’ in Iran in the 1960s and 1970s.” In Intellectual Trends in Twentieth-Century Iran: A Critical Survey, edited by Negin Nabavi. Gainesville, FL: 91–108. Rahnama, Ali (2005): Niruhāy-e Maẕhabi bar Bestar-e Ḥarekat-e Nehżat-e Melli (Religious Forces in the Context of the Nationalist Movement). Tehran.

Amir Sheikhzadegan

The Trajectory of the 1953 Military Coup and the Course of Liberal Islam in Iran: A Sociological Analysis Abstract: The imperialist intervention against the administration of Moḥammad Moṣaddeq in 1953 triggered a historical trajectory with far-reaching consequences for the course of Islamic liberalism in Iran. First and foremost, the coup pulled many Muslim liberals who were devoted to the non-political promotion of a liberal and modernity-friendly Islam into the arena of political struggle against the regime and its Western allies. Later on, an increasing anomie due to the rapid and disharmonious social transformation under authoritarian rule led to the demise of liberal Islam in Iran and the rise of radical and nativist ideologies, a process which culminated in the Revolution of 1979 and the rise of a theocratic regime. With an increasing gap between the policies of the new regime and the aspirations of large parts of the population, wide-spread acts of defiance at the lifeworld level were linked to a revitalized Islamic liberalism to give rise to a reformist movement which has challenged the authoritarian Islamist rule in Iran up to the present day. The new liberal Islam reflects the ideals of a lively civil society movement driven by a longing for free will, privatization of religion, and human dignity as well as a deconstruction of hegemonic Islamist ideology. It also reflects traces of the socalled “postmodern” paths of Western philosophical thought.

Liberal Islam in the sense of a democratic understanding of this religion has been a major political force in Iran for over a century. Nevertheless, sociological studies of political movements in Iran have concentrated predominantly on Islamist movements, thus dramatically neglecting Islamic liberalism. Valuable insights, however, can be gained from work in related disciplines as well as from sociological research, which have, in one way or another, shed light on some aspects of this topic. For the sake of brevity, I will mention only a few examples. In her monograph Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution,1 Keddie gives a comprehensive account of the social and political history of modern Iran. In this

1 Keddie 2003.

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-003

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elaborate book, reports of social change go hand in hand with a description of political movements including Islamic liberalism. A similar account, with an even greater sociological focus, can be found in Abrahamian’s The History of Modern Iran.2 In his monograph An Introduction to the Political Sociology of Iran, Baširiyeh3 shows the links between the rise of the new middle classes and the genesis of the reformist movement. In her article Iran: The Gridlock Between Demography and Democracy, Vakil4 shows how the baby boom of the first decade of the Islamic Revolution has generated, two decades later, a “restless, youthful population”, whose demands clash with the ideological restrictions and social policy deficiencies of the Islamist regime; a process which has made them receptive to the reformist movement. Whereas Vakil adopts a macro perspective, Khosravi delves into the microcosm of the youth in a Tehran neighborhood and provides in his ethnographic study Young and Defiant in Tehran5 an in-depth analysis of the young people’s frustration with the status quo of Iranian society. In his short contribution Municipal Matters: The Urbanization of Consciousness and Political Change in Tehran, Ehsani6 highlights the importance for the reformist movement of urban planning and the expansion of public spaces. And finally, Khiabany and Sreberny in Blogestan: The Internet and Politics in Iran7 refer to the importance of the Internet in accelerating and catalyzing the protest movement in Iran. As the trajectory of the 1953 military coup makes up the temporal framework of this essay, I will start with the status of liberal Islam in the time before the coup and then follow its course up to the present time. Four major phases can be distinguished in the course of liberal Islam in Iran since World War II: 1) nonpolitical liberal Islam before 1953; 2) political liberal Islam after 1953; 3) the demise of liberal Islam from the 1960s up to the 1980s; and 4) the revival of liberal Islam in the form of Islamic reformism in the 1990s and its continuation up to the present. Analogous to these four phases, my essay is structured in four main parts, and an introductory conceptual discussion and a concluding section wrap it up. In each of these historical phases, the key personalities of Islamic liberalism are outlined according to their impact on the movement. Hoping to

2 3 4 5 6 7

Abrahamian 2008. Baširiyeh 1385/2006: chapter 5. Vakil 2004: 45–53. Khosravi 2007. Ehsani 1999: 22–27. Khiabany/Sreberny 2008.

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shed some light on the dialectics of Dasein and Bewusstsein in liberal Islam discourse, I will try to show, in each section, the links between the respective mode of liberal Islam and its societal context. Regarding the latter, I will focus in each period on cultural and structural changes as well on relations between state and society. Preliminary to my analysis, I wish to clarify conceptually what I mean by “liberal Islam”, “Islamic liberalism”, “political/non-political liberal Islam” and “Islamic reformism”. Firstly, I use both terms “liberal Islam” and “Islamic liberalism” synonymously to label a worldview characterized by the following: – a conviction that Islam respects the free will of each individual and a rejection of any coercion in questions of faith; – support of a representative political system; – rejection of violence as a means of promoting Islam; – respect for private ownership while sympathetic to issues of social justice; – a conviction that Islam is a reason-based and science-friendly religion. Secondly, political and non-political liberal Islam differed only as to whether civil society activities (e. g. pedagogy) would suffice to promote a liberal understanding of Islam in society or whether one should also resort to political action. However, the border between the two was fluid, as non-political Islamic liberals never categorically rejected political action. Thirdly, both non-political and political Islamic liberals showed a strong loyalty to the Iranian Constitution of 1906, which was based on the sovereignty of the people as well as on a separation of legislative, executive, and judicial powers while foreseeing a symbolic, ceremonial role for the monarch and a legislative veto right for a group of elected high-ranking clergy. Therefore, while showing strong interest in democracy, they were also protective of “Islamic principles”. Fourthly and finally, the post-revolutionary Islamic reformists go beyond democracy in demanding the protection of human rights and, compared to earlier Islamic liberals, are therefore less compromising on the issues of free will and more permissive towards “Islamic principles” – which in their hermeneutical view can never be defined “objectively”, let alone conclusively.  

Non-Political Islamic Liberalism Liberal Islamic thought in Iran, in the modern sense of the word, goes back to the Mašruṭeh (constitutionalist) Revolution of Iran (1905–1911). It was Ayatollah Mirzā Moḥammad Ḥosayn Nāʾini (1860–1936) who in Tanbīh al-umma wa-tanzīh

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al-milla (“Admonition to the Community and Refinement of the Nation”)8 delivered the first systematic theological basis for a democratic state.9 Pioneers of liberal Islam rejected both the conservatism of traditionalists and the romanticism of radical modernists. Instead, they pleaded for a selective approach to modernity: While they were supportive of some aspects of modernity (modern social order, science and technology as well as modern political philosophy), they saw no point in accepting other aspects of it (materialism, atheism, individualism, and “hedonism”). Islamic liberalism waned in the 1910s10 to be revitalized only in the 1940s, initially in a non-political form. In order to understand the causes of the revival, we will now have a look at its societal context.

Societal Context The dethroning of Reza Shah on August 25, 1941 and the occupation of Iran by the Allied Forces (1941–194511) had a negative impact on the Iranian economy with far-reaching consequences for the population.12 However, the relatively liberal rule of the new king, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, particularly towards the press, political organizations, and traditional ways of life – including women’s veiling and the Shii processions – was received positively by a public who had suffered under the authoritarian rule of his father. The new king also gained popularity for dissolving the Soviet-backed, short-lived socialist republics of Azerbaijan and Kurdistan.13 Last but not least, the young king had better relations with the ʿulamāʾ than his father had had. He enjoyed particularly amicable relations with Ayatollah Sayyed Ḥosayn Borujerdi (1254–1340/1875–1961), who presided over

8 First published in 1288/1909. 9 For a review of the thoughts of Nāʾini and his contemporaries see Hajatpour 2002. 10 Whereas in the 1910s, the struggle for survival severely restrained intellectual life of any kind, in the 1920s and 1930s, it was the repressive policies of the regime which silenced any alternative intellectual discourse including Islamic liberalism. 11 The Soviet forces left Iran reluctantly in 1946. 12 The orientation of the economy towards the needs of the occupying armies and the resulting inflation combined with extensive corruption as well as a bad harvest in 1942 caused in those years considerable constraints on the living conditions of lower and middle class Iranians (see Keddie 2003: 106). 13 This was due not only to the strong nationalistic sentiments of Iranians in the context of foreign occupation, but also to the fact that both socialist governments had terrified the inhabitants of the respective territories with excessive persecution, militant atheism and harsh expropriation policies.

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the theological seminary Ḥouzeh-ye ʿElmiyeh (hereafter: Ḥouzeh) in Qom from 1946 until his death in 1961.14 The popularity of the monarch contributed to an improvement of the uneasy relationship between state and society. A positive attitude towards the state was further enhanced by the nationalization of Iranian oil as well as the coming to power of Moṣaddeq. The latter fascinated the Iranian people not only by his steadfast patriotism, but also by his devotion to democracy, his moral integrity, and his political and administrational proficiency. The improved relationship between the state and society was also due to the fact that the 1940s resistance to the modernization of the country was replaced predominantly – at least among the urban population – by acceptance and even fascination. This was primarily brought about by the following factors: Firstly and as already mentioned, the policies of the new king were more popular than those of his father. Secondly, modern technology left a positive image of modernity as they facilitated everyday life in nearly every area of public and private life. Even traditional areas of social life such as mosques and heyʾats15 did not hesitate to use technology such as electric lights, loudspeakers, microphones, etc., and the preachers enjoyed being chauffeured in motorized vehicles to and from these sites. Thirdly, modern institutions including public schools, higher education, modern hygiene and medicine, factories etc. had in the meantime turned into accepted and appreciated features of Iranian society. Fourthly, the major political forces of the time, particularly the National Front and the Tudeh (people) Party, followed modernist ideologies.16 Indeed, the leaders of these parties admired European societies – which many knew from first-hand experience17 – and were keen to see Iran reach similar levels of “progress”. This new spirit was partly catalyzed by structural changes in the public sphere. Radio broadcasting helped the regime propagate its specific take on modernity all over the country. Newspapers, journals, books and other products of a modern publishing technology facilitated the public debate on modernity and modern lifestyles. And the new urban morphology including Western-style shops, cafés, restaurants, cinemas, theaters, and clubs in newly created urban spaces (such as Kučeh-Berlan, Lālehzār, Ferdousi, and Nāderi in Tehran) became

14 Rahnama 2005: 17. 15 Hey’at is the traditional form of gathering specialized in Shii processions and mourning. 16 The only political force with a clearly antagonistic attitude towards modernity was a small militant group called Fadāʾiyān-e Eslām (“devotees of Islam”), which – due to its terror attacks on the political elites of the country – had major political influence. 17 Some including Moṣaddeq and a majority of his advisers and cabinet members were graduates of European and North American universities (see Abrahamian 2013: xv–xxiii).

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locales of sociability, especially for the bureaucrats, teachers, engineers, physicians, military staff, and university students. Altogether, the above-mentioned developments made the ideal of pišraft (advancement) dominate the zeitgeist. As the following section will show, this general spirit was of major relevance to Islamic liberalism.

Advocates of Non-Political Islamic Liberalism The first decade of the rule of Pahlavi II Mohammad Reza Shah witnessed not only a mushrooming of political parties, but also a revitalization of clerical life. Even though the overwhelming majority of the clergy of the time followed the conservative line of Ayatollah Borujerdi, there were still a few scholars who advocated a liberal understanding of Islam. Rather than any political agenda, the latter used pedagogical means to bring their understanding of Islam to the public beyond the walls of the madrasas. Affected by the general fascination for modernity in Iranian society, the liberal scholars adopted an apologetic stance in order to demonstrate the progressiveness of Islam. A prominent exponent of Islamic liberalism was Ḥosayn-ʿAli Rāšed (1905– 1980). Despite his fame as a distinguished scholar, Rāšed chose very early in his career to work as a preacher – a task which he regarded as his most urgent social responsibility.18 The Islam he spoke of in his sermons was an ethicallyoriented, modernity-friendly religion. Rāšed saw in modernity not a threat but a chance to improve the living conditions of the people. Therefore, in 1941, he joined Iranian radio, one year only after it had started its operation, to give a weekly sermon.19 In a time when the emerging modernist middle classes tended to abandon traditional lifestyles (including religiousness), Rāšed used the most modern communication medium to bring his message into their living rooms. In his nonpolitical sermons, he concentrated on issues relevant to the everyday lives of the people: “[…] I never enter into religious disputes or unclear issues or questions

18 For an overview on Rāšed’s life and thought see Anjoman-e Āṯār va Mafāker-e Farhangi 1385/ 2006. 19 See Rāšed 1385/2006. How courageous this step was can only be appreciated if one takes into consideration the almost phobic resistance of the clergy of the time to that institution. Rāšed’s radio sermons continued until the 1970s and are the longest series of lectures ever delivered by anyone on Iranian radio.

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which are of no use to the people. I restrict myself to the things which would illuminate the people, strengthen their intellect, enhance their ethics, rectify their behavior and sensitize them to the social and national good. […]”.20 Rāšed was supportive of Moṣaddeq’s cause and stood therefore in the parliamentary elections of 1350/1951.21 Open to modern institutions, he also joined the newly founded University of Tehran to teach Islamic philosophy. Another protagonist of liberal Islam was Ayatollah Sayyed Moḥammad Kāẓem Šariʿatmadāri (1905–1986). As one of the first scholars to receive the status of Mojtahed in the Qom seminary, Šariʿatmadāri stood out for his brilliance in theology, his ability to issue up-to-date fatwas, his knowledge of international politics, and his managerial skills.22 Deeply influenced by the thoughts of his master Ayatollah Nāʾini, Šariʿatmadāri regarded Islam as a rational, moderate, and democracy-friendly religion, and he was convinced that a better understanding of the religion would help Muslim societies overcome superstition, backwardness, and arbitrary rule. In the 1940s Šariʿatmadāri mainly focused on teaching theology at the Ḥouzeh in Qom, with his broader activities in communicating a liberal reading of Islam evolving only from the 1950s onwards and reaching their climax in the immediate post-revolutionary years. However, his approach to Islam was influenced by Nāʾini’s liberal theology from the very beginning.23 An indirect positive impulse for Islamic liberalism also came from the scholarship of ʿAllāmeh Sayyed Moḥammad Ḥosayn Ṭabāṭabāʾi (1904–1981). The modalities of this impact can be sketched as follows:

20 Rāšed 1385/2006: 21. 21 Torkamān 1371/1992: 53. Thanks to his popularity, Rāšed was elected deputy of Tehran without having to run any election campaign. Frustrated, however, by the almost vulgar debating style of some of the deputies, he soon abandoned parliament, and with that politics, forever. 22 For an overview of Šariʿatmadāri’s life and thought see Milani 2008: 367–378; Javāherkalām 1382/2003: 1307. See also the well-documented homepage: https://sites.google.com/site/yadnameyeshariatmadari/ 23 One may wonder why Kadivar’s monograph The Theories of State in the Shiite Jurisprudence falls short of mentioning Ayatollah Šariʿatmadāri’s view on the Islamic state. In his monograph Some Documents on the Violation of the Honor of the Revolution Kadivar unravels this puzzle: Due to the anti-Šariʿatmadāri atmosphere of the time and knowing that any mention of this scholar would jeopardize the publication of his book, Kadivar explains, he decided to introduce Šariʿatmadāri’s theory of an “elected Islamic state” under the name of his Lebanese pupil Sheikh Muḥammad Jawād Muġniyah (1904–1979) (Kadivar 1394/2015: 9).

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Ṭabāṭabāʾi moved to Qom in 1946 to start his lectureship in philosophy at the Ḥouzeh. This was an act of courage as the majority of the clergy including Ayatollah Borujerdi were skeptical of having philosophy lectures at the seminary.24 Even though Ṭabāṭabāʾi was a very active author,25 the dissemination of his scholarship beyond the Ḥouzeh was mainly due to his book The Principles of Philosophy and the Method of Realism.26 In this book, Ṭabāṭabāʾi launched a fundamental criticism of numerous Western philosophical schools by drawing on a thousand-year old tradition of Islamic philosophy. This endeavor was of historical importance. In the political public sphere of the 1940s in Iran, the Moscoworiented Tudeh Party stood out from other political organizations in one respect at least: Its pioneers, particularly Taqi Arāni (1903–1940)27, delivered philosophical arguments for their political program. Moreover, they claimed to have a scientific approach to philosophy. This made their program very appealing to the educated middle classes who generally admired anything associated with modern sciences. In his criticism of “historical materialism”, Ṭabāṭabāʾi questioned the very philosophical foundations of the Marxist worldview.28 Even though Ṭabāṭabāʾi, presumably due to a lack of interest in politics,29 failed to formulate a solid political philosophy and his scarce and marginal writings on politics rather favour an authoritarian rule30, his challenging of Marxism was welcomed by the Islamic liberals who regarded this ideology as a threat to both Islam and liberalism. Moreover, Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s emphasis on reason as the basis of religious discourse and his engagement with Western schools of thought had a positive impact on the Islamic liberalism of the time, as both aspects belonged, since the Mašruṭeh, to the fault lines between the liberals and the traditionalists.31

24 Among the majority of theologians, philosophy was a discipline non grata, simply because they were afraid that it would destabilize the faith of the theology students. See Ḥosayni Ṭehrāni (n.d.): 60–62. 25 Of great importance also was Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s 20-volume Qur’an exegesis Tafsīr al-Mīzān in Arabic. 26 Ṭabāṭabāʾi 1333/1954. This book grew, through lengthy comments of ʿAllāmeh’s pupil Ayatollah Morteżā Moṭahhari, into five volumes. 27 For a thorough discussion of this book as well as of Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s approach to Western philosophical schools see Gösken 2014. 28 See also Hajatpour 2002; Gösken 2008: 323–353. 29 For this as well as for many other insights into the thoughts and life-stories of the contemporary ʿulamā’, I am indebted to my father, the late ʿAli Ḥosayn Šeiḵzādegān. 30 See Gösken 2014: 157–165. See also Hajatpour 2002. 31 In recent years philosophy has also been used to justify authoritarian clerical rule (see Amirpur’s contribution in this volume).

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In the pre-coup decade, a non-political, pedagogical approach was also adopted by some Islamic liberals who turned into political activists in the 1950s as we will see in the next section. Three outstanding examples are Moḥammad Taqi Šariʿati, who founded the Center for the Expansion of Islamic Truths32 in Mashhad in 1946; Ayatollah Sayyed Maḥmud Ṭāleqāni, who turned the Hedāyat Mosque in Tehran into a platform for the propagation of a democratic and progressive understanding of Islam, and the natural scientist Mahdi Bāzargān, who (co-)founded several modernist Islamic associations including The Islamic Association of Engineers and Physicians.33 These scholars shared a conviction that the only successful way to cope with modernity and develop Iran into an advanced society would be to live up to a “true” (namely democratic and modernity-friendly) Islam.

Political Islamic Liberalism In the 1950s a group of Muslim thinkers with a liberal understanding of Islam were attracted to an ideology with the clear-cut political agenda of actively opposing the arbitrary rule of the king. What led to the rise of such an ideology? In the following I will give a short account of this new political wave and its societal context.

Societal Context The US-led military coup against Moṣaddeq’s administration in 1953 meant a forceful integration of Iran into the new political structure of global society,34 in which an increasing number of less developed countries was organized as dependent satellites of either “center” (capitalist) or “counter-center” (socialist) countries. In the period from 1953 to 1979, Iran became increasingly dependent on the USA, for its financial aid in the immediate post-coup period, for its political support for the national as well as regional politics of the regime or its military and security contracts (regarding weapons as well as consultancy). As for oil relations, US companies controlled a considerable share of the oil consortium

32 Kānun-e Našr-e Ḥaqāyeq-e Eslāmi. 33 Anjoman-e Eslāmi-ye Mohandesān va Pezeškān. 34 Bornschier 2008.

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created in 1954 between Iran and the Western oil corporations.35 Practically, this meant a “denationalization”36 of the Iranian oil industry. The coup terminated a democratic political order which remains, to this day, a unique experience of freedom of expression, free elections, accountability of the government, rule of law, and independence of the judiciary system in Iran. Having regained power, the monarch resumed the authoritarian rule of his father. With the crackdown37 on the National Front and the Tudeh party, the secular opposition was destroyed,38 with far-reaching consequences for the political development of the country for decades to come. Whereas the coup maximized the popularity of Moṣaddeq and made him a living myth of the struggle against imperialism and arbitrary rule, the monarch was despised for his “conspiracy” with the imperialist powers, for the “selling off” of Iranian national resources, and for “betraying” all the goals for which Iranians had fought for half a century. Thus, the legitimacy of the monarchic regime reached a new low point. Finally, the coup resulted in “the further intensification of the already intense paranoid style prevalent through Iranian politics”.39 On the one hand, a deep belief in conspiracy theories led, for decades, to a preoccupation of the opposition forces with an anti-imperialist struggle, thus distorting their decision-making at historical junctures. On the other hand, the fear of conspiracies by the great powers has strengthened, up to the present time, the resolve of the Iranian ruling elites to heavy-handed crackdowns on the opposition forces and has exacerbated – since the Revolution of 1979 – their ability to apply a rational approach to international politics.

Advocates of Political Islamic Liberalism The coup marks the emergence of a new approach to Islam, which can be described as a politically oriented liberal Islam. Deeply shocked by the toppling of their beloved prime minister, a group of Islamic liberals including Ayatollah Maḥmud Ṭāleqāni, Mahdi Bāzargān, Yadollāh Saḥābi, Ayatollah Sayyed Reżā Zanjāni, and Moḥammad Taqi Šariʿati decided to take political action in order to keep Moṣad-

35 Keddie 2003: 136–137. 36 Abrahamian 2013: 206. 37 For a brief account of the brutal crackdown on the National Front and the Tudeh by the regime see Kinzer 2003: 193–194. 38 Abrahamian 2013: 206. 39 Abrahamian 2013: 206–207.

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deq’s cause alive. Shortly after the coup, they founded, shoulder to shoulder with the secular followers of Moṣaddeq, the National Resistance Movement (Šourā-ye Moqāvemat-e Melli; hereafter: NRM). However, due to some differences with their secular colleagues in the NRM, they used the political opening of 1961 to found the Nehżat-e Āzādi-ye Irān organization (The Freedom Movement of Iran; hereinafter: FMI). In the following I will give a short outline of the political activities of three main leaders of the FMI, namely Ṭāleqāni, Bāzargān, and Saḥābi. Ayatollah Sayyed Maḥmud ʿAlāʾi, known as Ṭāleqāni (1911–1979), is best known for his lifelong political activities. His lectures at the Hedāyat Mosque in Tehran, his public, political statements, and his writings inspired a whole generation of scholars and political activists interested in a progressive, liberal, and politically oriented reading of Islam. For instance, two years after the 1953 coup, he published a commentary on Nāʾini’s Tanbīh al-Umma (together with the original text),40 in which he tried to underpin his conviction that a true Islamic state would necessarily be a democratic one. Ṭāleqāni’s followers regarded his thoughts as “an alternative to the ideas of both the traditional ʿulamāʾ and westernizing forces”.41 Ṭāleqāni was also well-known for his strong advocacy of social justice, as can be seen from his monograph Islam and Ownership.42 His long-time imprisonment did not detach Ṭāleqāni from his followers, but added to his popularity and his aura as a political leader. Mahdi Bāzargān (1907–1995) was among the first group of students who, in 1928, under the rule of Pahlavi I, were sent to Europe to acquire an academic degree in natural sciences. However, driven by his resolve to combat underdevelopment in Iran, “he was more interested in discovering the non-material causes of modern civilization and progress”.43 On his return home, he dedicated himself to promoting his understanding of Islam as a democratic and humanistic religion. Respected for his expertise and known for his moral integrity, he was requested, in 1951, by Moṣaddeq to take over the oil industry after the nationalization of Iranian oil. His political activities in the post-coup era brought him many deprivations including long terms of imprisonment.44 As one of the most productive political writers and lecturers of 20th century Iran,45 he had a deep and lasting impact on Islamic liberalism.

40 Nāʾini 1334/1955. 41 Jahanbakhsh 2001: 69. 42 Ṭāleqāni 1330/1951. 43 Jahanbakhsh 2001: 81. 44 For an overview of Bāzargān’s thought see Barzin 1994: 85–101. 45 On the website of the Bāzargān family (www.bazargan.info), a total of 87 books and essays of his are listed.

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Yadollāh Saḥābi (1906–2002) was one of the first graduates in natural sciences of Dāneš-sarā-ye ʿĀli (University of Teachers’ Education in Tehran). In 1932 he was sent by the state to France to continue his higher education. Saḥābi came back with a PhD in geology to co-found and teach this discipline at the University of Tehran.46 Originally an apolitical scientist, Saḥābi was politicized by the coup against Moṣaddeq. Upon his protest against the creation of the Iranian Oil Consortium in 1954, he was suspended from his academic position. When the FMI denounced the 1963 social reforms of the monarch as a “conspiracy” of the court and the USA to stabilize the monarchic regime, Saḥābi, together with Ṭāleqāni, Bāzargān, and some other key personalities of the FMI, was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. Saḥābi was known for his political, organizational, and teaching activities rather than for his publications. Besides his scientific and technical publications on geological issues, his writings mostly concentrate on demonstrating the congruency between Qur’anic explanations of natural phenomena and the most recent scientific findings. Until his death, Saḥābi remained politically active and was an important source of inspiration for Islamic liberals. With the FMI, the politically-oriented liberal Islam of the Mašruṭeh era was revitalized. However, this new group differed from its predecessors in one respect. Whereas during the Mašruṭeh era liberal Islam was more or less limited to the ʿulamāʾ – with the mokallā47 being predominantly secular liberals –, the new Islamic liberals were mostly graduates from modern Iranian or even European universities. As common among the scientists of the time, they favored a positivist48 approach to modernity. Moreover, they believed in the congruency of the Qur’an with the modern sciences – a notion which they tried to prove through numerous publications.49 Furthermore, they were of the opinion that using the findings of the modern sciences as a key to interpreting Qur’anic verses about nature “strengthens and widens our knowledge about the creatures while increasing our belief in, and humbleness towards, the undiminishing power of God and his enduring wisdom”.50 By adopting such an approach, they aimed to attract religious people to modern sciences as well as the non-religious intellectuals to Islam.51 Convinced that a devout Muslim had to defend the Iranian constitution

46 Saḥābi 1385/2006. 47 Mokallā referred to people who carried a hat (kolāh) instead of a turban (ʿammāmeh). 48 See Taghavi 2005: chapters 7 and 8. 49 See, for example, Bāzargān 1344/1965; Saḥābi 1387/2008; Saḥābi 1346/1967; Saḥābi 1349/ 1971; Ṭāleqāni 1345/1967. 50 Saḥābi 1387/2008: 25. 51 Bāzargān 1344/1965: 15.

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while watching the sovereignty of the country, they never stopped denouncing unconstitutional practices of the state or scandalous imperialist interventions in Iran. The politicization of Islamic liberalism did not put an end to non-political liberal Islam. Rāšed continued with his academic and broadcasting activities until the late 1970s. As for Šariʿatmadāri, he dedicated himself to the creation of the following platforms for the expansion of a modernity-friendly and humanistic reading of Islam. In 1337/1958 he launched an Islamic periodical called Dars-hāʾi az Maktab-e Eslām (“Lessons from the School of Islam”). The aim of the monthly journal was to demonstrate to its readership the progressiveness of Islam and its ability to cope with the modern world. The first journal of its kind in Farsi and designed for the general public, Maktab-e Eslām was a real success story and soon gained the cooperation of an increasing number of Shii scholars. Encouraged by the success of Maktab-e Eslām, Šariʿatmadāri soon embarked on a much more ambitious venture. In 1343/1964, he founded an institute called Dār al-Tabliḡ-e Eslāmi (“House of Islamic Promulgation”) – an educational center, in which theology students and preachers would study Islamic sciences as well as some modern disciplines such as English, sociology, and psychology. This institution was a further attempt to establish a progressive reading of Islam in the Nāʾini tradition. Furthermore, it aimed at helping its students develop better rhetorical abilities vis-à-vis the missionaries of other faiths. Finally, it had an extensive program to build up an international network of Muslim scholarship. Due to its high-level teaching staff and its inviting curricula, Dār al-Tabliḡ became a yet bigger success story.52 Last but not least, liberal forces, including the National Front and the FMI, could often count on Šariʿatmadāri’s support, when it came to trouble with the repression apparatus of the state.

52 One of the most active divisions of Dār al-Tabliḡ was its publication center, which integrated Maktab-e Eslām into its program and launched some other publications including the scholarly periodical al-Hādi in Arabic, the youth journal Nasl-e Nou (“the new generation”), and the children’s magazine Payām-e Šādi (“the message of joy”). It also published a considerable number of scholarly books in Farsi, Arabic, and English (for an account of the activities of Dār alTabliḡ see Vāʿeẓi 1354/1975.

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Eclipse of Islamic Liberalism and the Revolution of 1979 In the 1960s and 1970s Iranian society underwent a rapid and tense transformation led by an increasingly authoritarian rentier state. The interplay of various processes of social change led to the demise of liberal Islam and to the rise of radical and nativist ideologies. What were these processes, and how did they contribute to this major cultural and ideological shift? In the following section, I will give a short analysis of these and similar questions.

Societal Context In the early 1960s, the Shah’s plans to launch land and other social reforms provoked widespread protests. Whereas liberal forces, including FMI, voiced the demand that any reforms were to be approved by a new, freely elected parliament, the clergy criticized the reforms for their alleged violation of the Sharia. Ayatollah Khomeini grasped this opportunity also to denounce the Shah’s dependency on the USA. As the regime reacted with the persecution of the protesters, the conflict escalated. Finally, on June 6, 1963, a popular upheaval was brutally put down by the security forces. Paradoxically enough, one of the outcomes of the land reforms was a massive migration of villagers to the cities.53 In the twenty-year period from 1956 to 1976, the urban population of Iran grew from 5.9 to 15.8 million, which meant a growth from 31% to 47% of the population. Thus, urbanization grew much faster than the population itself, which, primarily due to a sharp reduction in infant mortality, also showed a fast growth from 18.9 million in 1956 to 33.7 in 1976.54 The large-scale migration of the rural population to the cities also led to a gradual ruralization of urban life, a process that clashed severely with the ongoing spread of Western lifestyles in Iran. The dualism of ruralization vs. Westernization deepened the already existing structural divide between the modernist milieus on the one hand and all other social milieus and strata on the other.55 While the modernists despised the traditionalists for being ommol (old-fashioned) or dehāti

53 See Sheikhzadegan 2003: chapter 7. 54 Data extracted from different numbers of Sālnāmeh-ye Āmāri-ye Kešvar “Statistical Yearbook of the Country”, published by the “Statistical Center of Iran”. 55 For a discussion of this dualism see Looney 1973: 126; Schulze 1994: 279–280; Sheikhzadegan 2003: 171–175.

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(villager), the latter were horrified by the “sinful” lifestyles of the former. Thus the modernity/tradition split was translated into a deep class hatred – an immense emotional resource which Ayatollah Khomeini tapped into masterfully in 1979.56 Rapid urbanization as well as the spread of Western consumption patterns led to major shortages of goods and services in the principal cities. As infrastructure “bottlenecks” (mainly ports, power, and transportation57) constrained the measures adopted by the authorities to cope with consumption deficiencies, the regime became the target of increasing public anger. The relentless price-fixing campaign of the government in the 1970s, aimed at containing inflation, caused considerable resentment among shop-keepers and Bazaris.58 Despite the growing public discontent, an efficient repression system impeded a peaceful expression of popular grievances. In the 1970s an extensive build-up of police and intelligence services (facilitated by rocketing oil revenues of the state) further enhanced the repressive capabilities of the regime. The direct outcome was a radicalization of politics. Moreover, the expansion of the rentier state and the subsequent dissociation of the ruling elites from the civil society hampered the ability of the authorities to recognize early signs of public anger. With the announcement of a one-party system by the monarch in 1354/1975 the authoritarian rule of the monarch reached a new climax. Radicalization of politics, however, had not only endogenic causes. Radical impulses from around the world – be it anti-systemic ideologies, anti-colonial uprisings, or guerilla movements – were equally important, as they resonated with a population which, due to a reduction in infant mortality, went through a process of rejuvenation.59 Ernesto Che Guevara soon became the role model for a whole generation. The spiral of violence continued.

Rise of Radical Political Thought Even though the Pahlavi regime’s concern for the welfare of Iranians was genuine and its development strategy was based on sound theoretical assumptions,60 the

56 Drawing on Qur’anic expressions, Khomeini labeled the modernists ṭāḡut (idol, tyrant) while calling the traditional masses mostażʿafin (the oppressed). 57 Looney 1982: 128. 58 Abrahamian 1989: 29. 59 Rejuvenation of the population as a result of the reduction in infant mortality is a general feature of the modernization process and has been observed between 1950 and 1975 in all developing countries see, for example, Vallin 2006: 83. 60 Looney 1982: 264.

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increasing cultural and structural tensions of Iranian society in the post-coup era seriously challenged the modernist ideology of the regime. The romantic image of modernity faded away in the hard realities of an “uneven development”.61 Early signs of a growing skepticism towards modernity emerged in the 1960s, as a nativist worldview electrified the political public sphere. In his groundbreaking essay Ḡarbzadegi (“Westoxication”) (1962), Āl-e Aḥmad (1923–1969) criticized the alienation of Iranian society as a result of political and cultural domination by the West.62 The notion of Ḡarbzadegi was soon grasped by a whole generation of young Iranians including the sociologist ʿAli Šariʿati (1933–1977), the son of Moḥammad Taqi Šariʿati. During his doctoral program in Paris, Šariʿati himself was exposed to, and fascinated by, the existentialists. The young sociologist was also deeply impressed by the thinking of Frantz Fanon. In his writings, Fanon had depicted masterfully the alienating impact of colonialism upon the colonized and had seen the remedy for this social-psychological malaise in violent liberation movements (which he saw as the manifestations of the revolutionary subject).63 The works of the French orientalists Louis Massignon and Henry Corbin were further sources of inspiration for Šariʿati and strengthened his belief in the “glory” of Islam. Despite their critical view of modernity, neither Āl-e Aḥmad nor Šariʿati were against developing the country. What they sought was a domestic form of social transformation which would grow out of Iranian/Islamic traditions. This nativist movement triggered by the concept of Ḡarbzadegi was intensified by the political crisis of the 1960s and the crackdown of the 1963 upheaval. The latter event marked the gradual eclipse of liberal political Islam and the birth of Islamic as well as secular radical ideologies. With the demise of liberal Islam, the weekly radio sermons of Rāšed (see page 36) gradually lost their appeal for the public. Especially the Iranian youth were much more attracted to the fiery speeches of Šariʿati or to the revolutionary pamphlets of the Iranian guerilla organizations than to the calm, apolitical sermons of the elderly scholar. Even though Rāšed was very much respected for his vast knowledge as well as for his moral integrity, he was disliked by the advocates of radical Islam.64

61 Abrahamian 1982: 419–449. 62 Āl-e Aḥmad’s sceptical view of the Western cultural hegemony shows some traces of French existentialism. After all, he had translated literary works by Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Eugène Ionesco, and even André Gide and Fyodor Dostoyevsky into Persian. 63 For an elaboration of the impact of Fanon on Šariʿati as well as the rise of radical ideologies in this period see the chapter by Ramin Jahanbegloo in this volume. 64 See Ḥojjati Kermāni 1385/2006. See also Šahidi 1385/2006.

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Therefore, in 1980, one year after the Revolution, only a small notice in the newspapers reported the death of this extraordinary man, who had once been among the most revered clerics of the country. As for Šariʿatmadāri, his Dār al-Tabliḡ experienced strong opposition from Ayatollah Khomeini and his associates. Arguing that this project would distract from the political struggle against the monarchic regime, these men did not miss any opportunity to attack the institution.65 Shortly before the Revolution of 1979, Šariʿatmadāri also planned to launch a university for Islamic sciences. However, the reactivated disputes between him and Khomeini’s men after the Revolution stopped him from fulfilling his vision.66 Conflicts between Šariʿatmadāri and Khomeini in post-revolutionary Iran flared up as Šariʿatmadāri opposed the installation of a clerocratic regime.67 As the state kept on ignoring the constant interventions of Šariʿatmadāri, public protests by his followers erupted in December 1979 in the province of Eastern Azerbaijan.68 Provoked by these events, Khomeini’s men looked for an excuse to silence Šariʿatmadāri once and for all.69 Finally, in April 1982, they accused him of being involved in a plot against the regime. A nation-wide defamation machinery was put into motion to discredit the old scholar. Šariʿatmadāri, whose opposition to the new constitution had rattled the very foundations of the emerging clerocracy, was put under house arrest where he died, in April 1986, from a long and agonizing illness.70 Due to its political activism, the FMI fared better. However, its non-violent orientation led to its marginalization, so that with the outbreak of the 1979 Revolution, it was no longer in a position to lead the masses. Therefore, it simply complied with the leadership of Ayatollah Khomeini. By accepting Khomeini’s

65 Davāni, an active staff member of Dār al-Tabliḡ, comments on this hostility as follows: “[…] they mercilessly attacked Dār al-Tabliḡ (such a huge achievement), and – not fearing God’s punishment – they accused it, and any person involved with it, of anything [they liked]; and they did not feel shame before the hereafter” (See Davāni 1386/2007: 160). 66 Personal communication of the late ʿAli Ḥosayn Šeyḵzādegān. 67 He not only intervened constantly against violations of the life and property of the people, he also protested against the modalities of the referendum for regime change and the new constitution – which he criticized principally for its articles about the Velāyat-e Faqih (“mandate of the jurist”) (See Keddie 1980: 527–542; Ghamari-Tabrizi 2008; Sheikhzadegan 2003; Ourghi 2005: 831–844). 68 In Tabriz the demonstrators occupied the local TV station and almost took over the city. However, they were driven away and pursued by the newly founded Revolutionary Guard (see Razmi 2000). 69 Milani 2008: 367–378. 70 Kadivar 1394/2015.

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invitation to build the interim government, the FMI, together with the National Front, practically let the “Imam”71 (leader) use the good reputation of melliyun72 to realize some important steps towards his clerocratic rule.

Islamic Reformism The total and systematic crackdown on opposition forces by the Islamist regime left a widespread political vacuum. Left without leaders and without ideologies of resistance, the Iranian people had to start from scratch to build up new ways of resistance. In the 1990s, the culture of resistance was connected with a revitalized discourse of liberal Islam which gave rise to the Islamic reformism movement. In the following I will analyze this confluence as well as its societal context.

Societal Context The Iranian Revolution of 1979 could only succeed as a result of an alliance within a wide range of political forces with different ideologies. After the victory of the Revolution, the new regime managed to wipe out all competing factions. In order to legitimize their heavy-handed crackdown on dissidents,73 the Islamists made reference not only to the “divine mission” they ascribed to themselves, but also to the defāʿ-e moqaddas (“holy defense”) during the Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988). No political force was exempt from prosecution. Thus, only a few years after the victory of the Revolution, the new state could consolidate its totalitarian grip on Iranian society. In the 1990s, however, various processes of social change, including the following, led to a loosening of the totalitarian system. To begin with, the Iranian economy was seriously damaged by the Revolution and the subsequent Iran-Iraq War. By dedicating his two-term presidency (1989– 1993 and 1993–1997) to the stimulation of the economy, ʿAli Akbar Hāšemi Rafsanjāni contributed substantially to a “normalization” process which, in its own turn, triggered a process of de-ideologization of the public sphere. There soon emerged a dynamic spirit of entrepreneurship and commercialization. Capitalism,

71 The title Imam was applied to Ayatollah Khomeini by his followers during his short-exile in France. The revolutionary leadership Šariʿati had ascribed to the holy Shii Imams was thus attributed to Khomeini, too. 72 The proponents of the nationalist-liberal ideology of Moṣaddeq were generally called melliyun. 73 For an overview of the persecution of dissidents in the 1980s see Abrahamian 2008: 181–182.

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demonized a decade earlier, was back on the stage again. The state-run mass media played a major role in the de-ideologization process. For instance, Iranian TV aired several genres of entertainment programs as well as commercials. New soaps and satire programs conquered the hearts of the Iranians. TV actors as well as sports celebrities gradually overshadowed the religious and revolutionary icons. Sports, eagerly promoted by the state,74 generated unprecedented opportunities for non-sacral gatherings and activities. The de-ideologization of the public sphere was also promoted by changes in the urban morphology of the country. Admired for his remarkable urban development programs in Isfahan, the visionary mayor of that city, Ḡolāmḥosayn Karbāsči, was called upon to bring his leadership to the capital. In his office as mayor of Tehran (1988–1998), Karbāsči turned a war-stricken city into a lively metropolis. Dozens of cultural centers as well as hundreds of parks and green spaces decorated with flowers and fountains created public urban places which soon attracted millions of Iranians thirsty for recreational facilities.75 The Karbāsči model of urban planning was soon adopted in several other cities too, with different degrees of success. The newly created public spaces were most eagerly used by the Iranian youth who were keen to go out, “to see and be seen”, and to look for mixed-gender contacts. A boom of “coffee-shops”76 and restaurants and a mushrooming of higher education institutes, and even religious mass rituals like ʿĀšurā, served the youth as platforms of sociability. These off-shoots of the baby-boom of the war years77 showed considerable longing to live up to global youth lifestyles thereby defying dominant Islamist ideology. The public space was further de-ideologized by a vibrant women’s movement.78 Originally set out by a broad grassroots resistance to a “disciplining” of the female body79, the women’s movement soon expanded to numerous aspects of women’s rights and gender relations. It was because of this widespread

74 See Adelkhah 2000. 75 See Ehsani 1999: 25. 76 The modern cafés used the English label “coffee-shop” presumably to maximize the Western appeal of their houses. 77 In order to fulfil Ayatollah Khomeini’s vision to build up a “20-million army”, the propaganda machine of the state persuaded Iranians to have more children. Subsequently, the average population growth in the period from 1355–1365/1976–1986 showed a striking increase of 3.9% (Source: http://amar.sci.org.ir/, visited on 23. 8. 2010). 78 For a detailed discussion of Islamic feminism in Iran see Badry’s chapter in this volume. 79 See Foucault 1977; King 2004: 29–39.

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resistance that the activities of Islamic feminists were, from the beginning, welcomed by women of a wide range of habitus. From the second half of the 1980s onward, there gradually emerged new openings for an independent, or at least semi-independent, public sphere. Of special social impact was Iranian cinema, which, thanks to its subtle, nonideological language as well as to its humanistic topics, was eagerly embraced by a public saturated with state propaganda. In the 1990s, reformist newspapers and periodicals further contributed to a widening of the independent public sphere. Launched in 1991, the newspaper Salām aroused much public anxiety by criticizing the totalitarian rule of the rightwing Islamists. The journals Kiyān (started in 1991) and Irān-e Fardā (started in 1992) constituted, right from the beginning, forums for scholarly debate on Islamic liberalism. In 1993, the Tehran mayor Karbāsči launched the newspaper Hamšahri to open up a popular platform for a lively civil society discourse. At its peak, Hamšahri reached an unprecedented circulation of 460,000.80 Soon there followed dozens of similar newspapers and journals. The independent public sphere was also broadened by new technology and a higher geographical mobility of Iranians beyond the borders of the country. The introduction of satellite TV and Internet technology broke the monopoly of the regime over visual mass media and exposed Iranians to influences from societies around the world. Initiated at the beginning of the 2000s, Persian weblogs showed such a rapid growth that many analysts came to speak of an emerging Weblogistan.81 Furthermore, a boom in travel agencies triggered massive tourism, especially to Turkey and Dubai. Both these countries were seen as proof that an Islamic country could be an open society too. Dubai was additionally viewed as proof that good governance makes a difference when it comes to the economic and infrastructural development of a country. Last but not least, changes in the public sphere were enhanced by developments in the class structure of the country. One reason for the success of Khomeini and his men in installing clerocracy was the fact that a considerable part of the middle classes that could have resisted them chose to, or was forced to, leave the country. In the post-war years, however, there emerged new middle classes with a considerable potential for becoming a major reformist political force.82 One of the main characteristics of these classes was that their expectations went far beyond economic issues to include social, cultural and ideological demands.83 The rise of 80 81 82 83

See Ehsani 1999. See Hendelman-Baavur 2007. See also Khiabany/Sreberny 2008. Baširiyeh 1385/2006: chapter 5. Baširiyeh 1385/2006: chapter 5.

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the new middle classes was due to a series of social processes including upward mobility of parts of the lower classes, a boom in entrepreneurship, a massive expansion of higher education, and a revival of technocracy.

Advocates of Islamic Reformism The above-mentioned social developments paved the way for the rise of an ideology of resistance. As secular ideologies had almost no room to thrive, the task of elaborating a new ideology was taken on by some dissidents within the classe politique who had denounced Islamism to embrace a liberal approach to Islam. The following event is generally regarded as a milestone in the revitalization of liberal Islam in post-revolutionary Iran: In January 1992, Mahdi Bāzargān delivered his yearly lecture on the ʿeyd-e mabʿaṯ (the anniversary of the first revelation to the Prophet Moḥammad on the 27th of the month Rajab). In this lecture, Bāzargān clearly distanced himself from his pre-revolutionary reading of Islam as a politically oriented religion arguing that Islam was not about worldly matters and that its mission solely concerned the hereafter: “The only purpose of sending prophets is to alert people to the existence of God and prepare them for the hereafter, not to tell them how to conduct their politics and run their affairs in this world.”84 With Bāzargān’s speech the FMI was reawakened overnight to a new life. Soon, scores of ex-Islamists joined in to deepen the critical discourse. In addition to hundreds of critical articles published in the newly launched newspapers and periodicals, the 1990s witnessed the publication of a series of scholarly books criticizing the fundamentalist orientation of the state from various points of view. The authors included scholars like Mahdi Ḥāʾeri Yazdi, ʿAbdolkarim Soruš, Moḥammad Mojtahed Šabestari, Moḥsen Kadivar, Ḥasan Yusefi-Eškevari, but also activists like Akbar Ganji, ʿEmadoddin Bāqi, ʿAbbās ʿAbdi, Saʿid Ḥajjāriān, the FMI leaders and dozens more. This critical discourse was further boosted by harsh and steadfast criticism of the ruling elites from Ayatollah Ḥosayn-ʿAli Montaẓeri who, after abandoning his Islamist worldview, turned into a major promoter of Islamic reformism.85 With every new scholar joining the debate, the reformist discourse became further enriched. Despite differences in argument, all these scholars pleaded in

84 See Mir-Hosseini/Tapper 2006: 65. See also Jahanbakhsh 2001. 85 See Amirpur 2010: 475–516; Ourghi 2005.

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the final analysis for a new reading of Islam based on a separation of religion from politics. In other words, they delivered, as Mahmoud Sadri once put it, a “sacral defense of secularism”.86 A major source of inspiration for the Islamic liberals’ theoretical contemplations was their exposure to modern schools of Western philosophical thought. This can be explained partly by the following development. From the 1990s onward, Iran witnessed a considerable increase in translated books. The translations covered a wide range of topics from postmodernism to health, nutrition, Yoga, modern lifestyles, novels, memoires and biographies, natural and human sciences and so on. Of special relevance to the reformist movement were translated works in the field of the humanities. The mushrooming newspapers and journals delivered a remarkable bulk of translations, too. A vast literature on theories of modernity, postmodernism, poststructuralism as well as new hermeneutics, from Wilhelm Dilthey, Max Weber, and Martin Heidegger87 right down to Hans-Georg Gadamer, Jean-François Lyotard, Paul Ricœur, Jacques Derrida, Jürgen Habermas, Michel Foucault, and Naṣr Ḥāmid Abū Zaid inspired reformist thinkers in their attempts to deliver a humanistic hermeneutics88 of Islam. Notions such as the temporality and incompleteness of all understanding, the plurality of judgments, the inaccessibility of the author’s intentions, the critique of ideology and of power/knowledge relations, the deconstruction of texts as well as of political institutions, the impact of the interpreter’s knowledge and interest on his interpretation and so on animated the Islamic liberals to develop new interpretative approaches in which human knowledge of religious texts was regarded as relative, pluralistic and ever-changing. They also used sociological theories such as communicative action (Habermas), patrimonial state/sultanism (Weber) and disciplinary society (Foucault) to analyze power relations, hegemonic ideology, and politics of coercion in the Islamic Republic. The many theoretical points of view in the new wave of liberal Islam cannot be adequately discussed here. However, to provide a good example, the following analysis offers a brief glance at some of Soruš’s thoughts – a scholar who, among the critics of Islamism, has had the greatest social impact.89 Ḥosayn Ḥājj Farajollāh Dabbāḡ, better known under his pen name ʿAbdolkarim Soruš, studied pharmacology, analytical chemistry and philosophy of science in Tehran and London. A passion for Islam, however, motivated him also

86 Sadri 2001: 257–270. 87 In recent years, Heidegger’s thought has also been used to justify authoritarian clerical rule (see Amirpur’s chapter in this volume). 88 The expression humanistic hermeneutics was coined by the late Naṣr Ḥāmid Abū Zaid (2004). 89 For Soruš’s thoughts see also Amirpur’s chapter in this volume.

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to acquire an extensive knowledge of Islamic sciences.90 Belonging to the inner circle of the revolutionary scholars, Soruš enjoyed privileged access to public platforms – including academia – and used this opportunity to deliver, shortly after the Revolution, intellectual support for the ideals of the Islamic Revolution.91 However, disillusioned with Islamist ideology, he soon turned his back on the ruling elites and started with his scholarly criticism of Islamism. Soruš basically distinguishes between the essentials and the accidentals of Islam.92 By essentials he means the general and universal features of Islam (its mission); by accidentals the more concrete and particular aspects of Islam, which are only to be understood in their historical contexts. According to Soruš, “[b]eing a Muslim demands belief and commitment to the essentials”.93 In order to grasp the essentials, he suggests that one has to overlook the historical particularities of religion: “In order to identify and peel away the accidentals and incidentals we need to deconstruct religion’s historical body […]”.94 However, he further argues that one can never be certain to have grasped the essence of the religion. Neither can one be certain of getting any closer to the essence of the religion.95 In other words, the search for the essence of the religion will remain a never-ending process. Furthermore, Soruš distinguishes between a minimalist and a maximalist reading of Islam.96 According to the latter, a Muslim can find all necessary guidelines for his personal and social life in the teachings of Islam and is therefore not in need of any other source of knowledge. According to the minimalist view, on the other hand, Islam provides but the necessary minimum guidelines and leaves the rest to the human intellect. Soruš criticizes the Islamist regime in Iran for its maximalist interpretation of Islam. Another thesis of Soruš is that of contraction (qabż) and expansion (basṭ) of religious knowledge, according to which human knowledge of a certain religion always remains fluid as it is exposed to the contraction and expansion of extrareligious matters: “[W]hen it comes to understanding religious texts and interpreting them […] we invariably draw on our own expectations, questions and assumptions. […] and since these expectations, questions and assumptions always originate outside religion, and since extra-religious matters are changeable

90 91 92 93 94 95 96

See Sadri/Sadri 2000: 4–6. For this point see Ghamari-Tabrizi 2008: chapter 4. Soroush 2009. Soroush 2009: 63. Soroush 2009: 91. Soroush 2009: 157. Soroush 2009: chapter 5.

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and fluid and human knowledge, philosophy and science are constantly growing, accumulating, changing and evolving, the interpretations […] will per force be diverse, changeable and evolving.”97 Yet another thesis of Soruš concerns the role of the Prophet Moḥammad in the shaping of revelation: “Just like a poet, the Prophet feels that he is captured by an external force. But in fact – or better: at the same time – the Prophet himself is everything: the creator and the producer.”98 The “pivotal role” of the Prophet in the production of the Qur’an has, according to Soruš, many implications for its interpretation. The Qur’an carries the imprints of Moḥammad’s knowledge and perceptions, the culture he was born into, the specific historical circumstances, and even his personality and moods. In order to grasp the essentials of Islam, Soruš argues, one has to peel away these imprints. Even though Soruš is a very innovative thinker, his theories show some influence of contemporary Western philosophical thought. For instance, his idea that our understanding of religious sources is inevitably shaped by our questions and assumptions could be traced back to Gadamer. Moreover, his emphasis on the necessity to deconstruct the historical body of Islam is apparently inspired by Derrida. At the same time, Soruš extensively draws on Iranian/Islamic mystics, particularly Rumi, to underpin his plea for a humanist reading of Islam.99 The new liberalism, no matter how lively and profound, would have been of far less political impact had it not been linked to the dynamic and widespread popular resistance to Islamist rule, predominantly by the new middle classes. Whereas hard core reformist scholars could only reach a limited audience, the essence of their thoughts was popularized through numerous channels including reformist newspapers, the campuses of the universities, and the widely broadcast addresses of Mohammad Khatami in his election campaigns. Through the confluence of the popular resistance movement and the revitalized Islamic liberalism, there emerged the Islamic reformist movement – in Iran alternatively called jonbeš-e dovvom-e ḵordād (“Khordād Second100 movement”), jonbeš-e eṣlāḥāt (“reform movement”) or jonbeš-e melli-maẕhabi (“nationalist-religious movement”). Driven by the heated public discourse on democracy and human rights issues, the reformist movement culminated in 1997 in the land-slide victory of Mohammad Khatami. Khatami was indeed the representative of a whole generation of Islamists who, disillusioned

97 Soroush 2009: 120. 98 Soroush 2009: 272 99 See von Heyking 2006. 100 Khordad Second refers to the victory of Khatami in the presidential election on Khordad 2, 1376/May 23, 1997.

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with radical Islam, had turned into full-fledged promoters of liberal Islam, an ideology against which they had once passionately fought. Due to the above-mentioned confluence, Islamic reformism mainly reflects the aspirations of the new middle classes, namely ideals such as protection of the private sphere of individuals, plurality of lifestyles, recognition of human dignity, individual freedom, women’s rights, a sound economy, and positive interaction with the so-called “world community”. This might explain why its advocates are less sensitive to other human rights or social issues. As for human rights, other potential topics would have included the rights of ethnic and religious minorities, the situation of refugees, alternative sexual orientations/identities, and the conditions of the disabled and the mentally ill. Regarding social issues, one might think of topics such as the deteriorating conditions of public health, the increasing isolation of elderly people, the increasing social gap between rich and poor, the alarming state of the environment and wild life, unemployment, youth addiction, the living conditions of the working class, and major deficiencies in social security. Even though Islamic reformism has taken major blows in the meantime, especially as a result of its Green Movement in 2009, it is still a major political force as could be seen in the victory of Hassan Rouhani in the presidential elections of 2013.

Conclusion The imperialist intervention in 1953 against the liberal-nationalist administration of Moḥammad Moṣaddeq abruptly terminated a historical confluence of democracy, rule of law, and secularism; a unique experience in the modern history of Iran. What the consequences would have been for Iran, the Middle East and even the world, had the fragile democracy in the country been given a chance to thrive, will never be known. What we know for sure is that the coup triggered a historical trajectory with far-reaching consequences for Iranian society. It exacerbated the relationship between state and society, it intensified an already existing paranoia in Iranian politics (both among the rulers and the ruled), it derailed the Iranian economy from its autochthonous developmental path and gave rise to a violent political culture which, up to the present time, has dramatically shaped the fate of the country. The coup also had a great and lasting impact on Islamic liberalism. Being revitalized in the 1940s into a non-political movement, the liberal reading of Islam was overshadowed in the aftermath of the 1953 coup by a new, politicized, though non-violent, liberal Islam. From the 1960s onwards, however, politicized liberal Islam itself was overshadowed by a new political culture which celebrated the use

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of force. The eclipse of liberal Islam and the rise of radical and nativist ideologies were catalyzed by cultural and structural disharmonies caused by a rapid social transformation. The new ideologies gradually dominated the independent political public sphere and brought down the monarchic regime in 1979 in a nationwide upheaval. As the utopian rhetoric of the new clerocratic regime foundered on the social realities, Islamic liberalism re-emerged out of its ashes into a new life generally known as Islamic reformism. Interlinked with a widespread grassroots resistance movement fostered in an increasingly de-ideologized and autonomous public sphere, Islamic reformism soon grew into a major political force calling for a depoliticization and re-privatization of Islam. Due to their links to the new middle classes, Islamic reformists are particularly sensitive to their aspirations and they concentrate therefore primarily on questions of free will. Their humanistic-hermeneutic approach to Islam, however, also shows traces of some recent Western as well as Arab philosophical thought. Furthermore, the Islamic reformists’ call for a de-politicization of Islam has a crucial implication for their perception of the Western powers: Anti-imperialism – an integral part of all ideologies of discontent for more than a century – is almost a non-issue in this new movement. Instead of making a distinction between Iranian-Islamic identity and Western hegemony, the Islamic reformists focus on an “internal” demarcation against Islamists, and they try to construct a new pluralist and cosmopolitan collective identity. Instead of seeking national unity against “external enemies”, they reach out to societies around the world for support in their struggle against internal oppression. Finally, the new wave of liberal Islam is strongly linked to three traditions with deep roots in Iranian history: the rationalism of the philosophers, the tolerance of the mystics, and the conviction of Shii ʿulamāʾ that religion should be separate from the state.

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Keddie, Nikki R. (2003): Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution. New Haven and London. Khiabany, Gholam / Sreberny, Annabelle (2008): Blogestan: The Internet and Politics in Iran. London. Khosravi, Shahram (2007): Young and Defiant in Tehran. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. King, Angela (2004): “The Prisoner of Gender: Foucault and the Disciplining of the Female Body.” Journal of International Women’s Studies 5(2): 29–39. Kinzer, Stephen (2003): All the Shah’s Men: An American Coup and the Roots of Middle East Terror. Hoboken NJ. Looney, Robert E. (1973): The Economic Development of Iran: A Survey with Projections to 1981. New York. Looney, Robert E. (1982): Economic Origins of the Iranian Revolution. New York. Milani, Abbas (2008): Eminent Persians: Men and Women Who Made Modern Iran, 1941–1979. Vol. I. Syracuse, NY. Mir-Hosseini, Ziba / Tapper, Richard (2006): Islam and Democracy in Iran: Eshkevari and the Quest for Reform. London. Nāʾini, Mirzā Moḥammad Ḥosayn (1334/1955): Tanbīh al-umma wa-tanzīh al-milla. Introduced and annotated by S. Maḥmud Ṭāleqāni. Tehran. Ourghi, Mariella (2005): “Shiite Criticism of the Welāyat-e Faqih.” Asiatische Studien / Études Asiatiques 59(3): 831–844. Rahnama, Ali (2005): Niruhāy-e Maẕhabi bar Bestar-e Ḥarekat-e Nehżat-e Melli (Religious Forces in the Context of the Nationalist Movement). Tehran. Rāšed, Ḥosayn-ʿAli (1385/2006): “Šarḥ-e Aḥvāl.” In Zendegināmeh va Ḵadamāt-e ʿElmi va Farhangi-ye Ostād Ḥosayn-ʿAli Rāšed, edited by Anjoman-e Āṯār va Mafāḵer-e Farhangi, Tehran: 17–22. Razmi, Māšāllāh (2000): Āzarbāyjān va Jonbeš-e Ṭarafdārān-e Āyatollāh Šariʿatmadāri dar Sāl-e 1358 (Azerbaijan and the movement of Āyatollāh Šariʿatmadāri’s followers in 1358/1979). Stockholm. Sadri, Mahmoud / Sadri, Ahmad (eds.) (2000): Reason, Freedom, and Democracy in Islam: Essential Writings of Abdolkarim Soroush. Oxford. Sadri, Mahmoud (2001): “Sacral Defense of Secularism: The Political Theologies of Soroush, Shabestari, and Kadivar.” International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, 15(2): 257–270. Saḥābi, Hāleh (1385/2006): Zendegināmeh va Ḵadamāt-e ʿElmi va Farhangi-ye Dr. Yadollāh Saḥābi (Biography and Scientific and Cultural Achievements of Dr. Yadollāh Saḥābi). Tehran. Saḥābi, Yadollāh (1346/1967): Ḵelqat-e Ensān (The Creation of the Human Being). Tehran. Saḥābi, Yadollāh (1349/1971): “Tufān-e Nuḥ az Naẓar-e Torāt va Qorʾān-e Majid” (Noah’s Flood after Torah and the Holy Qur’an). Dars-hāʾi az Maktab-e Eslām 12(1): 34–40. Saḥābi, Yadollāh (1387/2008): “Qorʾān-e Majid va Takāmol-e Mojudāt-e Zendeh (The Holy Qur’an and the Evolution of the Living Beings).” In Qorʾān-e Majid, Takāmol va Ḵelqat-e Ensān (The Holy Qur’an, the Evolution, and the Creation of the Human Being), edited by Bonyād-e Farhangi-ye Mohandes Mahdi Bāzargān. Tehran: 23–64. Šahidi, Sayyed Jaʿfar (1385/2006): “Čand Ḵāṭereh az Ḵaṭib-e Vārasteh, Marḥum Rāšed.” In Zendegināmeh va Ḵadamāt-e ʿElmi va Farhangi-ye Ostād Ḥosayn-ʿAli Rāšed, edited by Anjoman-e Āṯār va Mafāḵer-e Farhangi, Tehran: 70–79. Schulze, Reinhard (1994): Die Geschichte der islamischen Welt im 20. Jahrhundert. Munich. Sheikhzadegan, Amir (2003): Der Griff des politischen Islam zur Macht: Iran und Algerien im Vergleich. Bern.

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Soroush, Abdulkarim (2009): The Expansion of Prophetic Experience: Essays on Historicity, Contingency and Plurality in Religion. Leiden. Ṭabāṭabāʾi, Moḥammad Ḥosayn (1333/1954): Oṣul-e Falsafeh va Raveš-e Reʾālism (Foundations of Philosophy and the Method of Realism). Tehran. Taghavi, Sayyed Mohammad Ali (2005): The Flourishing of Islamic Reformism in Iran: Political Islamic Groups in Iran (1941–61). London. Ṭāleqāni, Maḥmud (1330/1951): Eslām va Mālekiyyat (Islam and Ownership). Tehran. Ṭāleqāni, Maḥmud (1345/1967): Parto-i az Qorʾān (A Beam of Qur’an). Tehran. Torkamān, Moḥammad (1371/1992): Naqdi bar Moṣaddeq va Nabard-e Qodrat (A Review of Moṣaddeq and Power Struggle). Tehran. Vāʿeẓi, ʿAbdolmajid (1354/1975): Ḵāṭerāt-e Safar (Memories of the Journey). Tabriz. Vakil, Sanam (2004): “Iran: The Gridlock between Demography and Democracy.” SAIS Review 24 (2) Summer–Fall: 45–53. Vallin, Jacques (2006): “From the Globalization of the Transition to the Return of Uncertainty (1940–2000).” In Demography: Analysis and Synthesis: A Treatise in Population, edited by Graziella Caselli, Gillaume Wunsch and Jacques Vallin, Burlington, MA. Vol. III: 67–98. Abū Zaid, Naṣr Ḥāmid (2004): Rethinking the Qur’an: Towards a Humanistic Hermeneutics. Utrecht.

Katajun Amirpur

Constructing and Deconstructing Othering: Polycentrism versus Westoxication in Iran Abstract: The focus of this article is on the evolution of the attitudes of secular and religious Iranian intellectuals towards the West, arguing that today’s generation developed new polycentric positions in reaction to the concepts presented in the 1960s and 1970s by Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad and ʿAli Šariʿati who have dominated the discourse since pre-revolutionary times. The study aims at contributing to an understanding of post-colonial identity politics by analyzing especially the views of so-called religious intellectuals towards the West. The former rigid culturalist and essentialist notion of the West, a kind of orientalism in reverse, is deconstructed today from a post-colonial perspective.

This article understands “othering” as the strategy of comparing oneself to others while distancing oneself from them and stigmatizing them. This often goes hand in hand with the fear that foreign forces could gain influence over one’s culture, thereby endangering its purity. The focus of this article is on the Iranian intellectuals of today who stand out for their refusal to practise “othering” and who may therefore be – in the words of Assef Bayat – the first important post-colonial thinkers of the Islamic world.1 Strictly speaking, Iran has never been colonized. Yet, it shared with colonized countries the experience that the cultural encounter with a colonial power is violent. For in Iran’s case, too, one civilization conquered another by force, transforming it after its own image and causing radical change and destruction. Iran is an eminent example of how the culture of the “colonized” was deformed by the dominance of a Western power. Iran is also a pre-eminent example of how a society reacted to this encounter by starting to look for its own roots and its own “native tradition”. However, this was not an original, autochthonous way either, since the notion of tradition, too, had been shaped by the cultural hegemony and the defining force of the colonial powers. For the intellectuals of the colonized countries, in this case Iran, the prevailing frame of reference always remained the

1 Bayat 2007: 88.

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-004

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West, no matter whether one tried to be different or assimilate to it. The “other” serves, as Jacques Derrida puts it, always as a frame of reference. Even today, “the West” serves as the main frame of reference for processes of identity formation in Iran – this holds true for most of today’s intellectuals as well as those of the last one-hundred-and-fifty years. Yet unlike Iranian thinkers of the 19th and the 20th centuries, contemporary intellectuals are much more familiar with, and have a much deeper knowledge of, Western societies. Moreover, many of them show a positive attitude towards these societies. Whereas Šariʿati and Āle Aḥmad were focused on a “reaction against” instead of an “action for”, to use Mehrzad Boroujerdi’s terms2, today, many Iranian intellectuals have emancipated themselves from essentializing “the West” thus adopting a much more unbiased and differentiated attitude towards it. Ramin Jahanbegloo suggests that from a historical perspective, one could distinguish four generations of Iranian intellectuals ever since they have become an identifiable social group, namely from the middle or end of the 19th century.3 Each group corresponds to one of the main periods of recent Iranian history. The first generation is that of the Constitutional Revolution; it formulated the ambitions and goals of that revolution. The second generation is that of the Pahlavi era. The third one is the generation of the 1960s and 1970s – responsible for the formulation of the slogans of the Islamic Revolution. This revolutionary generation is represented mainly by Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad and ʿAli Šariʿati. Today, we are contemporaries of a fourth generation of intellectuals who emerged in the decade after the Revolution as the changing political climate made intellectual activism possible again.4 In spite of the popularity of Āl-e Aḥmad’s concept of Ḡarbzadegi which, after 1979, turned into one of the core ideological notions of the newly founded Islamic Republic and became its battle cry, a new openness towards the “West” developed in the post-revolutionary era. Ayatollah Khomeini and many other members of the ruling elites who followed in his footsteps have condemned Western culture and its influence on Iran. They have tried to prevent “Western influence” by prohibiting satellite dishes or Barbie dolls arguing that they would “destroy the personality and the identity of the young generation,”5 to use the words of Attorney-General Dorri-Najafābādi.

2 Boroujerdi 1996: 177. 3 Jahanbegloo 2002. 4 Kamrava 2008: 48. 5 http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/posted/archive/2008/04/29/clerics-decry-westoxication-of-iran.aspx.

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The declared objective of the so-called Cultural Revolution was to stop the “cultural invasion” (tahājom-e farhangi)6 by the West. This term was applied to modern curricula as well as graduates of Western universities. Both were banned from Iranian universities.7 Science and academic teaching were to become Islamized. Since the Revolution of 1978/79 at the latest, we witness in Iranian discourse a distinction between “religious intellectuals” (roušanfekrān-e dini) and “nonreligious – i.e. secular – intellectuals” (roušanfekrān-e ḡeir-e dini). Non-religious intellectuals have been banned from the universities8 and persecuted, and are seen, in the ideology of the regime, as “non-we”, ḡeir-e ḵodi, i.e. “others” or “aliens”, as opposed to the “we” (ḵodi). The latter are considered loyal to the regime and therefore tolerated if they voice dissent. However, reformist critiques and ideas formulated by the two groups are not fundamentally different,9 and the secular forces do not necessarily argue in the a-religious manner that the label roušanfekr-e ḡeir-e dini would imply. Yet they were suspected of having no taʿahhod (commitment), which means they were not bound by Islam. Consequently, they were silenced. In an interesting article, Morād Saqafi, a secular intellectual and the former editor of the journal “Goft-o gu” (Dialog), describes the lack of solidarity that the ḵodi showed towards the ḡeir-e ḵodi in the 1980s when the regime banned the latter from the universities and accused them of various crimes and even displayed them in show trials broadcast on television.10 Later on, the attitude described by Saqafi gradually changed, and the two factions grew closer. The above-mentioned Islamization policy went beyond academia to encompass all cultural activities. A large number of books, written either by Western authors or by Iranians considered as “struck by the West”, ḡarbzadeh, were banned. The former Minister of Culture, Moṣtafā Mir Salim (b. 1947), even ordered writers to use the formulation “the corrupted Western culture” whenever they wrote about it.11 Mir Salim’s predecessor Mohammad Khatami (b. 1943) had resigned from his office in 1992 after he was put under pressure to abandon his

6 For the objectives of the Iranian cultural revolution, see Menashri 1992: 307–328, Milani 1988: 294–304. 7 How this happened in English studies is described by Azar Nafisi (2003) in her autobiographical book Reading Lolita in Teheran. 8 For the persecution of secular intellectuals critical of the regime in the 1980s, see KarimiHakkak 1985: 218–219. For the situation in the 1990s, see Afshari 2001: 193–205. 9 For this, see Saqafi 2003. 10 Saqafi 2003: 124–125. 11 Golshiri 1997: 7.

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policies which were regarded by his Islamist opponents as liberal and proWestern. He maintained that a cultural policy trying to isolate Iranian culture from any Western influences was finally nothing other than a policy to block all culture.12 Khatami was elected President of the Islamic Republic in 1997 against the expressed wishes of the conservative establishment. In his election campaign, he advocated democracy and human rights issues. He also talked about women’s rights, freedom of the press, and civil society. Nor did he stop talking about these issues after his election, even though the founding father of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini, had considered “human rights as nothing but a collection of corrupt rules that were formulated by Zionists to destroy all true religions.”13 Quite in the manner of the Ḡarbzadegi discourse, Moḥammad Taqi Meṣbāḥ Yazdi (b. 1934), the mentor of the former President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (b. 1959), called Khatami and his constituency – more than seventy percent of the electorate – a bunch of alcohol-drinking riff-raff.14 The sociologist Akbar Ganji (b. 1960) labelled this kind of reaction to Khatami’s line “religious fascism”, a term which was later used by Khatami himself.15 Ganji wrote: “Fascists are not only the thugs of the ‘Party of God’ (Ḥezbollāh), who think that the people were mistaken in the elections and had therefore to be brought back to the right path by force, but also, and particularly, those people who justify such actions ideologically by a fascist understanding of religion.”16 With this remark, Ganji did not only allude to Meṣbāḥ Yazdi’s comments on the results of the elections, but also to his fatwas which had repeatedly triggered violent attacks of the Basij militia on people suspected of having left the “right path”.17

No Fatwa against the West As president of Iran, Mohammad Khatami presented his interpretation of the conflict between Iran and the West in an essay. It was written for a German

12 Interview with the author in May 1994. See his letter of resignation: http://fa.wikisource.org/ wiki/‫( ﺍﺭﺷﺎﺩ_ﻭﺯﺍﺭﺕ_ﺍﺯ_ﺧﺎﺗﻤﯽ_ﻣﺤﻤﺪ_ﺍﺳﺘﻌﻔﺎﯼ_ﻧﺎﻣﻪ‬last accessed on 25. 1. 2012). 13 Quoted after Abbott 1995: 265. 14 For Meṣbāḥ Yazdi, see Amirpur 200, 218–240. 15 Kermani 2005: 116. 16 From a manuscript of the speech in the hands of Katajun Amirpur. Ganji published a book under the title Talaqqi-ye fāšisti az din va ḥokumat (A Fascist Interpretation of Religion and Government) (Ganji 1999). 17 Ganji 1999: 108. For Ganji, see also: Sadri 2004: 121–123.

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newspaper and was published there in 1998.18 In this article, the difference between his thinking and that of Šariʿati und Āl-e Aḥmad becomes very evident. Khatami criticizes the isolation of Iran: In his opinion it is useless to canonize one’s own intellectual practices as sacred and to believe that one could build dams “to protect oneself from the horrible waves of Western culture and civilization.”19 It is impossible “to live on the narrow strip of tradition that we inherited from our ancestors.”20 It is clear that Khatami complained about those who tried to block out the “cultural invasion”. Yet, according to Khatami, their insistence on isolating Iran from the West had not led to the results they had hoped for. Instead, many superficial aspects of Western civilization had found their way into traditional societies. Being isolated, people had no chance of reflecting on the new things, thereby accelerating the crisis of a traditional society. Khatami’s criticism of those who wanted to be protected from Western influence does not mean that he approved of the other extreme. In his eyes, those adherents of a radical Westernization who destroyed their own tradition “in order to prepare their house for an impatiently expected guest”21 were also in the wrong. They exacerbated the problems of society, simply because they were not able to grasp the basic principles of Western culture and civilization and the relationship between modernity and tradition as their understanding was both superficial and idealizing. They were unable to alter society because they scorned tradition instead of analyzing and criticizing it, and because they ignored the fact that tradition was rooted in the people: “In the contemporary world the influence of Western culture and civilization on our society cannot be blocked out, neither by giving fatwas nor by adhering to illusions; yet tradition cannot be eradicated from the society by pamphlets and resolutions either.”22 According to a comment in a German journal, Khatami buried with this statement the ideas of the state’s founder, Khomeini, and, with them, the Islamic Republic.23 This is a polemical and exaggerated interpretation, yet there is some truth in it. Khomeini had condemned Western influence on Iran and wanted to prevent it. “Neither East nor West” was his slogan. He did not have any middle way in mind, but explicitly a “neither-nor”, as he thought he would be able to block out all Western influences by imposing prohibitions.

18 19 20 21 22 23

Khatami 1998. Khatami 1998. The original manuscript of the essay is in the possession of Katajun Amirpur. Khatami 1998. Khatami 1998. Khatami 1998. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 4. 8. 1998.

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Khatami held the opposite view, yet he did not want to surrender unconditionally by any means. He followed a third way, a neither-East-nor-West solution, the precondition for the realization of which was, in his eyes, to analyze the foundations of modernity: “The first step is to really get to know the West. This does not mean, however, that one should neglect tradition. It is the foundation of the historical and social identity of a people, particularly of a people with a strong civilization and a distinguished culture.”24 Khatami criticizes Western civilization and openly attacks phenomena such as colonialism, the plunder of human and material resources in the non-Western world, environmental destruction etc. Thus he underscores the limitations of the Western world and refutes its claim of absoluteness. Nevertheless, he wants to blend the positive and the good in both into a new shared civilization. According to Khatami, Iran cannot afford ignoring the great scientific, social, political and spiritual-moral achievements of the West.25 The call for a better understanding of the West was part of Khatami’s program for a dialogue of civilizations. He thus countered Huntington’s thesis of the “clash of civilizations” by calling for an exchange of ideas between Christians, Muslims, and members of other religions and faiths. During the Islamic World Conference that took place in Tehran in December 1997, Khatami explained his concept of a “dialogue of civilizations”. When he pointed out that Western civilization should not be condemned in its entirety, the president addressed not only the heads of state present in his audience, but also the entire Iranian nation.26 Another milestone of the post-revolutionary discourse on Ḡarbzadegi was Khatami’s interview with the US TV channel CNN in January 1998 in which he said: “I believe that if humanity is looking for happiness, it should combine religious spirituality with the virtues of liberty. And it is for this reason that I say I respect the American nation because of their great civilization. This respect is due to two reasons: the essence and pillars of the Anglo-American civilization and the dialogue among civilizations.”27 The reaction of the conservative forces in Iran to Khatami’s departure from the discourse depicting Iran as a victim of Western intervention as well as his acknowledgement of American civilization was very straightforward. Khatami’s statement that American civilization had inspired Iranian culture was seen by the Jomhuri-ye eslāmi newspaper as a negative surprise for the friends of the

24 25 26 27

Khatami 1998. Khatami 1998. For the speech, see also Ramazani 1998: 183–184. http://edition.cnn.com/WORLD/9801/07/iran/interview.html (last accessed on 15.03. 2017).

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Revolution: “The great Iranian people does not consider America as an inspiration.”28

Criticizing Ḡarbzadegi Yet since the 1990s, the frame of reference, centred so far on the notion of Ḡarbzadegi, has been replaced by a new polycentrism. The post-revolutionary years have seen a new open-mindedness towards the West. This was by no means a bid for the blind imitation of Western norms and patterns of behaviour – as was the case in Iran in the Pahlavi era –, but a critical examination of the positive and negative aspects of Western civilization. A characteristic feature of this post-Islamist, post-colonial and post-imperialist discourse is a critical look at Šariʿati and Āl-e Aḥmad. Today many Iranian intellectuals question their radical and uncompromising view of the West, because, in the words of Mehran Kamrava, they had led Iran’s “intellectual tradition astray at a critical juncture in the country’s history.”29 The philosopher Dāriuš Āšuri (b. 1938) recently presented a thoughtful and nuanced critique of Āl-e Aḥmad’s concept of Ḡarbzadegi.30 Aiming at deconstructing this discursive notion, he criticizes Āl-e Aḥmad’s readiness to accept Western technology without its related values. But criticism came mainly from ʿAbdolkarim Soruš (b. 1945), the enfant terrible of Iranian modernist thinking. In a seminal essay, he argues that today’s Iranian culture was given shape by three civilizations, i.e. the Ancient Iranian, the Islamic and the Western. Therefore, he contradicts Āl-e Aḥmad’s hypothesis that the West struck Iran like an epidemic. Quite the opposite, Soruš writes: “Had the West not come, we would not have evolved further; we would have died.”31 For him, Ḡarbzadegi is not an illness, but a historical fact. With this change in outlook, Soruš no longer sees Western politics as the source of Iran’s difficulties, but identifies despotism as Iran’s fundamental problem. According to him, despotic rule has shaped the political culture of Iran over centuries far more than any other influence has. Compared to that, the West was only a minor factor.

28 29 30 31

Jomhuri-ye eslāmi, 11. 1. 1998. Kamrava 2000: 52. Āšuri 1999. Soruš 1993b: 112.

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Soruš also disputed Šariʿati’s phrase of a “return to ourselves”, bāzgašt beh ḵiš. Elsewhere, he had argued extensively and in a highly critical manner against the notion of religion as ideology propagated by Šariʿati.32 In his eyes, the slogan is meaningless, because the answer of what really is “ourselves” or “our own” is given in the following statement: “Whatever our hearts and our spirit are willing to accept, belongs to us.”33 If this maxim had not been a guiding principle in the past, Iranians would not have accepted Islam. Western influences, according to Soruš, are nothing new. And to argue that Western progress had no place in Iranian culture was nonsense, as Iran has always been a melting-pot where the above-mentioned three civilizations met. Soruš therefore criticizes the radical rejection expressed in the slogan Ḡarbzadegi. Not unlike Khatami, he wants to choose, and he is guided by a critical spirit that is able to distinguish between what is acceptable and what not. He advocates the adoption of the best of other cultures, in the same manner that Muslims adopted and developed Greek civilization. In his eyes, this first encounter with the West, the contact with Greek civilization, was advantageous for both sides – and future encounters could prove as beneficial. Another remarkable point Soruš made was his comment on philosopher Aḥmad Fardid (1909–1994). Fardid had coined the term Ḡarbzadegi that was later filled with meaning by Āl-e Aḥmad. Fardid saw himself as the spiritual brother of Martin Heidegger and perceived modern man as lacking in ethics.34 A professor at the Philosophical Faculty of the University of Tehran for thirty years, he influenced a whole generation of Iranian intellectuals. Many of them hold important posts today, among them Reżā Dāvari – whose thoughts will be examined later.35 In his lectures, the eloquent Fardid dazzled his audience with his original terminology drawn from Ḥāfeẓ’s ghazals when translating Heidegger’s terms, e. g., “Dasein” or “Geworfensein”. Like Heidegger, he saw poetry as a “Haus des Seins” (House of Being). Fardid divided history into five periods: before yesterday, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and after tomorrow. “After tomorrow” is the eschatological end of  

32 Soruš 1993a. 33 Soruš 1993b: 121. 34 Fardid himself translated the term – which is difficult to render in English – into Greek by coining the neologism ‘dysiplexia’, which is a combination of dysis, ‘the West’, with the suffix plexia, ‘to be struck or pained or damaged’. See Gheissari 1998: 89. For the etymology, see also http://www.ahmadfardid.com/tabirat.htm. 35 See Boroujerdi 1996: 63–65.

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history when the hidden Imam will return. Fardid sees his appearance as “the Truth of Being” (“Wahrheit des Seins”).36 Fardid was outspokenly anti-Semitic. In his ideology, only two possible worldviews run through human history, a Jewish one and a non-Jewish one. Whatever Spinoza, Marx, Adorno, Freud, or Weber might have said – all their statements were drawn from Judaism. This position recalls Heidegger’s complaint about “the Jewization of German intellectual life”. This is the reason, says Fardid, why the Jews are the cause of all social and political disasters in the world. The title he gave to one of his lectures, Western Liberalism as a Project of Zionism, is illustrative of this way of thinking. In his eyes, the worst of all Jews was Karl Popper, because the main supporters of Western liberalism referred to his theories. This remark was addressed to Soruš and his supporters, as in the late 1980s and early 1990s, philosophical debate in Iran was dominated by a clash of “Popperians” with “Heideggerians”.37 Soruš commented on Fardid extensively, warning that he recognized Fardid’s terminology in the speeches of young members of the notorious paramilitary Basij militia. He gave as an example their justification of violence by claiming that “democracy is the materialization of sensuality”: They have used phrases of this kind to disparage and impair all the good achievements of the West of which we could really use a bit today, when our country is in the grip of this exaltation of violence. They’ve used terms like carnality, global arrogance, Westoxication, Freemasonry and decadence to invalidate all the West’s good ideas with ease and without any supporting argumentation and to deprive us of them. And the only thing they have offered in return is violence. This is why I placed such emphasis on this issue and tried to show exactly where the problem lies. You remember what his students, like Reżā Dāvari, said and did a few years ago in the program called “Hoviyat” which was broadcast on Iranian TV, and whose purposes the program served.38

Hoviyat (“identity”) was the title of a series broadcast on Iran’s state television in 1996. It portrayed secular intellectuals in a denigrating manner, accusing them of having denied and offended their culture and having lost their Iranian roots. The portrayed were defamed as being Westernized and as being the fifth column of the enemy: “On the whole, what passes for opposition to and hatred of the West

36 Only a few of Fardid’s writings are available. However, many of his lectures and interviews have been collected on a website at http://www.ahmadfardid.com, (last accessed on 7. 2. 2012). See also Rajaee 2007: 180–185. 37 See Boroujerdi 1994: 239–241. 38 The quotation is from the transcript of an interview with Soruš by the TV station HOMA TV on 9. 3. 2006. It can be found on Soruš’s homepage: http://www.drsoroush.com/English/Interviews/ E-INT-HomaTV.html (last accessed on 25. 1. 2012).

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and Western civilization and democracy and human rights in our country – which is presented in rather subtle and ornate packaging – is the product of the factory of the same gentlemen, who are all linked to Mr Aḥmad Fardid in some way.”39 Soruš accuses Fardid of being the intellectual father of the pervasive glorification of violence in current Iranian discourse. He also accuses him of having opposed human rights as being Western and thus poisoning Iran’s intellectual climate.40 Of course, criticizing the West is another matter and I’m not opposed to it by any means. As I said earlier, there are philosophers in the West itself who criticize the West. We, too, shouldn’t accept anything unquestioningly. But a violent anti-Western stance and spreading hatred of the West was and is the inauspicious legacy of the proponents of Fardid’s thinking who are still busy recruiting foot soldiers for their camp.41

It’s not easy to determine whether the allegations raised against Fardid are accurate as he left very few written texts and is commonly referred to as an “oral philosopher”. Some of Fardid’s former students have taken it upon themselves to defend him against such allegations. For example, Mahmoud Sadri, a professor of sociology at the Texas Woman’s University, regards the vilification of the philosopher’s life and work as exaggerated arguing that one cannot demonize Fardid simply because other people idolize him.42 Sadri recounts how the philosopher had once told the following anecdote reacting to a student who had dedicated an article to him claiming that all he knew he had learned from Fardid: “Every spring I buy grass seed from the store across the street and cast it in my lawn, but what grows there is just quaint and curious weeds and not what I have put in the ground. The same is true of those who claim my legacy or oppose it. They bear no resemblance to what I have sown.”43 Yet, what seems to be sure is that a lot of contemporary intellectuals have emancipated themselves from his thinking as much as from the thinking of the other two gurus of the Ḡarbzadegi discourse, Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad and ʿAli Šariʿati. Soruš’s ideas concerning Ḡarbzadegi closely resemble those of Khatami. The election of Mohammad Khatami as president should therefore be seen less as the beginning of this new discourse than as its result. His presidency enhanced the visibility of Soruš’s argument. The new era brought an openness in cultural matters that made it possible for Soruš’s followers to communicate their ideas to a

39 40 41 42 43

Interview with Soruš by the TV station HOMA, see note 38. Interview with Soruš by the TV station HOMA, see note 38. Interview with Soruš by the TV station HOMA, see note 38. Sadri 2003. Sadri 2003.

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public far beyond the journal Kiyān, which had been their most important platform until then. Kiyān had been established by Reżā Tehrāni and his group in November 1991 in order to provide a new forum for Soruš who just had been ousted from the journal Keyhān-e farhangi because of his modernist ideas. Up to its ban in 2008, Kiyān would remain the most important platform for “religious new-thinking” (nouandiši-ye dini). The contributors to this journal were religious intellectuals who had taken an active part in the Revolution turning into adherents of a pluralistic system under the Republic. They all had a turbulent political past. As pupils and students in the 1970s, this generation had been under the influence of leftist Islamic thinkers such as Šariʿati and Ayatollah Maḥmud Ṭāleqāni (1911–1979) and had rebelled against the oppression of the Shah regime. They shared – in the words of Tehrāni – not only a new interpretation of Islam but were also highly sensitive to the fate of their society. What they also had in common was that many conservatives saw them as the worst enemies of the Revolution. Yet, they were the children of the Revolution. When asked about the objectives of his journal, Tehrāni answered: We, the founders of this journal, are politically-oriented people and have always been active in politics. Yet, in the course of time, we came to realize that it is not solely by political means that you can change and improve the society. The only promising way is cultural activity that changes the mind. Political power is important, but it alone does not suffice. Culture is the most important problem of our country. We have to confront it and call into question many issues including our understanding of history, religion, culture, society, and of human beings themselves. Unless there is a change in our perspective, a change in power relations cannot bring about fundamental change. If the best human being comes to power, that would make us happy. Yet what could he do, if society does not change? Therefore, we have to understand their thoughts. Kiyān wants to discuss the problems that are relevant to our society and our thinking.44

Over the years, the journal became the most important forum of debate for topics such as secularism, religious and political pluralism and civil society – and for self-criticism. In 1996, the writer Nāṣer Irāni published in Kiyān a remarkably self-critical article about the role of intellectuals and their condemnation of the West. He posits that while intellectuals had always blamed indigenous tyrants and foreign powers for not letting them live in freedom, in reality, they themselves did not care much about freedom:

44 Interview with Tehrāni on 5. 5. 1994.

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It is not only the common people who do not care much about freedom – as is probably the case with all countries, where people have been exploited forever –, but neither do political activists and intellectuals; they have never been willing to be considerate or to compromise, even in the face of the possibility that they would ultimately play into the hands of oppressors.45

Irāni writes that he had learned this lesson from the military coup against Moṣaddeq. However, he argues, not only then, but on three subsequent historical occasions during the past century, the Iranian people could have won freedom: firstly, after the success of the Constitutional Revolution; secondly, after the abdication of Reżā Pahlavi in the year 1941; thirdly, after the victory of the Islamic Revolution. On all three occasions, both intellectuals and the people squandered the chance for freedom – and blamed the West for it. The new self-critical attitude also became manifest in the interest to learn more about the way outsiders assess the attitude of Iranian intellectuals towards the West. In 1997, Kiyān published under the title Orientalism in reverse (Šarqšenāsi-ye vāruneh) the introduction of the book Iranian Intellectuals and the West by Mehrzad Boroujerdi, a scholar of Iranian studies in the USA. In 1999 there followed the publication of the Persian translation of the whole book, with chapters on Āl-e Aḥmad and Šariʿati as well as Dāvari and Aḥmad Fardid.46 Even though Soruš – due to his popularity – is the most vocal representative of this new attitude towards the West, many other thinkers share his view. Even in Qom, the city of theologians, there are similar voices. Fāżel Meybodi, to name but one, states that Islamic culture has always profited from engagement with other cultures.47 Others attack the official position of Iran more directly: Nāṣer Irāni, for instance, accuses the political establishment of using the catchword “cultural invasion” merely as a pretext to hinder progress.48 Other examples of this new and polycentric attitude are the collection of essays by Ramin Jahanbegloo, entitled The Modern49, deliberately using the plural form; or a book on tradition and modernity, edited by Akbar Ganji.50 Other thinkers deal directly with today’s propagators of Ḡarbzadegi. Javād Ṭabāṭabāʾi (b. 1945), for instance, examines the thought of Reżā Dāvari (b. 1933), the president of the Iranian Academy of Science. Dāvari was Soruš’s most sig-

45 Irāni 1996: 20. A German translation can be found as an appendix in the article Amirpur 1998: 29–40. 46 Boroujerdi 1997, Boroujerdi 1999. 47 Meybodi 1992: 12–15. 48 Irāni 1997. 49 Jahanbegloo 1998. 50 Ganji 1997.

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nificant antagonist, at least before the latter was forced into exile.51 Dāvari is also a member of the Revolutionary Council – a committee established shortly after the Revolution, in order to Islamize the sciences and to purge them from Western influence. Dāvari took up Heidegger’s critique of modernity arguing that in order to evade crisis, one should return to one’s roots. In his scholarly œuvre, Dāvari has worked extensively on the relations between the Islamic and the Western worlds. He announced the imminent downfall of the West as it had lost its religiousness.52 He reproaches intellectuals such as Soruš who engage with Western philosophy and hermeneutics as being eclectic: Muslims cannot take over Western ideas simply because they are the result of an evolution that the Islamic world has not gone through. In a vocabulary very similar to Āl-e Aḥmad’s, Dāvari argues that occidental culture dominates Iranian society: of the indigenous civilization, there remains only an outer shell.53 Ṭabāṭabāʾi, in turn, argues that Iran’s “Heideggerians” have not understood Heidegger. According to him, the issues of main interest to Heidegger are irrelevant to Iran: “How can we talk about post-modernism when we even do not know where we stand, when we have not even passed through the stage of modernism?”54 He accuses Dāvari of trying to answer questions that are relevant to the West but not to Iran, as did Āl-e Aḥmad and Šariʿati before him. Ṭabāṭabāʾi calls for a constructive engagement with the West and its values, especially since the dominant interpretation of Islam in Iran as an alternative to Western thought has not solved the problems of Iranian society.

It Is Our Own Fault With Khatami’s presidency, the number of works addressing such topics multiplied exponentially. In 1999, as the limitations of reforming the system from within became evident, hot debates were engendered. Some problematized, for example, the existing structures and mechanisms of violence used to repress the reformist movement. Others warned the people from answering force with force.55 In the collection Critique of a Culture of Violence, the author, Aḥmad Qābel, a cleric and student of Grand-Ayatollah Montaẓeri (1922–2009), brought together

51 52 53 54 55

For Dāvari and Soruš, see also Vahdat 2003. This hypothesis is explained in Dāvari 1995. Dāvari 1986: 12–14. Javād Ṭabāṭabāʾi (1998) in an interview with the journal Rāh-e nou. Zibā Kalām 2000: 154–158.

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articles, papers and speeches on the culture of violence that had developed in Iran and criticized it explicitly. Among them is the Open Letter addressed to the conservative Ayatollah Moḥammad Reżā Mahdavi Kani (b. 1931) with the title His Excellency Ayatollah, What are You Afraid of! It is an impressive document indeed. It states that the years between 1997 and 2000 were a time “when the Iranian nation was hoping to fulfill its human wishes.”56 These hopes for reform, however, were dashed. Some authors started to analyze the reasons for this failure in structural and systemic ways.57 Others contemplated ways to react to the failure of the movement. One example is ʿEmād od-Din Bāqi’s book The Tragedy of Democracy in Iran, published in 2000.58 Another example is the monograph To Say or Not to Say?, in which the political scientist Ṣādeq Zibā Kalām asked why there was still no sustainable party system in Iran one hundred years after the constitutional movement. In his book, he argued against various explanations including the argument that Iranians were lonely warriors who did not trust anybody but themselves.59 Sociologist Ḥamid Reżā Jalāʾipur examined the characteristics of social movements in Iran and the reasons for their failure – in particular the movement of dovvom-e ḵordād.60 These works do not hint at the West as a possible cause of the problems. In the years following 1999/2000, after the political failure of the reform movement had become manifest, there was also a rapprochement between the two intellectual factions, roušanfekrān-e dini (religious intellectuals) and roušanfekrān-e ḡeir-e dini (non-religious intellectuals), i.e. between the critics of Westernization and those who had been accused of being Westernized. This rapprochement was the declared objective of Akbar Ganji, who belonged to the core group managing the journal Kiyān. Like many other reformers, Ganji had been socialized in pre-revolutionary times. A follower of ʿAli Šariʿati, he had a leftist-Islamist past and had belonged to the ḵodi, the “we” of the Islamists, serving in the Revolutionary Guards and as cultural attaché. Yet like many others, Ganji turned into a ḡeir-e ḵodi (“non-we”).61 His main source of inspiration was Hannah Arendt (1906–1975). Having read her books Power and Violence (German title: Macht und Gewalt) and Origins of Totalitarianism (German title: Elemente und Ursprünge totalitärer Herrschaft), he concluded that what she described was happening in

56 57 58 59 60 61

Qābel 2002. Raḥmāni 2003, Raḥmāni 2002. Bāqi 2000. Zibā Kalām 2000: 191. Jalāʾipur 2002. See Amirpur 2005; Taheri 2005.

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contemporary Iran and that a violent revolution necessarily led to more violence. As a result, one had to start building the cultural and spiritual foundations of reform slowly and thoroughly by teaching liberal, modern ideas.62 Ganji, today one of the most radical proponents of secularism,63 published a series of interviews with secular and religious thinkers. Yet his most successful means of influence was the journal Rāh-e nou which stands for transparency and open-mindedness. In the presentation of the first edition in April 1998, Ganji wrote: The creators of Rāh-e nou are a handful of Muslim intellectuals shaped by the Islamic Revolution. For them Iran’s current problems can only be solved through a comprehensive development with an emphasis on spirituality and morality. They view religion, religiousness, revolution and the Islamic Republic from an engaged perspective (negāhi motaʿahedāneh) and consider dialogue as the best way to come close to truth and to deal with problematic issues. […] By applying different kinds of knowledge and various ways of thinking, Rāh-e nou tries to do justice to the slogan “The problems of a nation can only be solved by the whole nation” and puts it into practice.64

Ganji’s editorial referred to the slogan “Iran is the country of all Iranians” which Khatami had used during his election campaign in order to counter the exclusion of secular forces. To dialogue with the latter group was of special interest to Rāh-e nou, and it provided a forum for exchange for them and religious intellectuals alike. Ganji interviewed Reżā Dāvari, Dāriuš Āšuri65, Ḥosayn Baširiyeh, Dāriuš Šāyegān66 and Musā Ḡaninežād among others. At the same time, Ganji’s editorial countered the reproach that they no longer belonged to the religious intellectuals. Secular intellectuals had been accused in the 1980s and 1990s to have taḵaṣṣoṣ, expertise, but not taʿahhod, i.e. loyalty and dedication to Islam. Ganji emphasized that he had a revolutionary past as well as religious loyalty, but that this did not hinder him from entering into a dialogue with those who had maybe a little less taʿahhod, to solve the current problems together. A series of political assassinations brought the two factions closer together: In autumn 1998 secular and critical intellectuals and politicians of the opposition became victims of murderous attacks that were organized, as one would later learn, by a section of the secret services.67

62 63 64 65 66 67

Interview with Katajun Amirpur, Tehran in May 1994 (in Persian). See Ganji 2008. Anonymus 1998: 1. Rāh-e nou 1998a: 18–24. Rāh-e nou 1998b: 18–26. For the series of murders, see Kermani 2005: 107–126, Afshari 2001: 211–215.

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The journal Kiyān, the forum of the religious intellectuals, placed an address of solidarity in its edition of February/March 1999. This special issue, with additional pages, bore the title “Din, modārā va ḵošunat” (Religion, tolerance and violence). In his editorial, after wishing his readers a happy Iranian New Year, Reżā Tehrāni writes that the past year had been a year full of violence, i.e. violence towards non-conformist writers, and that the answer of Kiyān was that special thematic issue.68 One of the articles was a frank conversation about religious violence between the two well-known reformist thinkers Moḥsen Kadivar (b. 1959) and Moḥammad Šabestari (b. 1936).69 In it, these religious intellectuals expressed their solidarity with secular thinkers, as those murdered came without exception from the ranks of the roušanfekrān-e ḡeir-e dini. This was the first instance of an expression of solidarity after decades of silence.70 Saqafi describes how the attitude of religious intellectuals as well as their discourse have changed over the years. The concept of “religious democracy” – to name but one example – was replaced by that of “democracy”. One reason for this might have been the realization on the part of the religious intellectuals that their compromising position had turned them into a target for the radicals as well, and that the radicals were not ready for any compromise. That is why, over the years, the position of religious intellectuals has become more similar to that of the secular intellectuals.71 Thus, they turned from ḵodi into ḡeir-e ḵodi. This holds true for a number of the intellectuals discussed here.

Christian Encounters in Iran The turning away from the positions of Āl-e Aḥmad and Šariʿati is also manifest in current attitudes towards Christianity. Āl-e Aḥmad, for example, wrote: “The twelve-hundred-year battle between the West and the East must be understood as a battle between Christianity and Islam.”72 In contrast, Sasan Tavassoli in his monograph Christian Encounters with Iran demonstrates the open, engaged and unpolemical manner of today’s writing

68 Tehrāni 1999: 4. 69 Šabestari/Kadivar 1999. 70 Interview with Farzāneh Ṭāheri (Golširi), 11. 4. 2009 (Persian) and with Parastou Forouhar, 29. 12. 2009 (Persian). 71 Saqafi 2003: 126. 72 Āl-e Aḥmad 1977: 33.

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about Christianity. Writers display a thorough knowledge of the Christian religion as well as a sincere wish for dialogue and understanding. Tavassoli is one of a growing number of researchers who try to describe how the way of thinking as well as the discourse have changed under the Islamic Republic and how an “intellectual revolution” is happening – thus the title of Mehran Kamrava’s book which presents a similar argument. Books such as those of Tavassoli and Kamrava provide some insights into how today’s Iranians think and write. As long as there are no empirical studies about the transformation of Iranian society – which are almost impossible to conduct under the existing conditions –, studies such as these provide the only means to approach questions concerning fundamental social change in Iran. They highlight the democratic, tolerant and pluralistic potential of Iranian society and its development in recent years. One might even argue that in a place where people translate and read Paul Tillich, Rudolf Bultmann and Wolfhart Pannenberg, society cannot be completely rigid. For Tavassoli it is very important to highlight the transformation between “before” and “after”. Just consider the contrast between the Dār al-Tabliḡ center, founded in Qom in the 1960s which, according to Tavassoli, had the task of “the unveiling of Christianity and the propagation of Islam,”73 and the new attitude: “Significant positive changes are occurring among contemporary Iranian Muslims in their interaction with Christian thought, so that the trend in publications is clearly moving toward a more descriptive, irenic, and dialogical approach to Christianity. A number of centers with the support of the Iranian government or conservative Shi‘i establishments are committed to dialogue and co-operation with Christian churches.”74 Tavassoli illustrates this new official position towards Christianity with numerous examples. Not entirely new is the following finding: “And prominent intellectuals not only express their deep appreciation for many aspects of the Christian faith but are also influenced in their own theological outlook through their engagement with Christian theology.”75 This is common knowledge among those who have studied the works of Soruš and Moḥammad Mojtahed Šabestari in recent years, including a considerable number of researchers coming from Islamic or Iranian studies in Western universities. It is well known that Soruš in his reformist thought was influenced by modern Christian approaches. His article Ṣerāṭ-hā-ye mostaqim, in which he refers

73 Tavassoli 2011: 188. 74 Tavassoli 2011: 188. 75 Tavassoli 2011: 188.

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to John Hick’s reflections on religious pluralism, is available also in an English translation.76 Soruš considers the legitimate paths to God of other religions. This position obviously owes much to the influence of John Hick. Soruš, greatly impressed by the work, expressly quotes his book Disputed Questions in Theology and the Philosophy of Religion. These questions are: Why should my Muslim and Jewish friends be less the object of God’s love than I myself? Does He truly love them less than me, the Christian? What have I done that they have not? Were there fewer saintly or good people among Muslims or Jews? Did they commit more sins than we Christians?77 Hick concludes from these questions that theologically, the truth of a given tenet is not terribly relevant. What matters is its practical function of mediating salvation. He asserts that different religious convictions and rites are equally capable of fulfilling this function to a great extent. The religions can therefore be understood as embodiments of different perceptions of the Real and different responses to this arising from different cultural forms of human existence. Soruš sees this idea expressed in the verse of Persian poet Foruḡi Bastāmi (1798–1857): “You appeared to me in thousandfold glory; So that I might admire you with a thousand eyes.”78 To Soruš, “the first who brought the seed of pluralism into this world was God himself, when He sent different prophets.”79 In line with Hick, he agrees that it is inconceivable that among billions of believers, only the adherents of Twelver Shii Islam held the truth.80 Sorūš considers the other world religions to share the truth to a great degree. He also says this of other branches of Islam – a remarkable statement in the light of the violent differences between Shii and Sunni Islam. In his own words: Neither is Shii Islam the one and only truth, nor is Sunni (though the adherents of both confessions are convinced that their respective truth is just that). Neither Ašʿariyya [theology] is absolute truth, nor Muʿtazila, neither Jaʿfari jurisprudence nor Māliki, neither the Tafsir of Faḵr-e Rāzi nor that of Ṭabāṭabāʾi, neither the Zaydis nor the Wahhābis. Neither all Muslims are guilty of idolatry (širk), nor are all Christians. The world is full of incomplete identities, and it is not the case that absolute truth is found on one side and absolute falsehood on the other. If we realise this, it becomes easier to accept pluralism.81

76 Soroush 2009. 77 Soruš 1997a: 7. 78 Bā ṣad hezār jelve borun āmadi ke man/bā ṣad hezār dideh tamāšā konam torā. quoted after: Soruš 1997a: 8. 79 Soruš 1997a: 7. 80 Soruš 1997a: 11. 81 Soruš 1997a: 12.

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These views did not go unchallenged. A number of responses were printed in Kiyān.82 Soruš replied to those in a further round table discussion again organised by the journal.83 Yet another reply to his statements84 was prefaced by the editors as follows: The debate about religious pluralism provides important intellectual impulses in our religious society. The essence of thought of the religious thinkers struggling over faith in our century is the effort to both regard one’s own religion as true and accord other religions a share of the truth without producing a contradiction between this theory and the teachings of their faith.85

This strongly reviled essay of Soruš’s along with parts of the debate it triggered was published in book form,86 and a dispute between Soruš and the cleric Moḥsen Kadivar as a separate booklet.87 Altogether, the controversy found a broad public reception. In their dispute, Kadivar lays out his objections to Soruš, who replies to them. Let us look at them in more detail. In his initial argument to explain religious pluralism, Soruš appeals to reason. He argues that it is irrational to assume that just one tenth of all Muslims – the Shia – were not in error while everybody else on earth was. If you proceeded from the assumption that you yourself were rightly guided, everyone else must not be. In that case, the question arises as to what has happened to human reason and what the meaning of “right guidance” might be. The Qur’an puts great emphasis on reason, arguing that all humans are reasonable. Why, then, are they not reasonable enough to see that Shii Islam is the only true religion? And why does the Qur’an, which, after all, presents itself as the book of right guidance, not guide everyone correctly, but leaves some to fall into perdition?88 This last question is especially problematic, Soruš argues, here most likely directly influenced by John Hick, since religious affiliation is the product of happenstance, depending mostly on the place, family or social environment into which an individual is born.89 Kadivar opposes this position by championing the traditional Islamic stance that all prophets of the revealed religions taught the same single truth. The non-

82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

Šobeyri 1997, Qā’emi Niyā 1997, Narāqi 1997. Discussion between the editorial team of Kiyān and ʿAbdolkarim Soruš (1997b). Ḥosayni Ṭabāṭabāʾi 1998. Editorial introduction to Ḥosayni Ṭabāṭabāʾi 1998: 10. Soruš 1999. Soruš/Kadivar 2000. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 18. Hick 2005: 7.

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Islamic revealed religions, by not recognising Muḥammad as prophet, only hold part of that truth. They do not partake of its entirety but still offer the possibility of partial salvation.90 Thus, he argues, Christians and Jews are not entirely in error, but Islamic teachings are superior, representing the completion of Christian and Jewish teachings.91 Kadivar does not depart from the mainstream of Islamic theology, stating that eternal happiness is only given to those who believe in Muḥammad. Jews and Christians, however, at least shared the belief in resurrection and judgement. They are not at fault for their false beliefs, and after all, what really matters is their faith in God, in resurrection, and their good deeds.92 Further, adherents of all religions are due a measure of respect. Here, he refers to Buddhists and Confucians who, in his view, also share in part of the truth.93 He also includes Sunni Muslims as not entirely misguided: Their faith, too, holds truth, and ultimately, only God knows who shall enter paradise. To be admitted to heaven required faith and good deeds, and both were found in varying degrees of perfection in all people – including Shii Muslims.94 This is as far as Kadivar is willing to go, and he expressly excludes the possibility of giving more ground. Religious pluralism to him is incompatible with the faith and religious convictions of Muslims.95 His core argument – that Islamic teaching represented a perfection of Jewish and Christian teaching – is part not only of the mainstream of Islamic thought, but is also little different from the positions espoused by early Christian proponents of Christian-Muslim dialogue. Personally, I agree with John Hick that Hans Küng only seemingly goes much farther than Karl Rahner in his notion of “anonymous Christians”. Kadivar’s concessions are not enough for Soruš. He demands an explanation, a reason why the undeniable fact of religious pluralism in the world exists. His interest is not in the truth or falsehood of any one religion, but in the conviction that there must be a reasonable explanation why there are so many different religions, and why the Qur’an has not moved all humanity to embrace it. The only logical explanation to him is that God desired this pluralism. Otherwise, it would surely contradict His omnipotence and right guidance that the entire world had not converted to Shii Islam. Surely, God would not permit so many people to remain misguided. Thus, Soruš proposes as the only rational conclusion that God

90 91 92 93 94 95

Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 20. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 23. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 34. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 35. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 26. Soruš/Kadivar 2000: 27.

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wanted diversity and difference. Religious pluralism, then, is Qur’anic. On coming to this conclusion, Soruš was named the Iranian Hick. Less known in Anglophone countries than Soruš, Šabestari is influenced by many ideas of German Protestant theologians and often refers to the “Systematic Theology” of Paul Tillich – whom he obviously admires: “Broad endeavors such as this [Systematic Theology] help to speak about God. Therefore, we can say that speaking about God has become easier.”96 Šabestari is a good example of a thinker whose position towards the West has changed fundamentally. In Qom of the 1950s, he was a student of Moḥammad Ḥosayn Ṭabāṭabāʾi who was one of the most – if not the most – influential philosophers and interpreters of the Qur’an among the Shii religious scholars of the last century. Šabestari attended a class of Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s that later gained considerable fame due to the influential book Oṣul-e falsafeh va raveš-e reʾālism (Foundations of Philosophy and the Method of Realism)97, which came out of Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s lessons. In the monograph, Ṭabāṭabāʾi attempts to refute dialectical materialism by examining critically all Western philosophical systems that make up the intellectual foundations of the West. According to him, dialectical materialism cannot claim a realist approach to knowledge.98 Ṭabāṭabāʾi goes even further to claim that all philosophical systems of the West prove to be epistemologically idealistic. He therefore does not consider them philosophy, but sophism.99 How much Šabestari was influenced by Ṭabāṭabāʾi’s views and by the essay Ḡarbzadegi becomes evident in a book he published in 1969, shortly before he left Iran for a longer stay in Germany. In Jāmeʿeh-ye ensāni-ye eslām (The Humane Society of Islam) he tries to describe the intellectual foundations of a universal society under the rule of Islam.100 He bases his plea for a global rule of Islam on what he depicts as the critical conditions of the world community. In his eyes, the precarious situation of the world is caused by the political inequality of his time, which is, in turn, a consequence of material inequality. That explains, according to Šabestari, why slavery, feudalism, religious wars, nationalism and capitalism continue to exist. Although some international organisations have been founded to tackle these challenges by promoting equality and unity in the world, Šabestari maintains that the West has failed to achieve these goals. As examples of this failure, he mentions World War I and II, the arms race, the exploitation of the developing world, increasing poverty, and racial discrimination. Šabestari basi96 Šabestari 1997: 115. 97 Ṭabāṭabāʾi 1993. 98 Gösken 2008: 329. 99 Gösken 2008: 334. 100 Šabestari 1968: 17.

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cally explains the moral powerlessness of the West by the lifeless and feeble values it tries to disseminate. Šabestari draws his Islamic sketch of global society and the world order in sharp contrast to the “corruption” of the West. The depicted model basically consists of an Islamic international law. He formulates his Islamic internationalism according to the examples of the French declaration of human rights and the socialist internationalism in their emphasis on unity and oneness, equality and fraternity of all human beings.101 However, he fails to explain what is specifically Islamic about his model. Šabestari formulates two basic principles for the charter of his Islamic, global state: firstly, the prohibition of any kind of intellectual oppression and the creation of a free intellectual atmosphere for the masses, and, secondly, the liberation of all human beings from any kind of dependence. These goals are to be achieved by a revolutionary agenda, not by violence. Unlike the West that has produced three intellectual deformations – racism, abuse of religious sentiments, and exaggerated nationalism –, Islam stands for a revolutionary humanism, as Šabestari argues in a thoroughly essentialist and culturalist manner. Šabestari’s anti-Western socialization and his claim that the West is devoid of spirituality led, on the one hand, to his advocacy of a revolution which, in his eyes, had to be an Islamic one and, on the other hand, to his support for a system which would grant the authority of settling the affairs of Muslims to a single person. The works by Ṭabāṭabāʾi, Khomeini and Šariʿati had turned him into a major critic of Western democracy.102 Yet, Šabestari’s personal experiences of the West were to contradict his expectations. In his Hamburg years, he encountered by no means a society without God. Instead, he gained his first insights into a theology that sought to make room for God in a modern world – and did indeed find it. After his disillusionment with the Islamic Revolution, he started to draw on this experience.

Conclusion A great many of the fourth-generation Iranian intellectuals have learned to go beyond a way of thinking typical of anti-colonialist/anti-imperialist discourse as the above-mentioned examples tried to show. Contemporary Iranian intellectuals can be called post-colonialist insofar as they have liberated themselves from the

101 Hajatpour 2002: 308. 102 These works are: Ṭabāṭabāʾi 1341/1962, Šariʿati 1980, and Ḵomeyni 1971.

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non-objective and negative approach to the West, which prevailed in the past. They now try to glean the best from the two cultures.

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Part II: The Voices of the Less Visible

Roswitha Badry

Insurmountable Hurdles to the Countering of Patriarchal Gender Discourse under a Clerical Oligarchy? Experiences of (Islamic) Feminists in the Islamic Republic of Iran (1979–2009) Abstract: In 2009 the Islamic Republic of Iran seemed to have lost its legitimacy and authority in the eyes of many of its citizens.1 Much of the literature on Iran acknowledges that women activists have played a key role in this ongoing process of questioning the clerical oligarchy. In their courageous, impressive, and steadfast struggle against patriarchal laws and structures women’s rights defenders have used various means of protest to generate both greater public awareness of various forms of discrimination against women and support for legal reform. Some have tried to deconstruct the official gender discourse; others have concentrated on action-oriented strategies, legal counselling, and lobbying. The main objective of this article is to elucidate to what extent these diverse efforts, partially inspired by similar regional and global trends, have resulted in a change discourse and at a practical level. It will be argued that the multifacted strategies have indeed had a major impact on the rise of consciousness among citizens regarding existing inequalities in gender relations. Yet the clerical power structure, persistent repression of counter-discourse, and constant disillusionment have eventually led to a shift in discourse towards women’s rights as human rights in general. On a practical level, the activists have since given priority to concrete aims in order to find a basic area of agreement. Interest in a gender-just re-reading of Islamic texts appears to have waned before it could be developed into a feminist theology.

Introduction A vast amount of literature has been published over the past decades about Iran’s gender politics and the resistance of women activists against discrimination in

1 This article was written at the end of 2010. For updated information on women’s rights activism in Iran, see Badry 2014.

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-005

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law and society.2 Several observers have described the multifaceted efforts to question the Islamist regime’s patriarchal gender discourse, paid tribute to women’s increased participation in public life, and noticed a rise in feminist consciousness among younger women.3 Much attention has been given (in academia as well as the media) to alternative readings of Islamic texts presented by reformist voices and so-called “Islamic feminists”,4 and more than once illusory hopes were pinned on such endeavours. To avoid such misjudgements the following factors should be borne in mind whenever talking about opposing discourses (including those on gender) in an Islamist regime based on Khomeini’s theory of the “Mandate of the Jurist” (velāyat-e faqih): First, women have always been absent from and marginalized in the centres of decision-making. No woman has attained the position of an eminent cleric so far.5 Second, due to both the narrow confines of permitted expression drawn up by the regime and the self-censorship imposed by the protagonists themselves, the counter-discourses could never flourish fully, i.e. they rarely tried to transgress the limits set by the constitution. To paraphrase Michel Foucault, the close, inherent relation of knowledge production, truth construction, and power preservation6 is much more difficult to break apart in a regime that claims to possess both religious and political authority. As the reaction to dissident clerics and intellectuals in the Islamic Republic of Iran (henceforth IRI) has demonstrated, if knowledge which endangers the very foundation of the regime and offers a counter-“truth” attractive to a great number of

2 To name just a few: Paidar 1995, Part 3; Afshar 1998; Moghissi 1999; Poya 1999; Shahidian 2002; Afary 2009. 3 Kurzman 2008; Mir-Hosseini/Tapper 2006: 25–26; Hegland 2009; Talattof 1997: 543–552; Kian 1997; Kian-Thiébaut 2005. 4 It is obvious, however, that much more attention has been given to the contributions of male reformers presenting alternative readings of Islamic texts, among them a few intellectuals, clerics as well as lay thinkers, who have focused on challenging the official gender discourse. Cf. MirHosseini 1999: Part 3; Hunter 2009: 56–84; for the post-revolutionary thinkers, Amirpur 2009: texts of Šabestari, Kadivar, and Eškevari in German translation. 5 Maybe the only exception was Noṣrat Amin (1886–1983) who only posthumously came to some prominence when she was presented as a role model by the clerical establishment at the end of the 1990s. By all accounts she did fit the traditional concept of a woman, mother, and religious scholar perfectly. For her biography, see Badry 2000: 33–36. Hopes placed in the new female graduates emerging from theological seminars have proved to be unfounded. They may well receive the title mojtahed or be called theologians but these are no more than honorific titles. With their reduced education in Islamic law and theology they cannot compete with the top clerics; so the majority decide to work as preachers in segregated women’s circles without challenging the traditional gender discourse. See Badry 2008: 159–160; and, in greater detail, Torab 2007: esp. 31–48, 97–102, 226–234. 6 Cf., in particular, his L’archéologie du savoir (Foucault 1969).

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citizens gains popularity, it will be suppressed and vilified as “heresy”, “blasphemy” or a “threat to social security” and so forth. However, in times of modern communication technology and greater interconnectedness around the globe, the infiltration and dissemination of alternative ideas and lifestyles cannot be prevented, and as the Iranian example shows, permanent suppression rather intensifies discontent and encourages disobedience and transgression of limits, albeit in varying degrees and forms. The main objective of this article is to elucidate the extent to which the diverse instruments and strategies for countering the official gender discourse have effected a change in discourse and at a practical level. After some preliminary remarks on the formation of the post-revolutionary gender discourse and its implementation after 1979, I will focus on the main trends in the gender debate in the post-Khomeini era, including the emergence of Islamic feminist thinking, whereby “Islamic feminism” is used in the sense of a widely applied discursive pattern, strategy, and practice which is adapted to the specific local, national context.

Preliminary Remarks: the Evolution of the Post-Revolutionary Gender Discourse in the 1960s/1970s The 1979 Islamic revolution had been the result of an unusual alliance between various oppositional factions. Despite their numerous ideological differences, they shared, among other things, an open uneasiness about aspects of new gender and sexual norms that had become visible in urban milieus since the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s and, as a result, had given rise to cultural and social anxieties. This discontent with changing values concerning male-female relations and sexuality was not confined to male revolutionaries but could also be found among their female supporters.7 Consequently in their search for cultural authenticity the chief ideologists of the 1979 revolution gave prime attention to the need for redefining gender relations from an Islamic perspective.8 As in former political discourses of the 20th century, women were to become the outward symbol of the nation’s identity and its cultural orientation. The insistence on a specific cultural identity marked in

7 Cf. Afary 2009: 234 (in general), and for particular examples 252–256 (Zahrā Rahnavard) and 256–262 (Marżiyeh Dabbāḡ). 8 See, for instance, the article of Mohyeddin 2005.

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particular by the status of women has to be seen as a direct outcome of the encounter with Western imperial powers who had put Muslim women’s “liberation” at the centre of their “modernization project”. Ever since, the “divergence paradigm” has persisted in Islamic debates on gender and feminism, modernization and globalization. The greatest impact on the founding gender discourse of the IRI came from Ayatollah Morteżā Moṭahhari’s (1920–1979) book The System of Women’s Rights in Islam, originally published in serialized form during the debate on the 1967 Family Protection Law.9 Referring to Islamic as well as Western sources, whenever it seemed appropriate to the further rationalization of traditional gender discourse, he constructed his model of complementary gender rights and duties. Fundamental to his assumptions is his concept of the “naturalness of the Sharia” and his differentiation between equality (tasāvi) and similarity (tašāboh). He argued that whereas men and women were created equal and are equal in the eyes of God, the roles assigned to them are different, and Islamic legal rules (feqh) reflect this natural, biologically based difference in rights and duties. According to Moṭahhari this does not mean inequality or injustice. It is instead the divine design for society and in line with human nature. And as divinely ordained, it is unchangeable and indisputable. Disparities in legal rulings between the sexes with regard to marriage, divorce, child custody, and inheritance, Moṭahhari maintained, are not only justified by God’s revelation and religious scriptures but also by “modern” science, biology and, in particular, psychology. Hence, owing to their alleged physical, mental, and emotional deficits, women are held to be the weaker sex and ought to be protected and safeguarded by men. In contrast to the divine concept of “balanced gender relations” which is thought to be in harmony with nature, science, and social necessities, the Western call for equality of rights is, as Moṭahhari puts it, a mere “juggling with names” (mārk-e taqallob).10 He rejects this concept because in fact it would suggest similarity or sameness of rights. Moreover, it would just serve capitalist interests in exploiting both the female labour force and the proneness of women to succumb to consumerism. In his analysis the wilful ignoring of natural gender differences has resulted in the Western state of moral degeneration. Despite his “neo-traditionalist” views Moṭahhari insisted on the elasticity and compatibility of Islamic laws with contemporary realities (i.e., ejtehād) and mentioned Western scholars who have praised Islamic laws as a set of advanced laws.

9 Moṭahhari 1974; for the German translation by the Embassy of the IRI, Moṭahhari 1982; on his ideas see also Dabashi 1993: 204–209; Paidar 1995: 175–177; Mir-Hosseini 1996: 289–291. 10 Moṭahhari 1974: 122.

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The essentialist, defensive and contradictory character of Moṭahhari’s ideas becomes blatantly obvious in his statements on sexuality. In fact his explanations of the necessity for the veiling of women would imply that it is men who are basically weak and unable to control their instincts. In addition to Moṭahhari’s seminal text, the publications of two lay thinkers were instrumental in diffusing stereotyped views on Westernized urban women with a secular and feminist orientation as well as in promoting alternative role models. Though more progressive than clerics on some gender issues, their polemics against loose morality and lack of responsibility reflected their respect for conventional, patriarchal family norms. The two intellectuals left a permanent legacy to the political culture of the 1960s and beyond, influencing the vocabulary as well as the “anti-Western” disposition of the Islamic revolutionary discourse. Ḡarbzadegi, variously translated as “Westoxication” or “Westitis”, is a concept popularized in an essay by Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad (1923–1969) published in 1962.11 By this term the author meant the excessive preoccupation of certain influential segments of Iranian society with manners and matters of “Western” origin. Described as a plague (like cholera), a distortion, an aberration from the normal, natural, and healthy that had gradually weakened the Iranian national character, the major component of which Āl-e Aḥmad deemed to be “the Shiite ethos”12, ḡarbzadegi was to become a powerful slogan, and the eradication of “Westitis” a pretext for attacks against unveiled, secular women professionals after the revolution. The second intellectual, ʿAli Šariʿati (1933–1977), built upon Āl-e Aḥmad’s criticism of Western materialist culture and his call on Iranian intellectuals to abandon ḡarbzadegi. In order to utilize Shiism as a revolutionary ideology to counteract cultural imperialism, he concentrated on a re-imagination of the “holy family”. In his monograph Fāṭemeh Fāṭemeh ast (originally a lecture delivered in 1971, later expanded and published as a book)13 Šariʿati presented Fāṭima, the Prophet’s daughter, wife of ʿAli and mother of the Imams, as the perfect model of the revolutionary woman, an alternative third way to both the traditional (accepting her role unquestioningly) and modernized (Westernized) woman (aping the West, and thereby becoming a mindless consumer, or, as he says, a “painted doll”). In arguments similar to those of Moṭahhari the lay thinker warned that women were the weak link in defence against Western capitalist infiltration and

11 Al-e Ahmad 1982. On ḡarbzadegi according to Āl-e Aḥmad cf., inter alia, Dabashi 1993: 73–78; Ghamari-Tabrizi 2008: 180–184. 12 See Dabashi 1993: 74. 13 German translation by the German Embassy of the IRI: Schariati 1981; English translation by Laleh Bakhtiar, Šariʿati 1980. On his views see Hermansen 1983; Dabashi 1993: 102–146, especially 122–125; Hunter 2009: 50–56; Mir-Hosseini 1996: 287–289.

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exploitation of the Third World: due to their sensitivity, women were the first to accept the new Western civilisation, that is, the new consumerism. Yet neither Moṭahhari’s “neo-traditionalist” construction nor Šariʿati’s romanticized, a-historical, and revolutionary image of Fāṭima and of her daughter Zaynab, both of whom are portrayed as the very epitome of love, devotion, courage, and steadfastness, offer a model to be emulated. Though referring to religion in their idealized images of womanhood (and manhood), the attitudes of the three ideologues of the revolution reflected a deeply rooted gender paradigm: women as the weak gender in need of male guidance, protection, and authority are perceived as a threat and danger to social norms if not controlled, but at the same time as the key and solution to social problems.

“Years of hardship”14 Despite their equal participation in the revolution women constituted the main targets of the Islamization laws enacted immediately after the revolution. The changes that occurred in the status of women affected their lives in the legal, political, and social areas; they were subjected to male control in both private and public spheres of life. Feminism and demands for gender equality were rejected as Western and anti-Islamic. Initial resistance to the Islamization of gender relations (mandatory veiling, etc.) were easily put down with the help of the combined revolutionary forces, and activities that challenged restrictive laws had to wait until the 1990s to be resumed. However, the government’s attitudes and policies towards women were paradoxical.15 On the one hand the state promoted a traditional role of mother, spouse, and homemaker; on the other hand it was in need of women’s political participation. The war with Iraq, inflation, brain-drain and the application of segregation laws also offered new opportunities for women loyal to the regime. Increased access to education and to the workforce resulted in a rise of self-consciousness, greater public visibility of women and an awareness of gender inequalities.16 After the war even the staunch female supporters of the regime were no longer willing to forgo their own demands for rights in the interest of national security

14 Cf. the article by Najmabadi 1998, who herself adopted a formulation used in one of Zanān’s editorials. 15 See, among others, Khosrokhavar 2004: 189–190. 16 Paidar 1995: 324–335; Poya 1999: 77–93, 138 and passim.

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and they began to doubt the accomplishments of a revolution that had promised to create a just society.

“Years of growth”17 Historical Background For many former fervent adherents to the Islamic Revolution and Khomeini’s political concept the events in the late 1980s and beginning of the 1990s presented a crucial experience that finally led them to turn away from their previous views. Khomeini’s presumption of absolute power in 1987/88 which eventually resulted in amendments to the constitution in 1989 as well as the debate on the marjaʿiyyat in the 1990s (due to the lack of qualification and prestige of the new Supreme Leader Khameneʾi) and the reversals in (economic and population) policies during the reconstruction phase revealed the dilemma of the regime’s political structure as much as its arbitrary interpretation of Islam, all of which caused widespread criticism. Reformist forces came to prominence with the election of Khatami in May 1997 which raised great expectations and hopes inside and outside Iran. The president’s emphasis on strengthening civil society and expanding freedom of expression and tolerance for opposing views led to an unprecedented activism. Innovative forms of protest and resistance tested by women activists may also have been inspired by the 1995 Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action and similar trends in the MENA-region. New publications, in particular the print media, proliferated and encouraged debates on controversial religious, ideological, and political topics; women’s magazines became forums for advancing women’s rights.18 From the mid-1990s the Internet provided an alternative platform both for reformists to challenge the regime and for weblog writers19 to

17 Cf. note 14 above. 18 An overview of the burgeoning of print media, among them women’s magazines, is provided by Shahidi 2007, in particular Chapter 7 on women’s journalists, including women’s online news bulletins and the internet-based Iranian Women’s News Agency launched in 2004. For detailed information on the diverse journals on women and the family, cf. Abid 2001. For the influence of such magazines as Zanān on the gender discourse, see below. 19 Personal use of the Internet has grown rapidly since 1995; the first online diaries appeared in 2001. Despite the state control imposed on the Internet the new medium facilitated reaching a far wider audience than common print media. The article of Sreberny/Khiabany 2007 offers a balanced account of the wide spectrum represented in the Iranian blogosphere.

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express their individual feelings and impressions. Moreover, NGOs, several of them concentrating on women’s issues,20 began to mushroom and diverse cultural activities (literature, film etc.) boomed.21 The fierce reaction of the conservative religious-political establishment was not long in coming. Successful print media were shut down along with several websites, and journalists as well as bloggers were arrested and detained. Further reforms pushed by Khatami and female members of the Parliament were finally blocked by the Supreme Leader and the Guardian Council.22 The prosecution of dissident Islamic scholars escalated although their positions were originally rather intended to strengthen the political order by elaborating Islamic reforms which they considered necessary to stop the growing tendency to retreat from religion, notably among young people. Not even highprofile clerics were exempted from harsh punishments which in turn met with severe displeasure and opposition on the part of senior religious scholars.23 Nonetheless, Khatami’s presidency had a lasting effect on the political culture in advancing the idea of “change from below” and fostering the sense of citizenship.24 Broad segments of society made a move toward moderation and pragmatism. The gender debate continued, even if with varying degrees of openness. Under Ahmadinejad the country was witnessing a return to conservative gender discourse and repressive policies against dissidents. Following the crackdown on the Green Movement in 2009 there was no longer any toleration of public opposition. The most outspoken reform-oriented voices are either living in exile, or are dead, jailed, silenced and banned from publishing.

20 See, for instance, Tahmasebi 2003. 21 On the remarkable sensitivity towards women’s issues and gender relations in post-revolutionary literary works and films produced by Iranian women see, for instance, Talattof 1997 and Gheytanchi 2004: 218–219, 220–224; Afary 2009: 335–336. 22 Cf., for instance, the campaign launched by women activists and MPs to ratify the UN Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW). The proposal was passed on conditions by the Majles only to be vetoed by the Guardian Council in August 2003. Cf. Fazaeli 2006: 12; Afary 2009: 329–330. 23 Kurzman 2001. 24 For a thorough analysis of Khatami’s presidency cf., for instance, Tazmini 2009: notably 145– 155 on its legacy.

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Diversification of Attitudes but no Feminist Theology in Sight: Tendencies in the Gender Debate since the 1990s Approaching trends in the gender debate, we first have to acknowledge the widened spectrum of attitudes. The dominant tendencies of former decades – traditionalist, secularist, reformist, and fundamentalist (Islamist) – are increasingly at variance with a myriad of syncretistic and hybrid discursive practices. This can be seen, on the one hand, as a reflection of a growing move towards nationalization and individualization, itself a result of the wider access to education and information. On the other hand, it may indicate the altered strategy of advocates of gender difference. Be that as it may, upon the introduction of the ideas of gender equality and women’s rights as human rights into the discussion, at least a certain number of conservative segments of the Shiite clergy felt obliged to reformulate their views. Analysts of the Iranian gender debate have applied different typologies to categorize the various positions. Sometimes the terminology used is problematic and confusing.25 Of course, the varied responses cannot simply be divided into neat categories, and none of the tendencies constitutes a homogenous group. But to speak in an inflationary way of reformist, modernist, or diverse neo- and posttendencies seems neither very helpful nor always accurate. On the level of discourse it is preferable, in my view, to distinguish between textualists, semitextualists, contextualists, and semi-contextualists. In doing so, I follow a slightly modified version of Abdullah Saeed’s typology of contemporary approaches in interpreting the ethical-legal content of the Qorʾān.26 The category of semi-contextualists has been added to capture voices in the Iranian debate that have, perhaps out of caution, not totally broken with patterns of conventional argumentation. The same typology is appropriate to distinguish the positions held by “Islamic Feminists”. As the latter term is a highly contested,27 ambiguous and

25 See, e. g., Fazaeli 2006: 24, speaking of “school of thoughts” evokes the misleading impression that it constitutes a systematic approach shared by a great number of female activists. (Cf. also the problematic terms Islamic vs. Muslim feminists, state feminists and non-state feminists, Fazaeli 2006: 27–35.) 26 Saeed 2006. 27 Some denounce it as an oxymoron (Moghissi 1999: 134; Shahidian 1998: 51), or as a Western strategy to foster women’s rights in Islamic countries (widespread position of Islamic fundamentalists), others welcome it as a more or less valuable means of challenging patriarchy and/or the clergy’s monolithic interpretational power (Ahmadi 2006: 34). An overview of the diverse evaluations of Islamic feminism is given by Moghadam 2002. See also Badry 2011.  

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vague one, it is necessary to take at least a brief look at the emergence of this kind of feminism before surveying the trends in the gender debate in greater detail. “Islamic Feminism” is a term of recent origin, used since the 1990s in the increasing literature on women and Islam, though the phenomenon itself (reinterpretation of religious texts in a more women-friendly or anti-patriarchal way) is older and goes back to the formative phase of the organized women’s movement in different parts of the Muslim world.28 Over the past decades, however, it seems to have become a global trend, as several international congresses on the phenomenon indicate and as events staged by the media wish us to believe. The dissemination of the term was accompanied by its dilution. As it has been adopted by secular women’s rights activists and Islamists alike and encompasses a wide range of approaches and directions (individual as well as collective activities by both women and men, carefully thought out as well as spontaneous, theoretically elaborated as well as populist), it is not easy to define. Broadly speaking, Islamic feminism denotes a gender discourse that is feminist in its aspiration and demands, yet is Islamic in its language and sources of legitimacy. As diverse social and political groups are increasingly referring to alternative readings of Islamic texts, it may be best understood as a discursive pattern or strategy29 with distinct local, national or transnational application. It has to be borne in mind that until now the seminal treatises regarded as the founding texts of Islamic feminism were written in English by women and men living in Western exile or by converts,30 most of them not identifying themselves as feminists but as scholar-activists. Not only is the notion itself contested and controversial but also the estimation of its potential to challenge patriarchy. Whereas some observers are quite enthusiastic and optimistic (at times in quite a naïve manner), others doubt the potential of a primarily legal approach.31 Those who regard it as a discursive movement and practice discover in it an “enormous potential” for “Muslim women’s agency in general” and for “the emergence of new female subjectivities” in particular which in turn may challenge or even change national gender

28 With regard to Iran the cases of “Qorrat ol-ʿEyn” and Bibi Ḵānom Astarābādi/Vaziri can be mentioned. On them, cf. the information given in Badry 1999: 132; Badry 2000: 30–33. 29 Many activists who are subsumed under the term would not necessarily accept this label for themselves. 30 Cf. Badran 2007. To mention just a few: Aziza al-Hibri, Riffat Hassan, Asma Barlas, Amina Wadud, Ziba Mir-Hosseini, Kecia Ali, Khalid Abou El Fadl, or the late Naṣr Ḥāmid Abū Zaid (d. 2010). 31 Cf. the contributions of Ahmadi 2006 and Fazaeli 2006 in contrast to Moghissi 1999, Shahidian 1998 and Mojab 2001.

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discourses.32 Like other contemporary, reform-centred trends in the Muslim world, Islamic feminism is widely perceived as an indication of the crisis of religious authority as well as of the crisis of political representation.33 Two additional remarks may be permitted at the end of this excursus: First, it is often emphasized that Islamic feminism is a work in progress.34 Without doubt, it has not yet reached the level of an established feminist theology – as is the case in Christianity and Judaism. Islam is, indeed, a late-comer in this regard. Nevertheless, it is striking that with respect to Islam researchers speak of Islamic feminism, not of Islamic feminist theology, although some of the pioneers are labelled or identify themselves as theologians. Second, narratives on the contemporary phenomenon frequently mention Iran among those countries where signs of an Islamic feminism were first noticed. At the same time the role of women’s magazines, particularly of Zanān (1992– 2008),35 in paving the way for a Muslim anti-patriarchal gender discourse, has been highlighted. Yet I think that when we speak of the IRI we have to keep in mind that the decision to reveal the patriarchal tendencies within the official interpretation of Islamic law (the so-called “Sharia”) was not taken for its own sake but in reaction to harsh discrimination and suppression.36 Moreover, in order not to be silenced through censorship, criticism had to be formulated within the given Islamic framework. Women’s journals such as Payām-e Hājar, Zanān, Farzāneh and Ḥoquq-e zanān37 have indeed been a forum for the circulation of views opposing the official gender discourse and have thereby given an idea of what shape feminist theology (jurisprudence) could take. However, the potential of the press, particularly under authoritarian rule, should not be overemphasized. The readership of the regime-critical women’s magazines was rather limited;38 and their dealing with selected topics of women’s status in Islam and Iranian law merely stimulated the debate, without leading to a comprehensive theoretical approach. While they may have had some impact in strengthening the conscious-

32 Schneider 2009: 56 (abstract) and passim. 33 Cf. e. g. Krämer/Schmidtke 2006. 34 Among other observers Najmabadi (1998: 69) underlined that it is a “discourse-in-formation” and that some of the interpretive moves sound like rather timid experimentations that only occasionally go beyond the common reformist strategies. 35 Mir-Hosseini 1996: 292–316; Najmabadi 1998: 72–77; Gheytanchi 2004: 212–218; Eftekhari 2003. 36 For these objections, see also Badry 2008: 146–149. 37 For an overview cf. Kian-Thiébaut 2002: particularly 130–133; Badry 2008: 152–158; on Payām-e Hājar see the article of Nakanishi 1998. 38 Gheytanchi (2004: 212) mentions for Zanān 120.000 readers; the other women journals had fewer readers.

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ness of existing gender inequalities and arbitrary references to the Sharia, the grassroots campaigns must be credited with a far greater mobilization effect. With regard to Zanān one must not forget that the articles which offered alternative interpretations of Islamic law were written by Hojjat ol-Eslām Moḥsen Saʿidzādeh (b. 1958), a mid-ranking cleric who was arrested in 1998, sentenced in camera by the Special Clergy Court, released after some months, but “unfrocked” and banned from publishing his work.39 Though the female editor (Šahlā Šerkat) and other women who contributed regularly to the journal were calling for ejtehād and disclosed the inconsistencies of current legal regulations, they did not argue as Islamic experts in terms of legal methodology but as activists or secular lawyers in terms of human rights norms. This is particularly obvious with respect to Mehrangiz Kār and Širin ʿEbādi. I agree with Kār40 and other observers that the most significant accomplishment of Zanān lay in other fields, mainly in its inclusive strategy, i.e. forging links between “modernized religious women” and “secular non-conformist women”. In addition, it helped to overcome the negative image of feminism and reported on several sensitive and taboo issues in a courageous way. All in all, it furthered the idea and acceptance of pluralism and mutual tolerance and inspired other women’s magazines to follow a similar path. Most of those Iranian women, however, who were sometimes subsumed under the label of Islamic feminists, adhered – at least until very recently – to a rather conservative view of gender relations, i.e. they mainly relied on opinions put forward either by textualists or semi-textualists. As for the textualists, alternatively named traditionalists or adherents to feqhe sonnati (traditional Islamic jurisprudence), they stick to an extremely rigid, reductionist and exclusivist perception of Islam and Islamic law. They usually adopt a literalist, albeit one-sided and feqh-centred approach to the Qorʾān, Sunna (in Shiite Islam the Traditions of the Prophet as well as those of the 12 Imams) and ijmāʿ (consensus of the Imams) the meaning of which they consider fixed and immutable. Gender inequality is taken for granted because it is claimed to be prescribed by Sharia, the sacred law of Islam and agreed upon by eminent Shiite jurists. This position leaves hardly any space for ejtehād which would be needed to take social change, new currents in the gender debate or even legal

39 On the circumstances of his conviction, see Kurzman 2001: 348–349. The most extensive analysis of his thoughts and writings is provided by Mir-Hosseini 1999: 247–272. Cf. also Hunter 2009: 73–75. 40 Kar 2001: 189, 194. For a similar appraisal by another contributor to Zanān, see the article by Eftekhari 2003: 20–21. In the same article Kar (2001: 190) admits that, for her, reinterpreting religious decrees is more a strategy than a personal belief.

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realities into account. In taking this stance, the Shiite textualists actually contradict the principle of permanent ejtehād favoured by the original Oṣulis, the dominant branch in Twelver Shiism.41 One example of such an extremely conservative standpoint was Grand Ayatollah Moḥammad Fāżel Lankarāni (1931– 2007). He believed strongly in the separation of the sexes and opposed Ahmadinejad’s declaration in 2006 that women had the right to attend major (male) soccer matches at stadiums, even if in segregated spaces.42 The semi-textualists, also known as neo-traditionalists or pragmatic Islamists, essentially follow the textualists as far as adherence to the rules put forth in the Sharia laws and their ignoring of the socio-historical context of the Islamic sources are concerned. But they use a somewhat modern idiom, often in an apologetic and defensive way. Regarding women’s/gender issues their views are grounded on Moṭahhari’s theory of complementarity. That they admit the need for, and allow, minor deviations from formerly held positions is to be considered a pragmatic, rhetorical move and a response to partial discontent and lobbying among their female supporters, the so-called state-feminists according to Fazaeli’s typology.43 These partial concessions to social realities,44 however, do not rock their fundamental assumptions of ideal gender relations. They may prefer to talk of “gender balance”,45 which is essentially nothing new, but they will not allow any fundamental questioning of patriarchal structures and clerical authority. Minor concessions concern, for instance, acceptance of the presence of women in public, with less rigid application of segregation and veiling rules. Although more progressive than their colleagues in several respects (women’s rights as well as other social issues), the proponents of the feqh-e puyā (dynamic Islamic jurisprudence) are also to be counted as semi-textualists, as long as they fail to ground their reasoning on a systematic rethinking of the basis of ejtehād and its underlying assumptions of classical feqh theories. The same is true for some political activists (such as Zahrā Rahnavard or Jamileh Kadivar) who had supported the regime for a long time and have only gradually changed their 41 For the Oṣulis’ triumph over the Aḵbāris and for the main differences between the two schools cf. e. g. Momen 1985: 117–118, 184–207, 222–225. – Such an ultra-conservative view still finds support among several politically active women (MPs, and later also the first female minister nominated by Ahmadinejad in reaction to the campaign and demands of the oppositional candidates in the 2009 election), for instance. 42 FAZ-Sonntagszeitung, 30. 04. 2006: 8 (Online resource). Other adherents to this traditionalist discourse are mentioned in Mir-Hosseini 1999: Part 1. 43 Fazaeli 2006: 28–33; according to the typology of Kar 2001: 180–185, “conformists.” 44 Cf. also, for instance, 1992 Divorce amendments. 45 Cf. Mir-Hosseini (1999: Part 2, Chapters 3–6) and her interviews with Payām-e zan and Yusef Ṣāneʿi in Qom.  

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orientation. Notably in the run-up to the 2009 presidential elections they came closer to the demands of secular feminists. Previously they had criticized blatant violence against women but their criticism did not extend to questioning the system’s ideological foundations. Reported statements showed that they still thought in binary patterns contrasting “the West” with “true Islam”.46 In general, the contextualists, also called reformists, modernists, or progressive thinkers, emphasize the socio-historical context of the ethical-legal content of the Qorʾān and its subsequent interpretations. They argue for understanding the ethical-legal content in the light of the political, social, historical, cultural and economic contexts in which this content was revealed, interpreted and applied. Thus they argue for a high degree of freedom for the modern Muslim scholar in determining what is mutable and what is immutable. With respect to the IRI, one might think, firstly, of all the advocates of the so-called New Religious Thought (nou-andiši-ye dini), the new generation of “Western-informed” thinkers who have received much attention abroad from both scholars and the media. Most of them, however, have side-stepped the “women question” or gender issues in their work. Rather, their proposed hermeneutics and epistemology have provided an appropriate analytical instrument for the formulation of a gender-sensitive re-interpretation of religious texts and the reconciliation of the faith with a rights-based (rather than duty-based) approach.47 In the 1990s the already mentioned Saʿidzādeh was the most ardent champion of women’s rights. In the past decade some clerics and lay thinkers joined him in arguing for a more tolerant and egalitarian view of gender relations.48 Regarding their methodology the Iranian contextualists can be broadly divided into those who use a methodology based on the reformulation or rearrangement of oṣul ol-feqh and those who use modern methodologies or a combination of both. Some of the Islamic feminists have called for the application of similar techniques (Aʿẓam Ṭāleqāni; Maḥbubeh ʿAbbāsqolizādeh) but to the best of my knowledge none of these and no other Iranian Islamic

46 As for Rahnavard who came to prominence as the wife of Mir Ḥosayn Musavi in the 2009 election campaign, cf. Afary 2009: 314–315; as for J. Kadivar, cf. Adelkhah 2004: 234–235. 47 Soruš, for instance, makes a distinction between religion and religious knowledge, arguing that whereas the first is sacred and immutable, the second is human and evolves in time as a result of forces external to religion; Šabestari distinguishes between revelation and its human understanding, with the latter being necessarily fallible and ever-changing. For Šabestari’s and Soruš’s ideas see, e. g., Dahlén 2003. On the conflict between a duty-based and a rights-based approach to Islamic law, see Mir-Hosseini 2002. 48 Cf. Hunter mentions, inter alia, Ayatollah Yusef Ṣāne‘i (2009: 62–63) and Moṣṭafā Malekiyān (2009: 80–82) as examples.  

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feminist has so far published a book in which she elaborated her ideas and approach in a comprehensive way.49 Despite their wide range of views and positions, Iranian reform-minded circles by and large follow the well-known reformist method of contextualizing, historicizing, and “hierarchizing” Islamic texts. Their techniques include the following: a) Drawing a clearer line between primary (Qorʾān and Sunna, the “Sharia”) and secondary (Feqh and other texts) sources of Islam and Islamic law, i.e. distinguishing between the Divine Legislator and the secular, human lawmaker. b) Surveying feqh literature and, in the process, pointing to the diversity of jurists’ opinions on a certain subject to show the absurdity of claiming an unchangeable consensus. The different positions are scrutinised in the light of Qorʾān, Sunna, reason and the practice of the time in order to legitimize a novel interpretation according to the changed context. Not everybody, however, goes as far as Ayatollah ʿAbdollāh Nuri or Ḥojjat ol-Eslām Ḥasan YusefiEškevari, Soruš or Šabestari in admitting that diversity in religious interpretation proves the fallibility of every human being so that nobody can claim to be the only one in possession of truth and that consequently various and diverse readings of religion are possible and legitimate and nobody should be allowed to impose a specific view on others and to consider it as definite. c) Maintaining that Qorʾānic precepts override the Sunna in cases of contradiction (cf. death penalty for apostasy, stoning as a punishment for adultery – neither of which is mentioned in the Qorʾān). d) Working on the primary sources in order to extract the essence of the revelation (major universal principles such as justice, freedom, or reciprocity); these essentials are considered by the majority as broad and binding legal (or moral) guidelines and are differentiated from the contingent, changeable dimension of religion. Others distinguish between binding and guiding injunctions of Qorʾān (and Sunna). In both cases the aim is to extend the options of ejtehād and/or to limit the purview of both feqh and religio-legal experts. e) Considering the semantic range of words in the Qorʾān which turns out to be a particularly useful approach for those who focus on gender issues. The

49 Mir-Hosseini (1999: 19–20) explains the absence of texts by women (on Islamic law) with the fact that feqh has remained a monopoly of male scholars, and that female scholars in Iran, as elsewhere, have focused on Qorʾān interpretation. It should be added that not only was the monopoly of male feqh scholars not seriously challenged but the same applied to the male monopoly of theorizing.

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review of the Qorʾānic vocabulary demonstrates the complexity of several terms which was restricted in post-Qorʾānic times. Key words usually taken as Qorʾānic evidence for men’s superiority such as qawwāma and faḍl (cf. notably Qorʾān 4:34 which has been paradigmatic for the founding of the patriarchal gender discourse) are interpreted in an alternative way and deconstructed so that they do not denote a natural, intrinsic advantage but an achieved or earned one, thus concluding that difference and preference do not necessarily mean superiority in all areas. Those verses that maintain gender equality before God and appeal to men and women or all human beings are instead put at the centre of reconsideration of gender roles. Finally, Moṭahhari’s notion of complementary rights and duties, on which the dominant gender discourse of the IRI rests, is in some cases denounced as a pretext for denying women their Islamic rights. Avoiding a feqh-centred discourse, “new religious thinkers” and “Muslim feminists”50 also refer to the heritage of speculative theology (kalām), philosophy and Sufism.

Most striking among the majority of Iranian reformers is their inconsistent reference to the Sunna of the Prophet and the Imams. Whenever it seems opportune they quote from the Traditions, including the Nahj ol-Balāḡa (attributed to the first Imam) – without indicating their criteria for selecting them or differentiating between authentic and non-authentic sayings. A similar a-historical approach becomes obvious with regard to their idealization of the early Umma (Islamic community). By adopting such an approach they not only show less stringency than former and contemporary Shiite reformers and modernists who have tried to pave the way for a critical rationalist approach to religion and history, their arbitrary style of arguing also justifies placing them in the category of the partially contextual (“semi-contextualist”).51 To some extent this “lapse” is understandable because any questioning of the Shiite Sunna can result in a rejection of the very fundamentals of Shiism (i.e. a questioning of the core Shiite doctrines such as the Imamate and the belief in the Mahdi would amount to rejecting the legitimacy of the qualified jurists’ claim to act as representatives of the Hidden Twelfth Imam). A minority of the Iranian reformers apparently try to circumvent this problem by pleading for a secular state.

50 According to Fazaeli (2006: 35–36.) this was a small circle of women, among them M. ‘Abbāsqolizādeh (on her shift in orientation cf. below). 51 Such as Sheikh Hādi Najm’ābādi who doubted the legitimacy of the Traditions – see Hajatpour 2002: 140–141.

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As mentioned above, secular Iranian women, human rights and women’s rights advocates among them lawyers, littérateurs, and journalists, have rarely, and only in a generalizing manner, used Islamic legal arguments.52 This is also the reason why they should not, in my view, be subsumed under the heading of Islamic feminists. In recent years their most important strategy in promoting gender equality was to convince other segments of the population by information dissemination and raising awareness of the need for substantial legal reform in connection with discriminatory laws against women. With the takeover by Ahmadinejad in 2005 and the increasingly violent reaction against any publicly expressed deviating opinion including those of high-ranking clerics, women’s struggle for their rights entered a new phase. Some of those activists who had spent many years on a feminist reading of the Qorʾān and other Islamic texts came to the conclusion that their efforts would never be taken seriously by the hardliners in power. Therefore, they decided to focus on an action-oriented strategy. As Maḥbubeh ʿAbbāsqolizādeh outlined, “whatever we try to argue for a different reading of Islam, the conservative Islamists will insist on their own discourse. I, therefore, decided to change my discourse and to become a secular feminist, to work with ordinary women and to try to challenge the unequal gender relations from below.”53 Two remarkable campaigns which also received widespread international recognition may illustrate the shift in discourse (to human rights issues) and practice (to concrete aims) with its goal of forming a broad alliance for reforms. The “One Million Signature Campaign”,54 initiated by Širin ʿEbādi and other prominent female feminists in Tehran, started in 2006 to spread rapidly to other 52 In their publications they have concentrated on documenting the inconsistencies and contradictions of the current law, pointing to the detrimental effects of the regulations, uncovering their male-biased nature and their roots in tradition and history, not in Islam as such. With regard to stoning, for instance, Širin ʿEbādi focused “on the paradox inherent in classical Islamic legal doctrine that adultery (is) treated and punished more severely than homicide” (Serrano 2009: 112). 53 ‘Abbāsqolizādeh in an interview as quoted in [http://encyclopedia.jrank.org/articles/pages/ 5443/Abbasgholizadeh-Mahboubeh-1958.html] (11/10/2010). 54 More exactly the “One Million Signatures for the Repeal of Discriminatory Law”, also known as “Change for Equality”, obviously inspired by a similar campaign in Morocco that finally led to the promulgation of the revised Mudawwana (Personal Status Law); on the Campaign in Iran see Afary 2009: 5–6, 333–334, 370–373; or one of the organizers: Sussan Tahmasebi, “One Million Signatures Campaign: Answers to Your Most Frequently Asked Questions,” dated 24 February 2008, available online [http://www.we-change.org/English/spip.php?article226] (30/11/2010) with further references to other websites. [www.wluml.org] constantly reports on the various activities in Muslim countries where women live under Islamic Law, on the campaigns such as those mentioned above, the activists, their fates, international awards, and so forth.

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provinces through the Internet.55 The campaigners trained young volunteers who were to seek face-to-face contact with their fellow citizens in order to explain to them the aims of the campaign and the urgent need for change. The core objective of the campaign was to gather one million signatures in support of a petition addressed to the Iranian Parliament asking for a repeal of discriminatory laws against women, especially in Family Law and Criminal Law. Referring to prominent representatives of the “dynamic feqh”, the organizers argued that the demands of the campaign conformed to Islamic principles and were also in line with international human rights standards. As the campaign followed an inclusive strategy, moving beyond the social, ideological and sexual divides, and gained popularity, the persecution of its activists was intensified. The other campaign, “Stop Stoning Forever”,56 was launched by the human rights activist and lawyer Šādi Ṣadr, also in 2006, with the goal of eliminating stoning unequivocally from the Iranian Penal Code. In 2004 Ṣadr had founded the Rāhi Institute as an NGO (banned since 2007) which provided legal counsel for marginalized women, legal literacy to young lawyers and implemented empowerment projects. In several court cases she succeeded in saving sentenced human rights defenders, journalists, and so-called “adulterers” from the death penalty.57 One important result of these new forms of activism was that before the 2009 elections several women activists and groups, secular as well as religiously oriented, came together to form a broad coalition. They agreed on two main demands (having Iran join the CEDAW and revising the Constitution), published pamphlets and articles and started lobbying the presidential candidates to gain their support for their demands.

55 On other campaigns of women activists that had been “supported and supplemented by a powerful presence in the online-environment”, see Sreberny/Khiabany 2007: 280. The authors underline the “conscious bridging between activism and intellectual debate, between practice and theory.” 56 See also the “Global Campaign to Stop Killing and Stoning Women” [www.stop.stoning.org]. 57 Apart from the reports of [www.wluml.org] on Šādi Ṣadr, see the documentary film entitled “Women in Shroud” (Persian with English subtitles, 73 minutes) produced by Dr. Mohammad Reza Kazemi (one of my former doctoral students) together with Farid Haerinejad. Information on the film can be found under the following URL [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6s5JT7y4zk]. The film was honored at the Berlinale in February 2010 with the “Justice Award” [http://Berlinerfilmfestivals.de/2010/02/die-diesjahrigen-preistrager-der-cinema-for-peace-gala]. Both URLs attached on 30/11/2010.

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Crushed Opposition, Shattered Hopes – Prospects for a Future? The massive presence of women in the protests following the disputed re-election of Ahmadinejad has again shown that 30 years of patriarchal theocracy could not stop Iranian women from struggling for freedom and equality. Despite constant insults, discrimination, and mounting violence (arrests, detentions, extended imprisonment, and torture) women’s rights advocates seem to have become more active, vocal, and fearless over the years. They have employed both individual and group strategies (initiating campaigns, organizing rallies and demonstrations, writing letters, petitions, articles, and reports in print and cyberspace) to enhance public awareness of the forms of discrimination women face in the IRI and, at the same time, to create a new broad coalition and to call for international solidarity. Out of constant disillusionment with false promises at least some of the activists, women as well as men, have learnt to articulate their demands more clearly. To some extent it can be claimed that the new activism of women in civil society groups and mutual campaigns has produced a social movement that culminated in the Green Movement. The quest for gender equality has now converged with demands for democracy and human rights.58 A growing number of religious scholars as well as citizens advocate the separation of public and religious authority, thus questioning the intellectual underpinnings of the Islamic Republic. Several clerics have supported the demands of women’s rights activists with their reform-minded ejtehād because they clearly perceive permanent power abuse in the name of Islam, next to mismanagement and corruption, as a threat not only to their authority as religio-legal experts but also to (Shiite) Islam itself. In addition, the arbitrary persecution, sentencing, jailing and silencing of non-violent forces has had a radicalizing effect. Hence the multifaceted efforts and strategies of women’s rights activists have indeed had a major impact on the rise of citizens’ consciousness of existing inequal-

58 Even after the crackdown on the Green Movement another form of peaceful protest emerged: the “Mourning Mothers Iran” who met each week in silent public protest in Tehran’s Lāleh Park to bring attention to the atrocity of the death of their children. In a statement the “Committee of Mothers Iran” promised to go on with their non-violent evening vigils until “the release of all detained demonstrators, the cessation of violence and until our children’s killers receive their punishment” (as quoted in “Iran: ‘Mourning Mothers Iran’ Stand with Activist Mothers Worldwide” [http://www.wluml.org/node/5576], p. 3 – (29/10/2009). In January 2010 the assembled mothers were arrested for a while and warned in threatening terms by the security authorities that ongoing grieving in public could create dangerous repercussions for those involved. (Cf. Report by Women’s News Network 18/06/2010.)

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ities in gender relations as well as of social grievances. Their activities have catalyzed vibrant discussions and debates on controversial issues (such as women’s rights as human rights, public and domestic violence, restricted freedom, self-determination etc.) in the public and private spheres which have resulted in an awareness of legal inequality, perceived as injustice, and in a strong desire for gradual and peaceful change. It seems they were able to convince many Iranians of the fact that discrimination and oppression of women has nothing to do with religion as such but rather with the patriarchal system (the structure of the regime and patriarchal traditions) that has been established on the basis of a highly selective interpretation of the normative sources. Faced with more urgent needs and persistent repression the former interest in a gender-just re-reading of Islamic texts seems to have waned before it could be developed into an Islamic feminist theology. One may ask why the emergence of an Islamic feminist theology should be deemed necessary. I agree with other “Islamic feminists”, among them Riffat Hasan and Asma Barlas, that as long as religion is a main reference point for people’s identity, and as long as many Muslims continue to read inequality and patriarchy into the Qorʾān and other religious texts in order to establish a divine justification for the discrimination of women, the deconstruction of these narratives and proliferation of a feminist perspective on foundational sources will continue to matter. Yet a fundamental critique of dominant religious reasoning and logo-centrism, i.e. “thinking the unthinkable” as the late Muhammad Arkoun (d. 2010) put it, requires absolute freedom of expression – a condition that will not prevail in the IRI in the short term. Predicting the immediate demise of the Islamic theocracy in the aftermath of the 2009 election has (not surprisingly) turned out to be unrealistic. But, whereas the hardliners in power may be able to suppress general unrest by sheer force, they cannot silence all dissenting voices or ignore the widespread call for freedom and justice in the long run. The hands of time cannot be turned back and the experiences that (Islamic) feminists and other citizens have had in the past decades cannot be wiped out. For the time being the state authorities in Iran should remember the verse of one of the most famous poets of Iran, Saʿdi Širāzi (d. 1290): “Human beings, created from the same essence, are limbs of one another. When one limb aches, the other limbs are restless, too. O you who are indifferent to the pains of others, you do not deserve to be called a human being.”59

59 Slightly changed translation offered by Dalal 1995: 145. The passage is from the poet’s Golestān (bāb 1, ḥekāyat 10) – my thanks go to Dr. F. Delshad for providing me with the exact reference.

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Erika Friedl

Heirs of Modernity in Rural Iran Abstract: Rural Iran is grievously understudied, considering that over half of Iran’s inhabitants live in villages and in small towns. The few published studies of village or tribal communities may not allow generalizations based on quantitative data, but they serve as examples of social developments in the countryside. The literature and my observations during travels in Iran largely mirror what I describe here for a small town in Boir Ahmad, Southwest Iran. In terms of achievements and goals, if not of access to resources and of quality of life, even people in remote hinterlands participate in the national trends of socio-cultural and economic development in Iran. I argue that these trends and an ideology of progress that motivated the rural/tribal people of this study from the time they founded their community, have led to discontent even though they fitted well with national goals of modernization and improved living conditions.

A popular view in Iran and in the literature dealing with social change posits modernity in opposition to tradition; the effects of one threaten the other: modern developments obliterate traditions or, conversely, modernity marks tradition as backward, a hindrance to a better future. This view tends to essentialize modernity as well as tradition and to overlook people’s motivations for abandoning their customs and values.1 It ignores the fact that social change happens at the level of personal decisions in everyday life. As an anthropologist concerned with local developments and a view from below, I take up this point by concentrating on what motivates people’s actions on the micro-level of socio-cultural change. Based on long-standing contacts with Iran since 1965,2 mostly with people in the

1 For a recent example, see Mitchell 2009: 2. He states Iran’s cultural “plurality . . . was seriously challenged with the advent of the modern era.” Hobsbawm (1983) puts the terms into a political discourse. Ringer (2013) addressed the early roots and mechanisms of the transfer of knowledge and its effects on culture in Iran, as does Gaechter (2011). The effects of state-sponsored conservationist policies on the evaluation of “traditions” in Iran are discussed in Grigor 2004: 17–45. 2 In fifteen visits Reinhold Loeffler and I accumulated seven years of residence there until 2006, with an additional visit by myself, in 2015. The people of the Province of Kohgiluyeh/Boir Ahmad speak Luri dialects, are Shi’a Muslims and mostly were transhumant pastoralists and farmers until about two generations ago. Between 2006 and 2015 we were unable to obtain visa documents from Iran but have kept in touch with several local people. For support of various stages of our longitudinal fieldwork we are grateful to the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago,

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-006

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large village of Sisakht, Reinhold Loeffler and I suggest that modernity, in the shape of the concept of “progress” (pišraft), in Iran has developed from a traditional ethos into an ideology that structures people’s values, motivates people’s behaviors and rapidly alters rural ways of life. In Sisakht people trace the history of their village in terms of this progress. Lately, however, people say that progress not only makes life better but also drives people apart into patterns of life that they see as undesirable.3 In terms of a timeline, one can sequence the effects of modernity on lifestyles in Iran in broad terms: by the mid-20th century, urban upper classes (especially in Tehran) aspired to and participated in Western culture in lifestyle, tastes and education. Through travels and studies abroad they developed a cosmopolitan outlook and habits that set them apart from and above their lower-class and rural countrymen. For example, physicians who had studied abroad announced their foreign connection on their office-signs, suggesting superior knowledge. Tailors specialized in copying haute couture dresses from Paris for the urban wealthy; in 1965 people told us that the “minižub” (miniskirt) revolution was changing behavior and expectations of young people in the urban middle class. Encouraged by their parents, the young wished to be “modern-chic,” to study (preferably abroad), to get a well-paying job and to have the “good” life modeled by wealthy urbanites, by many foreigners living in Iran and by American movies. Traditionalists and conservatives disparaged this trend as ḡarbzadeh, i.e., as charmed by the West, but could not stop the general trend of modernity, of moving forward (pišraft). At that time, i.e., the middle of the 20th century, an unprecedented population increase in Iran made it increasingly difficult for rural and lower-class parents to provide livelihoods for their many children and to find a philosophy of life that would guide the young to become successful adults. For example, parents fretted that valued character qualities such as modesty and honesty impeded a child’s progress in an increasingly competitive world. By the time of the Revolution of

the Wenner Gren-Foundation for Anthropological Research, the Social Science Research Council, the National Foundation for Humanities, and Western Michigan University. 3 A recent article discussing this topic presents the development somewhat differently from the way I present it here and provides a rare example of two different views of the same social phenomenon, observed at the same place and time: Loeffler 2011: 1–13. For an overview of anthropological work in Iran, see Hegland/Friedl 2007: 1–19. More recently, Hourcade (2010) talked about the “paradox” of rural societies’ participation in a national culture while also retaining village-specific traditions. The most thorough village study from an area in Fars province (adjacent to Boir Ahmad) agrees with our study: Hegland 2011: 21–37 and Hegland 2014. For development among women in another South Iranian tribe, see Beck 2004: 240–278. For invaluable sociological quantitative data on rural Iran, see Kian-Thiébaut 1999: 12–19.

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1979 the trend toward “modern” ways of life had spread from the city to the countryside, first to the professional rural middle class (such as teachers, physicians, traders, government administrators) and from there to the rural lower classes: farmers and pastoralists wanted at least some of their sons – and, increasingly, also daughters – to “make progress” (pišraft kardan), which implied leaving behind rural/agricultural ways of life. By 2010, despite the ever-worsening economic situation of the population and up to 50% unemployment in some areas, the wish to live an urban, wealthy lifestyle was ubiquitous.4 It prompted people to exert themselves greatly to “make progress,” if not for themselves, then for their children, as well as to live beyond their means and entertain unrealistic and thus frustrating feelings of entitlement. People said that the urge to live at least as well, if not better, than neighbors and relatives, to achieve more in terms of status and wealth (hamčešmi, i.e., looking at each other with jealousy and a competitive spirit) had become a great stress factor in their lives. By 2006 we observed that conspicuous consumption had become the most important yardstick for measuring success and “progress”. We arrived in Sisakht first as guests at the wedding of a young local teacher. She had met us at a teachers’ conference organized by the head of the Tribal Teacher Organization, Moḥammad Bahmanbegi, in Yasuj, the administrative center of the area. Some 80 teachers from the whole tribal area were present – all of tribal/rural descent and trained to understand themselves as agents of change.5 Our hostess, for example, over her 40-year career in Sisakht had been a role model for educational goals as well as for fashions – traditional tribal fashions but by no means unchanging – for scores of her girl-students.6 Already then, in the 1960s, villagers were looking for ways to make their children successful through formal education; through instilling in them aspirations beyond farming and village life; by observing how we, “modern” outsiders, behaved, especially towards our two daughters. Then as now, they defined success in terms of prosperity and social standing with the two criteria largely

4 On a recent discussion of societal effects of economic conditions in Iran, see Salehi-Isfahani 2011: 789–806. 5 For a description of this highly successful program and its effects on cultural development and tribal identity, see Shahbazi 1998; Barker 1981: 139–158. 6 The topic of internal changes of “traditions,” such as in this case in tribal traditional clothing, does not get attention in the literature. Traditions, however, are not static: this young teacher introduced in Sisakht features from “traditional” costumes and jewelry she had liked on her Qashqaʾi classmates in the Teacher Training School in Shiraz. New fabrics and colors and more voluminous skirts changed the appearance of the local attire considerably over the past 100 years without being non-traditional or modern-urban.

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overlapping and expressed in an urban lifestyle and the dynamic concept of “progress”: in order to prove success one continually had to do better. Although this definition of success and progress is not new in developing countries, it goes against the stereotype of villagers as ignorant and traditionbound that is held by middle and upper urban classes in many developing areas, including Iran, where it is endlessly reproduced in the media such as in television series. It also contradicts the stereotype of people in remote Iranian villages as isolated and unaware of what counts as modern life in the cities and towns. Thus rural people’s creative interactions with towns and cities are underestimated. Despite travel hardships, villagers have been moving around at all times and especially in the course of their economic pursuits such as shopping and selling their own produce. They passed information about life “out there” on to others at home and in turn learned from travelers passing through their areas. At the very least they learned from the local upper class, be they tribal chieftains in Boir Ahmad or urban-based landlords elsewhere.7 This local give-and-take and its effects are not documented for any time period as far as we know. For gathering information after 1965 we used the standard ethnographic methodologies of participant observation and loosely structured, open-ended interviews with whoever agreed to interact with us – men and women, peasants as well as members of the tribal elite. People not only knew we would write about the village but urged us to do so – they said that only through us could outsiders learn of their lives and their achievements. For the time before 1965 we fitted together the puzzle pieces of oral history, biographical anecdotes, and the few written documents accessible to us. This information may not be enough to reconstruct the history of the village in a scientific sense but will suffice for talking with some authority about development trends.

The Time of the Khans and Kadḵodās, 1880–19638 According to local record-keepers (ethno-historians of sorts), Sisakht was founded in the 1880s. At that time the tribal region was under the leadership of a paramount khan and of various tribal and sub-tribal chiefs, called kadḵodā. The transhumant

7 For example, local women modeled their tribal attire on the fancy skirts and shirts of the women in the khans’ families. The most famous garden in the province, Češmeh Belqeis, was designed and planted by a khan of Čeram and is much admired throughout the region as a model of what a garden should be. 8 Khans are tribal chieftains; a kadḵodā in Boir Ahmad is the head of a village, a tribute-collector for a khan, and/or a de facto chief of a sub-tribal unit.

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ancestors of the local people, a heterogeneous group of families most of whom had migrated there from different places, lived some eight kilometers downhill of the present village in Pishvar, then a hamlet of huts built of wood and stone. (A hundred years later such one-room stone structures were still in use in the village as barns and as living quarters in high-pasture outposts.) This area, i.e., the hills sloping south toward a tributary of the river Karun, was protected from harsh winter winds but could not be defended well against marauding outsiders and had limited space for expansion. The alluvial slopes of the high Zagros to the north, called Sisakht, served as the people’s summer pastures for their goats, sheep, donkeys and some cows, and provided good water and better protection. The people said they could build a better and larger village there, with potential for larger fields. In other words, already then the members of the motley community tried hard to better their lives. When the men in an experimental foray to this upland survived the cold, snowy winter at the foot of the Kuh-e-Dena, the people built a tight, walled hamlet there around a defense-tower near a spring.9 Under the forceful leadership of a local literate man, Qobād Nikeqbāl, the founding families made the land arable and they merged into a sort of tribal unit that attracted further newcomers. With back-breaking labor they dug irrigation channels10 and cleared forests, established fields for wheat, barley and legumes, planted orchards, and built huts in high-mountain pastures for their growing flocks. To this day this settlement is called, “Big Village of Sisakht” (Deh Bozorg-e Sisaḵt).11 “Mullah Qobād” saw the future of the group in agriculture and literacy rather than in political maneuvering, warfare and raiding of neighbors, as many other khans in the area did. In this, he was ahead of his time.12 The dedication to the pursuits of a settled lifestyle and growing crops earned Sisakhtis the derogatory name “onion growers” in Boir Ahmad.13 Neighbors occasionally destroyed fields

9 This history is abbreviated and somewhat legendary. For example, there is evidence of a much earlier settlement about which little is known, a small town with a markedly different material culture than Sisakht had when it was founded. See Friedl/Loeffler 2013: 183–231. There were other similar pre-Boir Ahmedi settlements in the area. Many of those were already in ruins at the beginning of the 18th century according to the Fārsnāmeh. See Fasāʾi 1314/1896. There were few landless people in Sisakht. Share-cropping was not a social issue there. 10 Sisakht has an abundance of surface water. In 2006 a water-bottling business was planned for exporting water to Kuwait but had not been not established by 2015. 11 The names of the early/oldest settlements in this area reflect locale, not a founder or owner of land. For the relevance of this distinction, see Bulliet 2009: 1–41. 12 As a title, mullah connotes literacy for both men and women. People said that Mr. Nikeqbāl preferred to be called “mullah” rather than “Qobād khan,” thereby intentionally emphasizing learning over political power. 13 Until the 1970s villagers were transhumant, but they identified themselves as “Sisakhti”.

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and raided the village, and twice burned it down. But the Sisakhtis did not give up. They divided land and water among the pioneer-families, a division that is holding up to this day. Cooperation (hamkāri) and civility (šaḵṣiat) became cornerstones of their social ethics despite a hard life and poverty, while their “wild (vaḵši) neighbors continued to live like animals,” people said, with violence and internecine strife. The vineyards and orchards of Sisakht not only needed reliable water but also discipline: people had to make sure that children and animals would not destroy the plants or steal the fruit. This discipline was lacking in most other villages, marking civility as an early sign and a sine qua non of progress for Sisakhtis to this day. While other kadḵodās fought for glory, loot and political power, Mullah Qobād brought an agricultural specialist to the village to teach fruit cultivation, and, in 1932, successfully petitioned Reza Shah Pahlavi for a government teacher because he said that the available maktab (religious school) teachers did not provide enough useful education for the children (i.e., at that time, boys). Only with a secular education, he said, would they be able to prosper. In this development Sisakht was pioneering and decades ahead of the rest of Boir Ahmad, but most other settlements in the area followed suit at their own, slower, pace. In the course of the growth and development of the village some families moved out of the crowded original compounds and established hamlets nearby. The most notable of these was the chief’s new compound around a new defense tower in his garden, called “Qalʿeh Markazi” (Central Fort), about one kilometer east of Deh Bozorg. The chief and his paternal relatives lived there with wives and children, riflemen and servants in circumstances combining defense with the pursuit of the Persian ideal of gracious living in dwellings made of dried mud bricks surrounded by trees and flowers. Living conditions changed in all places in Sisakht, though: two-story adobe-houses with living spaces above barns replaced the old, crowded stone-huts. Quilted bedding replaced felt-mats; fireplaces with proper flues, niches built into walls for storage, storm lanterns and pressure lamps, and locally made felt mats, flat weaves and coarsely knotted rugs (gabbeh) on the earthen floors provided comfort, even though the layout of the houses and the material culture remained that of the tents and huts of the people’s recent past. For example, people did not use the wheel and ceramic implements other than the teapot; the only structures made of clay were the fireplace and a henhouse.14 More food became available, although hunger still was endemic and people continued to rely on greens women collected and dried, and on acorns women collected and processed into flour for bread. Women’s access to water

14 For a discussion of changing house forms, see Friedl/Loeffler 1994: 1–44. For a discussion of the changes in material culture in the area, see Loeffler/Friedl/Janata 1974: 61–142.

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improved with the well-tended water channels and with piped water since the early 1970s. Women’s cooking duties got lighter when men took over the chore of making and transporting firewood15 and even more so when kerosene became available (in the 1960s) and gas (in 2004). Poplars planted along water channels provided lumber for building. On their own initiative the people built a bathhouse and a small mosque (in the style of a house) soon after Sisakht was established, provided rooms for schools, and by the 1960s even paid for a street-sweeper because they saw such amenities as necessary for a village to be “good” and for setting an example for other villages. These amenities helped in the organization of social life: compared to other villages, loud discord, violence and crime were nearly absent in Sisakht according to local people and governmental administrators. The traditional gendered division of labor proved successful (although hard on women) and continued: men and women worked at complementary tasks and relied on each other’s contributions to the family economy.16 At the time of the kadḵodās, most of the people’s agricultural products were channeled into fulfilling the demands of the chiefs and their fast-growing families, and for their own large families, in this order. Mullah Qobād, who, people told us, had started out as a “first among equals” soon claimed regular tribute from the villagers.17 Despite the high infant mortality rate, families increased in size. As all sons inherited equally from their fathers, field size per man decreased, arable land became scarce and pastures deteriorated through overgrazing. (According to tribal custom, daughters did not inherit land at all.)18 Cash crops such as, at various times, poppies, tobacco, and sugar beet replaced some wheat but were outlawed (poppy) or abandoned as unprofitable. People became dependent on moneylenders in towns outside the tribal area for necessities such as clothes, tea and sugar. Throughout the 20th century individual families left the village to escape pressures from the chiefs and to find land elsewhere, and men left for seasonal work. Again, with some delay these developments happened throughout the province.

15 Without power-saws, the heavy, hard oak wood must be smashed to break it up. For a history of rural/tribal women of the area, see Friedl 2004: 218–239. 16 For a discussion of the pre-modern subsistence economy, see Friedl 1991: 195–215; Friedl 2006: 475–481. 17 These rose to 1/5 or even 1/3 of a man’s harvest; Mullah Qobād’s successor often demanded more. 18 The logic behind it was that upon marriage a daughter would be taken care of by her husband and that therefore her brothers needed the land to provide for their wives. Recently, with the somewhat less discriminatory Sharia inheritance law, according women half of their brothers’ share of the inheritance, some local women started to claim their inheritance, but this usually leads to bad feelings and fights within a group of siblings. Those who profit from the law ascribe their right to social progress in Iran.

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Although people now, with hindsight, say that Mullah Qobād’s rule had advanced the development of the area and had set an example for other tribal units, they also say that they had resented the chief’s behavior as landlord because it impoverished them and stifled their economic initiative. For example, if the chief needed honey, he demanded it from a beekeeper – in the end it was better for the man to stop keeping bees than to lose the honey. After Mullah Qobād died, local conditions deteriorated. Violence and poverty increased sharply under his successor, ʿAli Nikeqbāl (“Ali Agha”), one of his many grandsons. He allied himself with the then paramount khan, ʿAbdāllāh Ẓarḡāmpour, who had used the power vacuum in Boir Ahmad after Reza Shah’s departure to expand his own local powers quickly. The new kadḵodā behaved like a landlord, with the khan’s support, intimidating and exploiting the people to the point of economic and cultural stagnation. People were afraid of him and his riflemen – anecdotes of swift disappearances into gardens and hidey-holes at the warning cry “The khans are coming!” circulate to this day. Realizing that education would eventually undermine the khans’ autocratic rule, the khan and ʿAli Agha closed schools and dismissed and jailed the teachers around 1941. Only in 1949 one heroic local teacher dared to hold classes again in Sisakht, moved, as he said, by the conviction that progress and the end of tyranny could come only in a literate community. His fellow villagers agreed: for most, the “traditional” power relations prevented modern developments. He survived jail and death threats and became a model for teachers in the following generations. Under the oppressive circumstances emigration increased, mostly to Fars province. People remember this time with horror. Despite oppression, hardships and hunger, the spirit of progress and of civic development lived on as a motivational force in the village. In the late 1950s a literate, charismatic local peasant, ʿAinallāh Muẓaffari, started to take the villagers’ complaints to Tehran. He claimed that the landlord had usurped the tribal land that the founding families had made arable on the basis of shared work and shared rights of use; and that his claim, his rule, and his exploitation were illegal. The khan tried to stop Mr. Muẓaffari by removing him from the village, having him jailed and beaten within an inch of his life, but he did not give up. He continued his fight under great personal sacrifices well into the time of the land reform in the 1960s.19 By then Abdāllāh Khan was dead (assassinated at the behest of the government in 1963), the power of local kadḵodās was waning, and the tribal areas became firmly integrated into the Iranian state. Now “progress” arrived in the village fast.

19 For a description of this man and his time, see Loeffler 1971: 1077–1091.

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After the Land Reform During the land reform (in itself a feature of modernity and, in Sisakht, marked as “progress”) the ownership of cultivated land became even more problematic because Mullah Qobād’s many heirs were fighting among themselves and none could produce documents that would legally prove ownership of the land by the Nikeqbāl family. They saw themselves as landlords but the local people disputed their claim. Under Mr. Muẓaffari’s leadership the villagers successfully used this situation to fight the Nikeqbāls’ claims and to retain the rights to the land by buying titles to the land cheaply. This victory over the would-be landlords confirmed the people’s orientation toward progress as being rooted in education and in the modern national culture. In this case the villagers had formulated “progress” politically as governance based on equal rights in contrast to the dictatorial rule of kadḵodās and khans, but in the process they also had changed the nature of property: formerly tribal communal land and usufruct right vested in families now became a commodity based on titles held by individuals (all men). Disputes over land and water now no longer were relatively inconsequential and confined to what could be grown on the land, but involved valuable property with a cash-value. The change from a local subsistence economy to a market-economy based on cash transformed the economy of fields: men started to sell land to obtain cash to pay for the education of their children, for example, but also for consumer goods. A piece of land now stood for much more than the harvest produced on it. Brothers vied over land suitable for new houses, for example, and for sale. Eventually, around 2000, with the rising population, influx of money through various jobs, and ever-growing aspirations to live in spacious houses surrounded by a garden, so much unplanned development was taking place that the government requested local authorities to regulate land use.20 The “modern” houses were built of reinforced concrete and bricks in line with governmental regulations to minimize earthquake damage; they included several rooms, indoor plumbing with toilets and bathrooms, and kitchens with modern appliances. By 2010, several multi-storied apartment buildings had gone up. Governmental agencies claimed parcels of former communal pasture land to build not only schools and a park for children

20 For example, now a house could be built only along existing roads rather than anywhere in a person’s field. For a similar land-use development in southwest Iran, see Hegland 2011. The village she describes, Aliabad, belonged to legitimate absentee landlords. There, the land-sale and building boom started earlier than in Sisakht and involved urban developers, and by 2008 had resulted in the village developing into a town, and recently the village has become a suburb of Shiraz, a large city some 40 km southeast of Aliabad.

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but also holiday lodges for their employees. The building-development that had started slowly by the late 1960s was accelerating fast from about 1990, when the government declared the Kuh-e-Dena stretch of the Zagros range a “protected zone.” A governmental tourist bureau and brochures praising the natural beauty of the area brought Iranian tourists and mountaineers but not many jobs for local people. However, by 2008 Sisakht had three restaurants (it had none before about 2005), several teashops and two sweetshops, all taken to be signs of a modern way of life, and owned and operated by local men. New wide streets destroyed several old courtyards in the cramped town to make way for cars, as people say. Increasingly, progress presents an unattractive side with pollution and noise, garbage and traffic accidents, and outsiders who come to see the sights, wander around the gardens, and often leave with stolen fruit.

Education and Family Size After the powers of the kadḵodā were broken, i.e., in the mid-1960s, developments that had started earlier happened fast in all spheres of life. Not only did people expand agricultural production into profitable fruit cultivation but they also got more schools, largely staffed by their own sons and daughters who had been among the first graduates from the Tribal Teacher Training School in Shiraz. Unlike teachers from the outside, they liked to live in their village. The education program was a success: people did not mind even sending their daughters to schools where the teachers were relatives or at least came from local families. Already a few years later most children went to school, and parents had to justify to their relatives why they kept a daughter at home, not why they sent her to school. Parents made great sacrifices to enable their children to profit from the nonagricultural possibilities of making a living, first as teachers, later also by sending them to universities. For them, education was the key to progress. As there was no higher education available locally until the 1970s, boys had to study in nearby towns under difficult circumstances, and for girls it was next to impossible to leave the village for higher education, for reasons of propriety. But since about 1990 a girls’ highschool operates in Sisakht as a day-school and boarding school, attracting also girl students from northern Boir Ahmad generally. A nationwide numerus clausus leads to fierce competition for acceptance into university; girlapplicants do better than boys, in Sisakht and nationwide.21 Although de facto

21 See statistics provided by the Iranian Statistical Yearbooks. See also Salehi-Isfahani 2011: 789–806.

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women’s employment in Iran is low and lower yet in the village, young women continue to talk about jobs and good incomes. The first medical and veterinary doctors from the village graduated already in the early 1970s, two men of the chief’s family. The medical doctor became a wellknown ophthalmologist in Tehran, providing a shining role model for village youths. The first female medical doctor graduated in 1992, the daughter of a selftaught peasant. By 2006 the village had produced over 60 university graduates and students in the medical sciences, and scores more in other, less competitive, fields. The push for secular education had started nationwide under the late Shah with the sepāh-e dāneš (Literacy Corps) program that sent army recruits as teachers to underserved rural areas as part of their army duties. It continued even more aggressively in the Islamic Republic with a quota system that lowered scholastic requirements required of urban students in favor of the best rural students, male and female.22 We see this as a support for our assertion that the developments described here for Sisakht are no exception: by governmental design the quota system mitigated the urban/rural and male/female educational divide throughout the country. Sisakht may have taken advantage of these possibilities earlier than other villages, but the possibilities existed for the whole country. Education continues to be a priority for the Islamic government – the Education Ministry sees it as a path to a powerful, modern nation. Since the early 1960s parents in Sisakht sent daughters as well as sons to school. The high rate of school attendance changed the meaning of “childhood” and of economic relations within the family. For example, for girls it raised expectations of employment and of economic independence from husbands. Although in effect only few young women achieved this kind of independence, the expectations and the examples of the few salaried women changed husband/wife relationships for most others. Together with other features of progress such as in health, material circumstances and labor requirements, this raised the status of women and bettered women’s lives within the family and the community, by their own accounts as well as those of physicians and social workers. There are even some instances in the village of women instigating divorces. Although these are not universally lauded in individual cases, the possibility of leaving an abusive husband or abusive in-laws is taken as progress by nearly everybody. However, for women with jobs, the double burden of family and work has not changed much except for opportunities that make housework easier through modern technical amenities. 22 The quota-numbers vary from year to year, and include other categories such as the offspring of veterans of the Iran-Iraq war. In 2013 the fact that more women were admitted to colleges than men based on college entrance examination scores prompted the government to raise the acceptance quota for male applicants.

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Already before the revolution it was no longer socially acceptable to use sons as shepherds, thereby depriving them of the education that might lead to a paying job and an easier life. With the necessity of hiring paid shepherds, husbandry became expensive and unprofitable; men sold their flocks and pursued other ways of creating income in the increasingly diverse local economy. Simultaneously, and like almost everywhere else in Iran, the birth rate started to fall again, after a steep rise after the Revolution.23 To have children became an option rather than an unavoidable necessity, and taking costly care of children beyond simply feeding and clothing them became a sign of progress. By 2002 urban and rural parents alike talked of a power-reversal within the family: children had become the “rulers” of the family, they said, demanding toys, a good education, good food and clothes, costly weddings, start-up capital for a business or a job, and to be provided for by their parents well into adulthood, if need be.24 Both extended education and a low birthrate can be seen as consequences of a collusion of people’s aspirations for an easy, “modern,” lifestyle and governmental planning, affecting almost all communities in Iran. The ideal of small families was fostered by the late Shah’s institution of village clinics staffed by young doctors doing army service (the sepāh-e behdāšt-program). It provided not just drugs and immunization shots but also advice on childcare and hygiene. Although the quality of this health care varied greatly, physicians and staff promoted the idea that progress meant health; that a high infant mortality was a sign of backwardness; and, indirectly, that money could buy good medical services (in cities). It thus strengthened the ties linking health, technology, infrastructure, money, and progress: “Health travels along the road,” said a local woman who had to travel regularly to a city for kidney-dialysis in 2004. The Islamic Republic’s government expanded this health network into a nation-wide public health system. By 2010, in over 17,000 rural clinics medical doctors, nurses, and public-health officers (behvarz) provided, among other things, birth control devices, mother-child clinics and well-baby programs.25 The resulting steady drop in infant mortality and rise in infant health together with the rising cost of childcare and rising ambitions for the standard of living encouraged couples to aim for fewer

23 Iran has the lowest birth rate of any developing nation. See Loeffler/Friedl 2014: 240–255. 24 This pertains mostly to unemployed young adults and unmarried sons and daughters but also may include others. For example, a man from a Sisakhti family with a full university degree declined all job offers, demanding that his parents continue to support him in style because they had insisted on the course of study over his objection. 25 This public health program is so effective that it is copied now for infamously underserved rural Mississippi. (Personal communication by Mohammad Shahbazi.) For a short description of this program and Shahbazi’s work, see Bourne 2010: 12–14.

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children. This drop, in turn, fit with other social developments such as the trend towards nuclear families, neolocality, aspirations for luxury consumer goods, and the break-up of traditional patrilineal groups as economic and political core units of rural society. Although by 2000 people criticized such developments as alienating parents from children and siblings from each other, isolating old people and curtailing cooperation among relatives, they talked about these consequences as a price to be paid for all-important progress. Thereby the ethos of progress that in the past was embedded in interpersonal obligations within kin groups and communities turned into an ideology driving relatives and neighbors apart. People bemoaned this consequence of their drive for betterment – in itself a tradition in this village, as it were – and ascribed to it adverse health effects such as stress, depression, and a sharp increase in heart disease, but we met nobody who would have liked to return to the material conditions of life of past generations.

The Economy of Progress Despite some emigration, Deh Bozorg, Qalʿeh Markazi and two hamlets grew from some 2000 inhabitants in 1965 to over 6200 in 2006, after they had merged into a town called Sisakht. Sisakht now is the administrative, educational, judicial and economic center of a county. Like elsewhere in Iran, the government is the biggest employer but cannot provide jobs for everybody. Even college graduates and professionals find it ever harder to get a paying job. Now more educated young villagers leave the village for jobs in cities than had done so a generation ago.26 The unemployed young men stay close to home, unable to get married and live like “normal” adults, as people say, i.e., with the adult responsibilities of caring for a wife and children. They feel left out of the development. Unemployed, unmarried young women stay at home as a matter of course. Parents of young women express anxiety over their daughters’ chances of good husbands or even for getting married at all. As for the past twenty years the influence of the media, of emigrants who come home for visits, and of outsiders who work in Sisakht in education, banking and various administrative positions, ever more firmly linked the place to the national culture and to international ways of life, most people learned to subscribe to a national ethos of progress and to achieving and expressing it. In the 26 For example, by 2012 at least five of these, a student, an engineer, an optometrist and two medical doctors, had emigrated to Canada, the United States and Malaysia, illustrating the brain drain from Iran. Several others visit Europe, Australia, Canada and Asian countries regularly as professionals, on business, and on vacations.

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tribal area, tribal identity linked to local “traditions” (rosum-e maḥalli) provides some variation to the form this development takes: for example, after about 2000 women of the tribal elite at weddings started to dress in expensive, color-coordinated neo-traditional costumes of several wide, long skirts and a long shirt, and tribal musicians provided expensive traditional music for the tribal round-dances of old.27 These traditional dances that earlier had taken the form of a circle of women in a public space in the village, now included both sexes together in a large circle performing in the privacy of a big courtyard or of a secluded spot outdoors, away from the village. “Progress” here lies in the re-invention of a tribal tradition. After about 1970, although nobody looked down on farmers, an informal social hierarchy developed locally based on cash income and the ease by which one made a living: white collar jobs were declared to be “better” than jobs requiring physical work. This, too, seems to be a national trend. By 2006 in Sisakht only a handful of families derived the main income from farming; most cultivated some land, especially high-yielding apple-orchards and vineyards, but had other sources of income as well.28 With income from various enterprises, greatly augmented by bank-loans backed by the government, by 2006 people could fulfill many of their “progressive” aspirations such as for large houses with modern amenities, travel,29 luxury goods and even cars. As there is, however, no upper limit to one’s wishes, people said, the spiraling aspirations in lifestyle and the high unemployment especially of young people are leading to high levels of stress in families everywhere, and especially among young men. Folk-medicine practitioners ascribe endemic drug use, heart disease and depression to this stress, in Sisakht as well as in Iran generally. In the post-revolutionary economy most families in Sisakht started to overspend in order to keep up with modern technologies, amenities, and conspicuous consumption.30 Strategies for securing loans, lucrative jobs and work-contracts

27 This neo-traditionalism also included the bridal costume that almost anywhere else in Iran is the international, ubiquitous “Western” white wedding dress. Music and dances were severely restricted after the revolution of 1979 but have recently made a modified comeback locally. 28 It is noteworthy that the fruit growers organized transport to urban markets themselves, cutting out middle men and ensuring timely delivery of perishable produce. The ever-expanding network of public roads facilitates speedy travel. 29 The wish to travel is universal in Iran. Various agencies organize subsidized pilgrimages within Iran and to Iraq and Saudi Arabia. In 2006 a local joke predicted a name change from Sisakht to “Hāji-ābād” (Hāji-Village) because “everybody” there had made the pilgrimage to Mekka. 30 As Iran’s economy is largely based on oil-export, the government directly and indirectly provides for people’s incomes. This demonstrably leads to inflation and to economic stagnation, especially when the oil price falls.

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that elsewhere would be called corruption have become a way of life throughout the country.31 They divide successful/“strong” people from unsuccessful/“weak” ones, based on a traditional admiration of all that is strong and successful, without much regard to the ethical qualities of the source of this strength and the ways and means of the strategies employed. Thus, for example, people say that honest but poor young men have difficulties getting married because young women refuse to marry a man who does not “make progress.” The attainment of success divides cohorts: a jobless young man who can persuade his parents to provide for him and a wife, will find a wife because he shows will, tenacity and parental (monetary) support, unlike his cousin whose low, fixed salary in a government office or his opium-habit brand him as a loser; a young woman who brazenly manipulates relatives into arranging a job for her demonstrates superiority over her polite, unemployed cousins; a young professional with a small government salary who uses his contacts boldly to secure loans for a (profitable) fish pond is on his way to success, unlike his cousin who makes do with his salary in the same profession, getting nowhere, as people say.32 To succeed, to make progress in Iran’s economy has become impossible without severe overwork (e. g., by pursuing several jobs simultaneously or working sixty and more hours per week, as a local surgeon does), or the employment of ethically questionable strategies. Young parents told us already in 2000 that they felt they had to choose between educating their children in the spirit of traditional Persian values of modesty, honesty, compassion, loyalty and hard work, thereby risking that the children would be unsuccessful as adults, and encouraging them to adopt a consumerist, aggressive and competitive attitude that would make them successful. The requirements of success necessitate taking advantage of every opportunity one can find or create to make a profitable career. People use the word, “majbur” (forced, obliged) when talking about their economic pursuits. Progress has become costly in more than the material sphere. Already in 2006, just about everybody in the town complained about increasing pressure and stress. The young complained that competition in education, lack of jobs, and difficulties in the marriage market made them anxious and dissatisfied; their parents complained because they found it increasingly difficult to perform their  

31 This, like the definition of progress itself, is neither confined to Iran nor much different from such strategies elsewhere. It leads to several kinds of simultaneously accessible economies. This process is not described or analyzed in terms of its social or any other ramifications. See Smith 2008. 32 Such loans are designed to provide capital for the planned enterprise but, tacitly, are also used to cover household expenses and costly consumer goods. Such loans and contracts in effect work like pyramid schemes.

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parental duties and to stretch their income to keep up with their children’s demands and with the neighbors; old people said they felt neglected and alienated, if not altogether poor. Ultimately, frustrations over the obstacles in the path to progress also accelerate the brain drain from Iran. “If I really want to make progress, I will have to leave”, a young local physician summed up the sentiment. Nostalgically, people said the community’s ethos had shifted away from mutual support and respect, civic spirit and caring for one’s extended family – “everybody” was after money and his or her own advancement now. As a pious old peasant said in 2006, “Our mosque then was a small old house but we were good Muslims. Now we have two big mosques but we have lost caring and kindness (delsuzi; ʿāṭefeh, mehrabāni).”33 What people had cherished as quintessentially Persian and Islamic qualities, such as empathy, generosity and humility, for them now seem to disappear in the pursuit of the good life that has become the aim and goal of modernity. Yet, realists that they are, in their memories they do not fashion their traditions into a Golden Age, nor do they underestimate the cost of their progress toward a hedonist, golden future that keeps receding as they pursue it.

Bibliography Barker, Paul (1981): “Tent Schools of the Qashqa’i: A Paradox of Local Initiative and State Control.” In Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change, edited by Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie. New York: 139–158. Beck, Lois (2004): “Qashqa’i Women in Postrevolutionary Iran.” In Women in Iran, edited by Lois Beck and Guity Nashat. Urbana, Ill.: 240–278. Bourne, Joel K. (2010): “Iranian Cure for the Delta Blues.” AARP Bulletin (July–August): 12–14. Bulliet, Richard, W. (2009): Cotton, Climate, and Camels. New York. Fasāʾi, Hassan b. H. (1314/1896): Tāriḵ-e Fārsnāmeh-ye Nāṣeri. Shiraz. Friedl, Erika (1991): “Spheres of Action in Rural Iran.” In Women in Middle Eastern History, edited by Nikki R. Keddie and Beth Baron. New Haven and London: 195–215. Friedl, Erika (2004): “Rural Women’s History.” In Women in Iran from Medieval Times to the Islamic Republic, edited by Lois Beck and Guity Nashat. Urbana, Ill.: 218–239. Friedl, Erika (2006): “Old Plants and New Woman in the Zagros Mountains, Iran.” In Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress of Ethnobotany, edited by Z. Füsun Ertuğ. Istanbul: 475–481. Friedl, Erika (2009): “New Friends: Gender Relations within the Family.” Iranian Studies 42(1): 28–43.

33 For a discussion of the interpersonal dynamics in this ideology, see Salehi-Isfahani 2011: 789–806; Friedl 2009: 28–43. This trend in interpersonal relations is not confined to the village or the tribal area. It is discussed widely in Iran.

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Friedl, Erika / Loeffler, Agnes (1994): “The Ups and Downs of Dwellings in a Village in West Iran.” Archiv für Völkerkunde 48: 1–44. Friedl, Erika / Loeffler, Reinhold (2013): “Archaeology and Cultural Memory in Boir Ahmad, Southern Zagros, Iran.” Archiv für Völkerkunde (Archiv Weltmuseum Wien) 61–62: 183–231. Gaechter, Afsaneh (2011): “Medicine and Anthropology: The Austrian Physician J.E. Polak (1818– 1891).” Paper delivered at the 7th Conference of the Societas Iranologica Europaea, September 7–10. Cracow. Grigor, Talinn (2004): “Recultivating ‘Good Taste’: The Early Pahlavi Modernists and Their Society for National Heritage.” Iranian Studies 37(1): 17–45. Hegland, Mary Elaine (2011): “Aliabad of Shiraz: Transformation from Village to Suburban Town.” Anthropology of the Middle East 6(2): 21–37. Hegland, Mary Elaine (2014): Days of Revolution: Political Unrest in an Iranian Village. Stanford. Hegland, Mary Elaine / Friedl, Erika (2007): “Methods Applied: Political Transformation and Recent Ethnographic Fieldwork in Iran.” Anthropology of the Middle East 1(2): 1–19. Hobsbawm, Eric (1983): The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge. Hourcade, Bernard (2010): “The Making of a New Society in Rural Iran.” Paper read at the 8th International Society of Iranian Studies Conference, May. San Diego CA. Kian-Thiébaut, Azadeh (1999): “Political and Social Transformations in Post-Islamist Iran.” Middle East Report 29(212): 12–19. Loeffler, Agnes G. / Friedl, Erika (2014): “The Birthrate Drop in Iran.” Homo: The Journal of Comparative Human Biology 65(3): 240–255. Loeffler, Reinhold (1971): “The Representative Mediator and the New Peasant.” American Anthropologist 73(5): 1077–1091. Loeffler, Reinhold (2011): “The Ethos of Progress in a Village in Iran.” Anthropology of the Middle East 6(2): 1–13. Loeffler, Reinhold / Friedl, Erika / Janata, Alfred (1974): “Die materielle Kultur von Boir Ahmad, Südiran.” Archiv für Völkerkunde 28: 61–142. Mitchell, Colin. P (2009): The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran. London. Ringer, Monica M. (2013): Education, Religion, and the Discourse of Cultural Reform in Qajar Iran. 2nd ed., Costa Mesa. Salehi-Isfahani, Djavad (2011): “Iranian Youth in Times of Economic Crisis.” Iranian Studies 44 (6): 789–806. Shahbazi, Mohammad (1998): Formal Education, Schoolteachers, and Ethnic Identity among the Qashqa’i of Iran. Washington. Smith, Daniel J. (2008): A Culture of Corruption: Everyday Deception and Popular Discontent in Nigeria. New Jersey.

Part III: Social Change in the Mirror of Art

Katja Föllmer

The Rebellious Man and the Courageous Woman: Social Criticism and Gender Relations in Iranian Film Production before and after the Islamic Revolution Abstract: Since the beginning of indigenous film production in the 1930s, Iranian film has developed into an internationally acknowledged cultural phenomenon. Before 1979, Iranian feature films and movies were often no more than poor imitations of foreign ones. Even in Iran, success often remained limited. The rise of new critical attitudes in Persian literature in the 1960s, however, had a great impact on the visual media of the time – an important factor in Iranian film production up to the present. The Islamization of Iranian cultural politics after 1979 did not simply lead to a complete break with existing traditions of representation, but it made way for a conscious use of the visual media, which now had to convey new values and, as a result, developed new modes of expression. The female roles in particular were subject to cultural supervision. They received a great deal of attention and became objects of critical analysis. Furthermore, female filmmakers gradually gained acceptance in a hitherto male-dominated profession and they, for their part, had a great impact on the development of the visual messages and critical concerns – an achievement that brought them much credit internationally. This paper contributes to the discussion of continuities and discontinuities in the perception of modernity and tradition among intellectuals through a comparative analysis of Iranian films before and after 1979. It highlights the process of negotiation between imagined “modern” or “Western” concepts and Iranian “realities” and needs, which takes place in the making of Iranian films. The analysis focuses on the differences and similarities in the representation of gender and forms of critical expression by comparing the Iranian films Qeyṣar (1969) and Rusari-ābi (The Blue Scarf, 1994) with Hollywood movies of the same period. The representation of gender roles, social community and religion as well as the use of symbols are examined in order to determine changes in social understanding and visual representation. The paper ends with a discussion of the impact of the Iranian Revolution of 1979 on the representation of gender, negotiation of values and social criticism in Iranian movies in relation to “Western” concepts.

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-007

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After the publication of Āl-e Aḥmad’s treatise on the “Westoxication” of Iranian society in 1962 and its critique of “Western” values at the latest, Iranian artists and filmmakers had to face the question of how to deal with such criticism in their film projects. Seen as a genuinely “Western” product, film expressed and conveyed “Western” cultural norms. It played a crucial role in the modernization process during the Pahlavi era, when “Western” norms and values were widely considered “modern”. The Hollywood film industry had dominated Iranian cinematography for a long time, and the simple adaptation of popular Hollywood films had led to the emergence of the commercial so-called film-farsi in Iran. To use this “Western” medium as a means to criticise “modern” and “traditional” structures was a challenge for Iranian intellectuals and artists. The films chosen for the present study are not of the same genre. It is not the aim here to discuss the development and characteristics of Iranian film genres before and after the Iranian Revolution.1 The analysis focuses on film as a means of making a discursive contribution to the dialectical process of determining the meaning and significance of “das Eigene (the indigenous)” and “das Fremde (the extraneous)”. Even though the Iranian examples appear to be very different from the American films that are considered genuine models of modern values and lifestyle, they have adapted certain methods and tools from the foreign model in order to criticize Iranian traditional cultural norms and conventions. Iranian filmmakers crossed conventional genre boundaries for the purpose of social criticism and created something new. The commercial success of Iranian movies may be an indicator for the “Zeitgeist” before and after the Revolution. Their images illustrate the specific flaws, contradictions, needs and hopes of a society seeking to find its way between a “Western” way of life and traditional conventions. This goes in tandem with the development of a genuine Iranian model of visual expression, symbols and meaning which deals with the conflict between “modern” and “traditional”, the individual and the community, as well as with gender representation. Gender representation and relationships form an integral part of the concepts of religion and community. While in the Pahlavi period (1925–1979), religious traditional forces still favoured a patriarchal social system with conventional gender roles, the government promoted a modern idea of society with a more equal social position for women. Women were allowed access to education and public life. The official prohibition of the veil in 1936, which ignored religious feelings and conventions of honor and shame, created conflicts and popular

1 Systematic research on Iranian film genres is still at an early stage, most studies focus on author-centered analysis.

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protests, especially under Reza Shah (1925–1941), and slowed down the modernization program in Iranian society. Although the secularly oriented Pahlavi dynasty conceded to women new rights and more freedom, this did not much weaken the dominant position of men in traditional Shiite society, as Upton argued as early as 1960.2 The legal status of Iranian women in particular did not change until the second half of the 1960s under Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, when the Family Protection Law was introduced. Even though the new rights afforded modern urban middle-class women a more active, participatory lifestyle inspired by modern ways of life, patriarchal culture and customs still dominated Iranian society, and gender inequality continued both among traditional social strata and the westernized, educated middle class.3 The following analysis and comparison of Iranian films argues that Iranian society before the Islamic Revolution represented a more traditional, patriarchal order informed by religious beliefs. As Friedland notes, family and faith were considered the pillars of the social order. In post-revolutionary Iran, on the other hand, the social and political participation of women was not a result of patriarchal power, but of the primacy of the family.4

Society, Religion and Gender Relations before the Revolution The Traditional Role of the luṭis In Pahlavi Iran, the conflict between the need for modernization and the prevalence of traditional structures and values dominated the discourse in Iranian society. Tough-guy movies became a flourishing genre during the 1950s.5 In the 1960s in particular, with an increasing social gap between rural and urban populations, such conflicts became a favourite subject in Iranian films.6 Even though the social functions and status of the luṭis (rowdies) were not static, and they did not constitute a unified and homogenous body, their role as archetypal defenders of traditional values and champions of justice for women and underdogs dominated the luṭi movies. The tough guys did not represent the peasantry

2 3 4 5 6

Upton 1960: 110. Kian-Thiébaut 1998: 144–148. Friedland 2002: 398–399. Naficy 2011/2012: 2:261. Sadr 2006: 90–98.

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or the poor rural population; rather, they were bandits or rebels who wanted to restore the traditional order of Iranian society and publicly showed self-sacrifice, truthfulness, loyalty, and piety.7 Each city quarter had its own group of luṭis. Some of them were dancers and musicians, but the archetype of the luṭi was the man in the street of lower-class, urban origin, who combined chivalry with chicanery. He was the standard-bearer of traditional values against the modernization policy of the establishment. As the most significant character in prerevolutionary Iranian films, he was the ideal of masculinity who rejected individual material goals.8 Luṭis made use of special words, expressions and cant. The luṭi attitude was mirrored in their actions, and their outward appearance was marked by recognizable attributes, such as trousers with undersized legs, a special chain made in Yazd, a knife made in Isfahan, and shoes worn like slippers. In their own neighborhoods, the luṭis aimed to make a reputation for themselves as generous men, maintaining law and order with the financial support of their rich patrons, and acting independently of government officials. Furthermore, they had strong ties to the clergy. They organized religious festivities, went on pilgrimages, and took good care of the reputation of their neighborhood. Outside their district, on the other hand, the luṭis felt free to harass and even rob people.9 These functions and characteristics of the luṭi also affected gender relations in the public space as dictated by the traditional social order. According to traditional values, the honor of the family was particularly dependent on the integrity of its female members.10

Qeyṣar (1969) Naficy notes that the film Qeyṣar turned the movies about the luṭis and their lifestyle into an immensely popular genre with its own specific affinities, aesthetics, politics, and stars. In his opinion, the validation of familiar conventions was a reason for the film’s popularity and the success of the genre.11 The luṭi as protector and defender of a family’s honour is the subject of the film Qeyṣar. The (then) young film director Masʿud Kimiyāʾi took on the topic of the luṭi-subculture in his second feature film which was screened in 1969. The plot is based on a true

7 Floor 1981: 84; Naficy 2011/2012: 2:266–269. 8 Sadr 2006: 111–112. 9 Floor 1981: 87–90. 10 On the tough guy as a social formation, see Naficy 2011/2012: 2:266–269. 11 Naficy 2011/2012: 2:261–262.

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story. On his return home from a journey Qeyṣar, a young man whose father had left him and his brother Farmān a butcher’s shop, finds out that his sister Fāṭi(ma) committed suicide after being raped, and that his brother was murdered when he tried to hold the violator to account. When he is told that the three Āq Mangol brothers were responsible for the crimes, Qeyṣar feels the need to avenge his sister and brother and so restore the honour of his family. He kills the three brothers one by one thus bypassing the judicial system. Finally, Qeyṣar himself gets shot by the police like an ordinary criminal. Even though Kimiyāʾi only had a small budget for this film project, he was able to capture the interest of the already famous artist Behruz Voṯuqi for the leading role. Voṯuqi even took out a private loan to pay the production costs of the film.12 Initially, the film’s release was complicated, and nobody in the film business believed that Kimiyāʾi’s new film would be a success. In Voṯuqi’s view, Iranian people at that time went to the cinema to watch American comedies rather than Iranian dramas,13 but with the adaptation of a true story from Iranian society and the casting of popular artists, Kimiyāʾi appealed to the taste of the Iranian masses. While the legal progress of equalizing gender relationships took place in Iran in the 1960s, the film’s director focused on the traditional, lower-class family as an important element of Iranian urban society. With his second film, Kimiyāʾi distanced himself from the state propaganda for modernization, the influence of Western values, and the prevailing tenor of the Iranian film industry. Rather, he turned to the problems of ordinary Iranian people caught between traditional values and modern structures. In this respect, the film Qeyṣar shows a vivid picture of violence perpetrated by male members of two different families in a bazaar quarter as a traditional practice in the name of family honour (nāmus), when support from the judicial system is lacking. The film’s portrayal of a family whose male head—the traditional source of authority—is dead, does not represent an intact social order in the traditional sense. Qeyṣar’s mother cannot manage the family’s affairs without the help of her two sons and her brother. The disaster begins with the rape and suicide of her daughter, Fāṭi. The brothers Farmān and Qeyṣar are not able to react expediently. Their uncle and mother cannot prevent them from taking revenge to restore the family’s honour. Farmān soon becomes the victim of his own blind rage. Qeyṣar’s revenge is eventually successful, but because of the deaths of his sister Fāṭi, his brother Farmān, and his mother, the family has ceased to exist.

12 Zerāʿati 2004: 133–136. 13 Zerāʿati 2004: 137–140.

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The female characters represent different generations. The mother and a domestic worker belong to the older generation.14 They are illiterate and adhere to a high moral standard understood as traditional. They are pious women, as is shown by their wearing the veil and their praying. With respect to men’s actions, they are passive and have only little influence. Qeyṣar’s highly emotional mother is always seen to be on her brother’s side. The younger generation, represented by the daughter Fāṭi and her friend Aʿẕam, are still students.15 They depend on their families’, and in particular their male relatives’, support. Their brothers usually take care of them. When Fāṭi is in the house of her friend without the presence of a relative, she comes to harm. Another type of woman is represented by the singer Soheylā. She has adopted a modern way of life, albeit an immoral one, working in the dubious environment of a night club.16 Even though she has a more active role, her immoral behaviour and low social status are obvious. In contrast to the film-fārsi cinema of Pahlavi Iran, where female roles are usually informed by male-oriented wishes and amusement, Qeyṣar pictures them sparingly. In addition, women have only small speaking roles, and they are not strongly characterized in the film. This means that the female characters are not perceived as individuals, but can easily be seen to represent general “female” qualities. Thus, with the exception of Soheylā, the women in Qeyṣar represent innocence and purity. The mother’s illiteracy and the daughter’s youth make the presence of a male authority figure as a protector seem inevitable. In addition to their exclusive association with the private space, Kimiyāʾi portrays women as passive and dependent on men. The male characters dominate the plot by their actions. Qeyṣar’s brother Farmān is motivated by his rage at the fate of his sister. He begins a hand-to-hand fight with the three Āq Mangol brothers and is killed by them. Qeyṣar also feels

14 The mother, with headscarf and chador, is highly emotional. She does not want Qeyṣar to take revenge. She wants him to marry and to continue the business of his brother. The mother dies suddenly before Qeyṣar’s return from Mashhad. The domestic worker employed by Qeyṣar’s family is a pious, chador-wearing old woman with whom Qeyṣar travelled to Mashhad. 15 Fāṭi, a young and beautiful girl, is a student. She was learning in the house of her friend Aʿẕam. Despite of her protective veil and her resistance Manṣur Āq Mangol bothered and violated her. Her suicide was the reason for Qeyṣar’s actions. The young girl Aʿẕam is a friend of Fāṭi and Qeyṣar’s. Outside her home, her head and body are usually covered by a chador. She wears European clothes like a knee-length skirt and high boots, but without a scarf. She loves Qeyṣar and wants to live with him. 16 The singer Soheylā is the lover of Manṣur Āq Mangol. Qeyṣar contacts her to find him and to accomplish his revenge. Qeyṣar meets her in a night club where she is singing and dancing lasciviously. She speaks vulgar street slang. Qeyṣar follows her into her room. When she takes her clothes off, Qeyṣar does not notice it.

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intuitively bound by tradition to take revenge. Like a chivalrous luṭi he gives priority to the restoration of the family honour. His rage and fury make him rebellious towards law and rationality. Qeyṣar does not think about his own future, marriage and the raising of a family. He is unable to entertain modern notions of an individual life, which in his view are egoistic. Thus, he becomes a lonely fighter for justice. However, his fate is tragic: Although he is characterized as a faithful and moral young man, the existing social and political circumstances, his intuitive and irrational reactions, his traditional attitude, and the lack of legal support criminalize him. The use of the popular tough-guy genre and the quality of representing gender, religion and society in Qeyṣar explain the commercial success of the film but not gender representation as a cultural non-generic feature. Therefore, I will briefly look beyond that genre. Qeyṣar has some parallels with another Iranian new-wave film, the allegorical story Gāv (The Cow, 1969), directed by Dāriuš Mehrjuʾi.17 This film, like Qeyṣar, was a non-commercial production, and it mainly received attention from intellectual circles. However, Gāv was awarded second prize in the first Iranian film festival in 1970.18 According to Hillman, the film represents typical village life, superstition, fatalism and wariness of the world.19 Gāv is not only one of the first Iranian films based on a work by a contemporary Iranian author, but also the result of the cooperation of a short story writer, Ḡolāmḥosayn Sāʿedi, with a filmmaker.20 Even though Gāv cannot be regarded as representative of genuine gender roles in Iran, the choice of female characters as passive observers without any impact on the plot on the one hand, and male dominance, however emotional, irrational, inexperienced and awkward, on the other, characterize both films. The women are old and presumably illiterate. They symbolize superstition, whereas the male characters generally represent the social and political actors of the country. Ḥasan, the proud owner of the only cow in the village, gets problems with his sense of reality after he loses his beloved cow. He does not get the necessary support from the village community and its leading figures. The chief of the village, the cleric, and a young intellectual cannot react appropriately to the permanent threat from outside (the plunderers) and the loss of the only valuable animal in the village. Rather, they try to restore Ḥasan’s mental health with dubious methods. Instead of recovering, Ḥasan becomes increasingly irrational and crazy (thus symbolizing rebellion against the unchangeable status quo), until he dies. 17 18 19 20

On the innovations of the film, see Naficy 2011/2012: 336–349. Naficy 2011/2012: 2:336. Hillman 1982: 16. Naficy 1985: 237.

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Qeyṣar and Gāv both deal with religious issues. In Qeyṣar, religion and belief are represented as a given part of everyday life for both male and female characters. The veiled women, the pilgrimage to Mashhad, the prayer of Qeyṣar at the shrine, and the males’ protection of female relatives demonstrate common, gender-specific forms of religiosity among the “good” characters, underlining their moral attitude. The Āq Mangol brothers and Soheylā do not seem to have any connection with religion and belief. This gives them a negative connotation. In Gāv, the village cleric merely has a representative role. He is not portrayed as a person fulfilling religious rituals and duties, whereas the women perform their superstitious rituals for the recovery of Ḥasan as part of a gender-related differentiation in the sphere of religion and belief. The whole village community seems to be generally familiar with folk rituals, whereas the ominous outsiders are not shown to have any affiliation to religion. Their shadowlike appearance makes them somewhat unreal and dubious. Collective consciousness in Qeyṣar and Gāv is represented in different ways. In Qeyṣar, the individual defines himself through his family connections. In Gāv, the village people have to be united to contribute to Ḥasan’s recovery and to protect their village against outsiders. Kinship and individual relationships are not important. The films not only show thematic parallels concerning popular belief, social criticism, and hostility, but in both films women constitute an obviously passive part of the social group, while the restoration of the family’s honour in Qeyṣar and the decision-making process after the death of the cow in Gāv, devolve on the male figures. Even though the tough-guy genre, in regard to its characters, is the most indigenous Iranian film genre, Kimiyāʾi borrows from the style of classical American westerns.21 Characteristic aspects of the representation of social and gender relations in Qeyṣar become evident when we compare it with the American film High Noon (1952), directed by Fred Zinnemann. Even though it is not a typical American Western, High Noon offers some parallels with and contrasts to the Iranian film. The main plot is similar to Qeyṣar. The individual Bill Kane fights alone against criminals. He does not primarily act in his own interest; rather, he has the ambition to restore public order. Whereas Kane gives priority to the protection of the city’s community, Qeyṣar takes revenge for the public humiliation of his family. Both characters seek to do justice where the state judiciary fails. Kane is an official agent of the city, Qeyṣar the head of his family. Eventually both

21 Naficy hints at some stylistic aspects in Kimiyāʾi’s film Dāš Ākol (1971); see Naficy 2011/2012: 2:271.

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are successful, but while Kane leaves the city as a highly respected citizen, Qeyṣar is arrested like an ordinary criminal. Both films also deal with religious affiliation. High Noon subordinates religion to the idea of social community. Kane is a Protestant who does not go to church and marries a Quaker woman. In Qeyṣar, Islam is an unspoken and self-evident reality in a traditional family. The pilgrimage to and prayers at the shrine of Mashhad emphasize Qeyṣar’s claims to morality and his good intentions. Kane’s moral claim, on the other hand, becomes apparent when he takes responsibility for the community regardless of his faith and individual interest. In High Noon, traditional structures are also present. The husband is the breadwinner of the family, and the proponent of rational arguments concerning its maintenance. Generally, the wives are not illiterate and have a certain understanding of proper social behaviour, but they cannot influence their husbands and are incapable of arguing with them, so that they are dependent on the male breadwinner. The women, therefore, are not represented as independent members of society with the exception of the saloon dancer. Her morality in High Noon is as questionable as Soheylā’s in Qeyṣar. Both figures constitute a social outsider. They live independently and act only for their own sake. Another exceptional character, who has no counterpart in the Iranian film Qeyṣar, is Kane’s young wife. Although she appears to be subordinate to her husband—perhaps because of her young age, lack of experience and her respect for him—, she is able to make her own decisions because of her obvious economic independence. The Quaker wife’s fundamental independence of mind and her participation in the final battle does not prevent the director from giving her typically feminine attributes (her behaviour as well as her dresses are “feminine”). Thus, instead of giving her equal status, the film director makes her physically and psychologically inferior to her husband. In summary, it can be said that conventional notions of gender relations are found in all three films. The male characters represent the more active, experienced and more or less powerful element of the community. The contribution of the female characters to the plot—and to society—is depicted as being of minor importance. For the Iranian directors, the family, or at least a small social unit in a village, plays a key role in the storyline. As an allegory for Iranian society, the film Gāv portrays a relatively well-coordinated and functional, but inflexible community where, with the exception of Ḥasan, all members have their unchangeable positions. Therefore, the community is unable to react appropriately and to deal with threats from outside. The idea in Qeyṣar is similar. The moral and religious attitudes, the subordination of private interests, and the eventual success of the revenge do not lead to a restoration of the social unit. In both films the barrier of social conventions has not been overcome. No solution is offered to get

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out of the dilemma. The general attitude of the film directors and authors is pessimistic, reflecting the social atmosphere in late Pahlavi Iran. Religious conflicts are excluded from the story in the Iranian films. Religion and religious rituals are represented as an unquestionable part of the life of the social community. The American director also touches on religious issues (e. g. attending a church or marriage between people of different confessions). Based on American national attitudes, the main purpose here is to strengthen the notion of a multi-religious community, where private aims, kinship and the family should be subordinated to the interests of society as a whole. In this way, it becomes strong and capable of dealing with attacks. The general outlook is positive, even though the main character is disappointed with the reaction of the other citizens. The hero embodies only positive characteristics and is able to finish his mission successfully, albeit he does not fulfil the conventional religious duties. The citizens do not deserve to have him as their guardian any longer, and Kane finally leaves them. This positive view of moral behaviour as well as the satisfactory ending (the criminals are dead and the community is successfully defended) offer the audience a solution through the stylized and imitable character of the hero, a feature often found in American commercial films.  

Meaning and Use of Shared Symbols The films discussed here have a few shared symbols. Both Qeyṣar and High Noon use the symbol of the train and tracks. The train and the tracks are central elements of the dramatization of locality and timing. Qeyṣar arrives in his hometown by train at a well-frequented railway station. The train carries him to the place of revenge. He does not use any other means of transportation until the end of the film. In the last scenes of Qeyṣar, the hero is again on the tracks. This time, however, he is not sitting in a train and arriving at a much-frequented station. Now, the place is abandoned, and Qeyṣar is following his rival on foot. Both location and tracks symbolize Qeyṣar’s situation and that of his rival at the end of the story. Like a train, his fate takes its dramatic and inevitable course: towards prison or death. The same symbols are used in High Noon. Kane’s mission and fate depend on the arrival of a train at noon. The railway and the city’s railway station symbolize Kane’s inevitable and imminent confrontation with the criminals. Locality becomes meaningful with respect to gender in both Qeyṣar and High Noon. Public spaces are the centres of action for the male character. Qeyṣar is sitting in the train, is going through the streets of his quarter, enters a public bath, a big and modern butcher’s shop, a tea house, a modern nightclub, and finally he arrives at an abandoned railway station. Except for the nightclub and the “immor-

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al” and vulgar singer, the morally “good” female actors are generally found in the safety of private houses, places of pilgrimage, or accompanied by male protectors. When walking alone in public space, the woman moves fast and is covered with a long black veil which hides her face. The public spaces presented in High Noon are the Sheriff’s office, the saloon and the church, as well as the streets and the railway station. Although in theory, these spaces are also accessible to women, a wife’s activities are limited to the church and private houses. The saloon singer remains in the environment of the saloon, and the only female actor who is everywhere is Kane’s wife. When she is present at dubious locations such as the saloon, or when sitting alone in the railway station, she therefore crosses conventional boundaries. However, Kane’s wife does not need male protection and always maintains a moral and pure character, whereas the saloon singer gives rise to doubts as to her moral intentions by her pessimistic and egoistic behaviour. A special device that is used in High Noon to bring the plot to a climax is the time structure, and the use of the clock in short sequences. This leads the spectator to empathize with the heroes. Time does not play a significant role in the film Qeyṣar. For the film’s narrative structure only the chronological order of the story line is important, and the hero’s revenge is sufficient to convey the plot. As the comparison has shown, the Iranian and American films use similar symbols, albeit giving them a different meaning. In the 1960s and 1970s, Iranian film directors found new ways of visual expression and representation of particularly Iranian issues, which stood in contrast to the increasing “Westoxication” of Iranian society. This becomes particularly obvious in the importance and quality of representing gender roles and religious aspects as well as in the use of space and time. The examples of pre-revolutionary popular and intellectual movies discussed here reveal a conscious—and up to now successful—strategy to adopt foreign film techniques and narratives, while avoiding many conventions governing films from the West.

Changes in Post-Revolutionary Iran The cases of Qeyṣar and Gāv demonstrate the development of Iranian films into a distinct medium of social criticism. Both examples, one by using the popular tough-guy genre, the other by representing the intellectual film art or “countercinema”,22 are part of the modernization process of Iranian film production. The

22 Naficy 2011/2012: 2:340.

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filmmakers sought to preserve indigenous films from the influence of Hollywood cinema and created an allegorical language to mark social and political deficiencies and to deal with official taboos. They thus expressed their opposition to the government and the foreign influence on Iranian society. The analysis of representations of gender in the movies of the late Pahlavi era uncovers a patriarchal and hierarchical order and corroborates Naficy’s insights: The range of gender types was limited and circulated as stereotypes in both popular and high culture. Independent women were usually portrayed as wicked. Only when dependent on men could they be pure and good.23 As Naficy pointed out, this was in contrast to social reality: many women had already entered the public sphere, especially in the later Pahlavi era. Only the filmic stereotypes remained, thus avoiding any threat to a male-dominated society.24 After 1979, the state’s Islamic culture policy required that the visual modes of expression be brought in line with the ethical and moral values and principles of official Islam. This particularly concerned the representation of gender relations and dress codes in Iranian films. As a first result, the scope of female roles was reduced to minor parts as mothers or sisters. Love relationships were generally avoided. A few years later, an increasing number of female filmmakers entered the hitherto male-dominated profession. Themes of love and romance, which had been absent in films between 1979 and the late 1980s, began to be explored in the movies. The films did not only highlight spiritual and mystical love, but also heterosexual relationships.25 One of the first female film directors who addressed these themes in her films was Raḵšān Bani Eʿtemād. She made the stereotypical range of female roles expand gradually into more realistic representations from the late 1980s onwards. She successfully combined social criticism with innovations in the representation of gender and love-relationships. Her film The Blue Scarf (Rusari-ābi, 1994) was one of the first nationally and internationally awardwinning films with a woman in the leading role. The film was celebrated as a great achievement of Iranian cinematography. It tells the story of Cinderella in an Iranian style. There are many variations of this fairy tale all over the world. Each decade of the second half of the 20th century has its popular and modern adaptation of the old story, for instance the German-Czechoslovakian co-production Three Wishes for Cinderella (1973), the French-Italian co-production Cinderella 80 (1983), or

23 Naficy 2011/2012: 4:96–97. 24 Naficy 2011/2012: 4:97–98. 25 Naficy 2011/2012: 4:139–140.

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Walt Disney’s Animation films Cinderella (1950, 2002, 2007).26 Some years before Bani Eʿtemād’s film went on screen, the Hollywood production Pretty Woman (1991), directed by Garry Marshall, attracted international attention. The romantic comedy was an international box-office success and received the Golden Globe Award, the People’s Choice Award, and the Grammy for the best sound track. This success was not without impact on Iranian filmmakers. Pretty Woman and The Blue Scarf were produced chronologically close to each other. No more than three years after the successful launch of Pretty Woman, Bani Eʿtemād’s The Blue Scarf appeared in Iranian cinemas. A detailed comparison of the two reveals parallels that might not have been immediately apparent. The celebrated Iranian film is a social drama, located in an unspecified contemporary Iranian rural backwater, whereas the American film is a romantic comedy set in the centre of the city of the American Dream, Los Angeles. The Iranian film director had to pay attention to the moral and ethic guidelines for female roles. Despite this, Bani Eʿtemād claims to convey a realistic picture of Iranian society. Although the narrative form and modes of expression in the two films differ, an examination of the storylines, the characters and their actions, and the use of symbols will show many similarities.

Rusari-ābi (1994) – an Iranian Version of Cinderella As early as 1991 Bani Eʿtemād chose a love story as the subject of her first film Narges, which is characterized by its social realism. The film won the first prize at the Fajr Film Festival.27 Her second film, Rusari-ābi, again shows a “social realist” approach. This film tells the love story between the aged, wealthy and widowed farmer Rasul and the poor young woman Noubar, who has to care for her drugdependent sick mother and her younger brother and sister. Noubar is looking for a job at Rasul’s farm. Rasul employs her, even though he knows nothing about her and her domestic difficulties. Since Noubar is an unmarried young woman without children, it is assumed that she lives in a conventional family, with the father as the breadwinner. Her main aim ought to be finding a prosperous husband rather than earning money. When Rasul’s supervisor distributes meat among the labourers, a woman alludes to Noubar’s supposedly dubious integrity. An enraged Noubar refuses the gift and leaves without the meat. The supervisor

26 For an overview of further versions of Cinderella, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinderella [17. 01. 2014]. 27 Naficy 2000.

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decides to bring the meat to Noubar’s home, and Rasul accompanies him. They witness her hard life, and Rasul offers her and her little sister the opportunity to be together during Noubar’s work in his tomato fields. He recognizes Noubar’s courageous character and feels responsibility and sympathy for her. He helps to have her brother released from prison, and gives her and her sister a small house to live in. Noubar is deeply grateful and falls in love with him, while Rasul gradually becomes aware that she fills the emptiness in his life. Although he is aware of his feelings for her, he is in conflict with his family, as convention dictates that he should marry a widow of his age. Rasul therefore tries first to find an appropriate husband for Noubar, which she steadfastly refuses. She confesses her feelings to him. Despite his concerns about his family and her age, he responds to her emotions, and they spend the night together. For a short time, Noubar lives happily with Rasul until he has a heart attack after a dispute with his relatives about his private life. His daughter wants Noubar to leave Rasul and offers her money. When Noubar refuses, she attacks her. Finally, Rasul recovers and comes to a decision. He turns away from his family, wealth and conventional life in favour of a happy life with Noubar and her little sister. A comparison with Pretty Women shows some parallels. The leading characters have similar social positions and act in similar ways. Rasul in The Blue Scarf is a wealthy farmer who has a tomato processing company. He is a widower with grown-up daughters and a grandfather. He is sad and lonely, and his supervisor is a close friend of his who supports him in difficult situations. In Pretty Woman, the leading male protagonist, Edward, belongs to American high society and is the owner of a big company. He is single. His parents are dead, he has no brothers or sisters, and the company’s lawyer is his personal friend. Edward is a diffident and lonely man, who only lives for his work. The leading female protagonist, Vivian, works as a prostitute. Morally and socially, she seems to be on the lowest level. She is on her own. She has no parents or siblings, and her best friend is a drug-dependent prostitute. Vivian is a witty, optimistic and honest young woman, who used to have a better life before she was betrayed by her ex-lover. Noubar also seems to be on the lowest social level. Her poverty is caused by the absence of a father and her mother’s illness and drug-dependence. Noubar’s character, like Vivian’s, seems to stand in contrast to the milieu in which she lives. Both are courageous, responsibly-minded and honest young women. The living conditions of both female characters are unusual as they are caused by exceptional circumstances. Like Rasul in The Blue Scarf, the male character in Pretty Woman supports the female character financially because he is moved by her behaviour. Edward is amused by Vivian’s humour, whereas Noubar impresses Rasul by her empathic manner and sense of justice. The male characters offer the women food at their

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first meeting; in the case of Pretty Woman, this clearly symbolizes the man’s high social status, whereas the meat offered to Noubar is less exclusive, but still expensive. The males’ support is mainly of a material nature. Both men gradually realize their deep feelings for the women, who have a positive emotional and moral impact on them. Eventually, the male characters decide to live with the poor woman. The newly vitalized Rasul opposes social conventions and leaves his family and his former life for an uncertain future with Noubar, while Edward, who is well established socially, decides after a moral regeneration to introduce Vivian to high society as his wife.

Symbolizing Social Issues Throughout the two films, we find similar symbols in use, albeit with different connotations. Both films use the same colours as symbols, though with different degrees of emphasis. Blue, the colour of hope, desire and honesty, is associated with the leading female character and her first encounter with her prospective lover. Vivian wears a blue dress when working as a prostitute and meeting Edward for the first time. Here, the colour has an ambiguous meaning, connected with Vivian’s profession, her character and wishes. In addition, Vivian wears a wig when she is working as a prostitute. In contrast to the Iranian film, the wig distinguishes the private persona from her unwanted temporary profession. When she removes it, Vivian becomes herself. Bani Eʿtemād uses the colour blue for the headscarf and gives it another significance. As in Pretty Woman, the blue scarf becomes a symbol with similar connotations: it represents Noubar’s character and her role in the film. Moreover, the blue scarf is used for the development of the relationship between Rasul and Noubar. When Noubar attracts Rasul’s attention for the first time, she wears the blue scarf. Later, in an important scene in the tomato fields, Rasul and Noubar show their sympathy for each other through a child. Rasul calls the one with the blue veil to give her fresh meat. This time, Noubar’s sister is veiled in blue, and Rasul and Noubar send implicit messages of sympathy to each other through her. The colour red becomes important in Pretty Woman when Edward offers Vivian strawberries in the beginning, buys her a red designer dress later when he invites her to the opera, and he lends her a precious necklace with red jewels, all symbols of great luxury. These gifts indicate his growing reliance on and, eventually, his love for her. In The Blue Scarf, red is also important in relation to food: tomatoes and meat. Noubar works as a land labourer on Rasul’s tomato fields, and meat is

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offered to her by Rasul. Although these products do not indicate a very high social status as do the gifts in Pretty Woman, they are too dear for poor people to buy and so point to Rasul’s wealth. The tomato, on the other hand, in Persian goujeh-farangi (“foreign plum”), could be understood as a link to the American love story where, in a well-known scene, Vivian eats strawberries, Persian tutfarangi (“foreign berries”). The colour red in The Blue Scarf is not as intense as in the American film, but it is also used to signal a love relationship. During the above-mentioned meaningful interaction between Rasul and Noubar in the tomato field, she wears the red scarf instead of the blue one signalling the new quality of their relationship. In the only scene where Noubar is happy and laughing, she is also wearing a red scarf, shortly before Rasul and Noubar spend the first night together. This indicates the emerging love relationship of the main characters. White, as a symbol of purity and innocence, is represented in both films. Vivian wears a white bathrobe, blouse and dress when she shows her essentially amiable character. The colour white becomes particularly important in a symbolic scene in The Blue Scarf which depicts the unification of Rasul and Noubar. Noubar wears a white dress, like a bride, during the first night she spends with Rasul. Both are walking side by side through the darkness, and only their legs are visible. The man’s legs are in black trousers and shoes, the woman’s are covered by an ankle-length white dress. The following morning, Noubar covers her head with a white scarf. Both white items emphasize Noubar’s purity and innocence despite her seemingly amoral act. Other similar symbols used in both films are water and walking barefoot, both signs of naturalness and intimacy. When Vivian takes a bath, Edward becomes aware of her humour and optimism, and he decides to employ her. In another intimate scene in the bath, he tells her about his memories and fears. Water is also used by Bani Eʿtemād in the context of joy and ease, when Noubar’s little sister drops flowers into the water basin on a sunny day just before Noubar and Rasul’s first night together. In the scene of their union, Noubar’s bare legs run into the darkness through a dark puddle towards Rasul. Noubar walking barefoot forms a contrast to Rasul’s shoes and signalizes her vulnerability in that situation. The water has ambiguous connotations. Its presence in a water basin on a sunny day creates an image of harmony, the dark puddle, on the other hand, represents a moral hazard. A sense of intimacy and moral ambiguity is also created in an earlier scene when Noubar stands barefoot in the courtyard of her small house while she risks confessing her love for Rasul. Although she is physically and morally unprotected and vulnerable in this situation (symbolized by her bare feet), she consciously ignores Rasul putting her shoes near her so that she can use them to protect herself. Her symbolic act makes him understand that she will not

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choose the conventional way. Throughout the film, Noubar’s moral character, like Rasul’s, remains undisputed. In Pretty Woman, the symbol of being barefoot does not have amoral connotations and is not associated with vulnerability. Rather, it gives Edward an unwonted sensation of ease and spontaneity. Later this feeling helps him to decide in favour of Vivian. In the final scenes, the use of a ladder or stairs by the male hero has a symbolic meaning in both films. Rasul is shown descending the stairs in front of his house. After overcoming his doubts, he announces that he will move away from his family for a life with Noubar. From a social perspective, he is descending because he leaves everything he has; morally and in human terms, he is ascending. He can support a poor family and live together with a courageous young woman who has taken a great moral risk to attain her individual happiness. In Pretty Woman, Edward overcomes his fear of heights as a result of deciding in favour of the natural and genial Vivian, who is essentially moral. She has a strong sense of justice, wants to continue her education, and helps Edward to talk about his anxieties. There is no social but a moral meaning in his ascending the ladder to Vivian’s apartment. From being an unscrupulous speculator, Edward has developed to become a businessman who acknowledges social and human values.

Moral Values and Gender Roles after 1979 In summary, the plot of Pretty Woman implicitly refers to the American dream of life which is strongly associated with the city of Los Angeles. The film portrays a conventional division of gender roles. As in Iranian films before 1979, the male character dominates the plot and is responsible for the material side of life, while the female character can only act emotionally within a framework determined by men. The man’s emotional reserve and rationality, in turn, are broken by the woman’s warmth and humour. The Iranian film director creates further associations by choosing significant names for the main characters. The name of the heroine Noubar means “Bringing something new”, and the female role does so in different respects. She causes Rasul’s decision to leave social conventions behind for human reasons and love. From the perspective of the history of Iranian film after the Revolution, Noubar is one of the first female characters with an active role, one who assumes traditionally male duties and functions. Bani Eʿtemād combines morality and unconventionality in this character. While her heroine is active, courageous and honest, Bani Eʿtemād shows her essential purity despite her extramarital liaison with Rasul. In contrast to the typically “machomene” hero, Rasul is highly sensitive

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and empathetic. His name means “messenger”. At the end of the film, he delivers a moral message to his family. He condemns the family’s senseless preservation of “honour” and reputation to the detriment of human values. Even though the family is still important to Iranian society, Bani Eʿtemād prioritises humanitarian, ethical and moral considerations both for the individual and the community. Noubar can gain access to a decent human life with a male protector by her side once Rasul has abandoned his privileged social status. Morality is also important in the American film, but it is more concerned with the individual than with the community. The poor girl has to gain access to high society by appropriate behaviour and “right” values such as being natural and honest, responsible, educated, and drugs-free. Edward does not need to give up his high social status. Rather, he rediscovers his humanity and overcomes his anxieties. Whereas the American film does not use any religious symbols and rites, Bani Eʿtemād’s film contains some references to religious symbols and customs, but she concentrates on values that are both religious and humanitarian. We may assume that Rasul has just arrived back from a pilgrimage; we hear a crowd blessing the Prophet and his family when he is about to sit down to a meal; in the distance we see a professional “mourner” (roużeh-ḵvān) recite the Qurʼān at the cemetery and hear another in a mourning ceremony at Rasul’s home. In a short scene, we see the oldest of Rasul’s daughters in the early morning; she is enveloped in a white chador and is probably reading the Qurʼān while sitting on the prayer mat with a prayer chain (tasbiḥ) in her hand. It is this daughter who approves of traditional conventions and wants Rasul to take a pious woman of his own age to live with him in a ʽtemporary marriageʼ (ṣiḡa). We are not informed about Noubar’s religion. We only know that her mother was an Armenian (presumably Christian). There are no religious buildings, sacred places, or other religious symbols. The few religious references are almost unnoticeably embedded in the film’s narrative. Significantly, there is a picture of a tomato hanging in Rasul’s office, rather than for instance the usual pictures of the former and current religious leaders. Throughout the film, the chador is not necessarily the obligatory dress code for all female characters. Sometimes, we see them with a chador, sometimes only with a scarf. In public spaces such as on the streets, in buses and cars, women wear the chador to be protected from men’s gaze. The only exception is the child. At home, the little sister does not need a head-cover at all. When she is leaving the home, she puts a scarf on her head. In private spaces, the casually bound scarf is obligatory at least for the adult female protagonists. In the most intimate scene of Rasul and Noubar’s ʽmarriageʼ or suggested sexual relationship, the camera focuses only on the legs. Thus, the question whether Noubar is veiled or not becomes irrelevant. Since Bani Eʿtemād uses colourful local dress for the rural

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female characters, the question of standard religious dress codes does not become an artificially overemphasized issue in the film. Rather, the scarf and chador in The Blue Scarf become part of the natural expression of female identity, whereas Vivian’s wig in Pretty Woman covers the real identity of the female protagonist as long as she is working as a prostitute. As we have seen, the obvious references to the American version of Cinderella with its primarily material values suggest that Bani Eʿtemād intends to create an Iranian version in opposition to this, emphasizing non-materialist principles that are not exclusively informed by religion but by social and human values. In addition, we also find references to religious issues. For instance, we may assume that the reason for the festivity at the beginning of the film was Rasul’s return home from a pilgrimage. He also organizes a morning ceremony in his house with a roużeh-ḵvān on the day of his wife’s death. He is not seen with religious symbols or performing religious rituals. Rasul’s attitude can therefore be defined as human and morally sensitive, but not motivated by the external aspects of religion. His eldest daughter, in contrast, seems to be a pious woman who loves her father, but only adheres to external traditional conventions, which the filmmaker criticizes. This explains her aggression towards the social (and religious) outsider Noubar, for instance, when she brings tea to the mourners at an inappropriate moment. In taking responsibility for and supporting the weak Noubar, Rasul is shown to be motivated by a personal, individual understanding of morals and values informed by the spiritual values of Islam rather than its outward trappings. As a symbol of social and religious morality, Rasul is the only figure who can convey the meaning of humaneness and individual happiness in circumstances brought about by Noubar’s courage and his daughter’s cruel behaviour towards Noubar. The two female characters do not have the moral authority or power to convey such an essential message.

Conclusion Naficy sees a new and significant change in Iranian film production since the late 1960s. Filmmakers began to adapt works of contemporary authors. Collaborations of writers and poets with filmmakers became significant in the 1970s.28 The screenplay Gāv (The Cow) written by Ḡolāmḥosayn Sāʿedi and Dāriuš Mehrjuʾi was one of the first successful results of such a collaboration. While the popular film Qeyṣar, with its new perspective on and preoccupation with Iranian society,

28 Naficy 1985: 233.

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was still based on a true story, Masʿud Kimiyāʾi for his new project also adapted a modern short story and turned it into a film that belongs to the luṭi genre. His adaptation of Hedāyat’s short story “Dāš Ākol” was highly acknowledged and appreciated both nationally and internationally.29 It was attractive both because it built on Qeyṣar’s popularity and because of its connection with a modern work of literature.30 Despite intellectual criticism in film and literature and the officially proclaimed modernization of Iranian society, we still observe traditional gender roles where active engagement in public and social affairs is limited to males. The key social units in the film are the family and community of a small imaginary Iranian village; these units have to defend themselves against outside interference, which threatens the traditional social system. In contrast to the American film, the male leading characters of Qeyṣar and Gāv cannot restore the social order. They rebel against unpleasant conditions, but cannot change them. They both become victims of these conditions, Qeyṣar because of the lack of support from the state police, and Ḥasan by the incompetence of the governmental, clerical and intellectual representatives of the community. Thus, one becomes a persecuted criminal who is eventually shot, while the other is delusional until he is killed in an accident. Both films express a sense of resignation regarding the political and social situation in Iran. While in modernist literary works, the Iranians’ backwardness is attributed to the influence of Shiism on daily life,31 in Qeyṣar, religious morals have positive connotations only even though the main character has no success. In Gāv, on the other hand, religious belief has negative associations: female characters are connected with superstition, whereas male figures as religious authorities are unable to solve the community’s problems. Despite the new legislative restrictions of the Islamic Republic, a more progressive image of Iranian society is presented in films after 1979. Female directors like Bani Eʿtemād were pioneers of this trend. The notion of the family as the key social unit, with the father as its head and protector, remained intact after the Revolution, as is demonstrated by Tahmineh Milāni’s film Two Women (Do zan, 1998) and the public debate on the film in the daily press.32 Thus, only Bani E‘temād’s male protagonist, Rasul (= messenger), is able to convey the new message to his family, and to the spectators. Bani Eʿtemād also criticizes social conventions, and she makes an appeal for social responsibility and humaneness. Her film The Blue Scarf does not express 29 30 31 32

Naficy 1985: 238. Naficy 1985: 231–251. Hillman 1982: 13. Föllmer 2004: 61–80.

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disapproval of patriarchal structures, but rejects the consumerism of the American version. The Iranian filmmaker is thus able to use new and ambiguous symbols to present a love relationship. She breaks a taboo in the representation of female characters by using both the female and male characters’ moral integrity and exceptional personal situation to soften the impact of this innovation. Noubar is not devout and passive. She is physically active, e. g. when she runs and slaps her younger brother in the face for his crime. Furthermore, Noubar does not make a secret of her opinions and does not hide her feelings. Direct interaction between adult male and female actors is still not possible in Iranian film. Bani Eʿtemād uses a child, Noubar’s sister, as a neutral object of sympathy, thus allowing a man and a woman to express their feelings.33 When Noubar and Rasul confess their love to each other, they do not make eye contact: Rasul is sitting on a stair while Noubar, standing, is leaning against a wall. The scene of the union of Rasul and Noubar shows only the legs of the protagonists walking side by side in the darkness of the night. The dark scene underlines the secretive, dangerous and ambiguous situation in contrast to the white colour of Noubar’s feet and dress. Compared to Qeyṣar, we see the emergence of a new consciousness of the social role and responsibility of women, while the male characters do not show an appreciable development. After 1979, the male continues to personify social and moral authority. He rebels against social and political conventions while being part of them. When pre-revolutionary male filmmakers were concerned with socio-political problems, their idea of an Iranian social unit was exclusively maledominated, and thus corresponded to traditional concepts of society. Liberal notions of gender and gender relations were strongly associated with the unilateral, superficial modernization process, and were still alien to the prevailing values and moral understanding of the Pahlavi period. In comparison, the postrevolutionary film questions certain traditional notions of social order and introduces innovative methods for narrating a story about love and extramarital liaisons. Taking Islamic standards into account, Bani Eʿtemād successfully creates a contrast to the American commercial production and its implicit materialism. Religiosity, represented in the film as a natural part of social life, encompasses inner and outward aspects. Outward religious symbols and practices, insofar as they are vaguely associated with social conventions, form part of Bani Eʿtemād’s social criticism in the figure of Rasul’s daughter. Living according to inner religious values and humaneness, in contrast, enables protagonists like Rasul to cross conventional borders, and leads to happiness. In this way, and  

33 She is a stand-in for her adult sister and a ruse for the exchange of glances and smiles between the adults, see Naficy 2001: 47.

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without being less critical, the filmmaker avoids a reduction of religious issues to mere features of backwardness, as we find it in the pre-revolutionary films Qeyṣar and Gāv. Kimiyāʾi uses railway tracks as a symbol for the inevitably tragic fate of Qeyṣar. The tracks, also symbolizing the process of industrialization and modernization, lead only in one direction and to a dead end. On the one hand, the strong presence of traditional values in the film points to a sense of rebellion against a false understanding of modernity and conflicts resulting from it, while, on the other hand, traditional values do not offer a solution to the socio-political problems of the time. As in Qeyṣar, railway tracks become relevant at the end of Bani Eʿtemād’s film. The temporary spatial separation of Rasul and Noubar is a symbol of their social distance, which they can probably overcome when the train has passed. The director thus implies the hope that Noubar and Rasul will find together. Bani Eʿtemād, like her main characters, is confident of the future as long as people, men as well as women, have an active, pragmatic and humane approach to life. In conclusion, the critical films in pre-revolutionary Iran consciously stress specifically Iranian traditional elements. They present a negative attitude towards the prevailing superficial modernism of Iranian society, but also adopt a critical attitude towards traditional structures and values, with the exception of gender roles. Thus, the filmmakers refrained from simply adapting or even copying films from Western countries, even though they had not yet developed a typical Iranian “film language”. They particularly drew inspiration from real events and from modern Persian literature. The filmmakers demonstrated their opposition to the commercial mainstream and opened up new avenues in Iranian cinematography. Their criticism was directed towards the threat to social units such as the family and the village community. Like their main characters, they rebelled against the political system and influences from outside, but could not offer solutions. Whereas the tough-guy movies of the pre-revolutionary period constituted “the mental machinery of the mid-twentieth century popular culture whose workings bore less the stamp of individual authors than of Iranian cultural orientations, expectations, conventions, and social and ideological formations,”34 the “women’s cinema” represents the new voices of Iranian culture in the 1990s. These new voices could not build on earlier Iranian genres, characters and semiotic conventions concerning gender representation and gender roles. Instead, they had to develop new cinematic categories and modes of expression while recognizing Islamic standards. As the above example shows, at that time

34 Naficy 2011/2012: 2:265.

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they referred to foreign models, but gave them a new form and meaning. The filmmakers did not “rebel” like those of the pre-revolutionary period, but rather found new ways of expressing romantic love, sexual relationships, new moral values, and social criticism in the audio-visual medium. Female Iranian filmmakers in particular were able to introduce modern and liberal ideas, and they distanced themselves from traditional structures and gender roles. In spite of their reservations about Western culture, the development of a specific symbolism allowed them to adapt American film plots while maintaining a unique outlook and style, thus creating a specific Iranian film where female characters like Noubar play a central and active role and courageously manage their lives. Since the 1960s at least, Iranian cinematography has become an important representative of Iranian culture, and it plays a significant role in the development of socio-political discourses in Iran. In both the pre- and post-revolutionary period, writers and artists participated more consciously in social and political processes of change.35 Whereas the pre-revolutionary discourse has obvious political references, in the post-revolutionary discourse social criticism is combined with religious and gender-related aspects. No political message is intended (a picture of a tomato instead of the religious leader in the office of Rasul may be a hint). Genres are helpful categories to study permanence and coherence, but are not per se permanent structures and stable phenomena. They can appear, be transformed, and disappear.36 The popularity of the luṭi-film reached its peak in the pre-revolutionary period. After the Revolution it seems to have lost its relevance for social criticism. In this period, women’s cinema became a better medium for critical messages and innovative methods. Without focusing on genre-specific characteristics, this analysis has shown how Iranian filmmakers before and after 1979 have highlighted the opposition between tradition and modernity, community and individual, as well as man and woman to (re-)define indigenous values and structures (“das Eigene”) and to avoid the extraneous (“das Fremde”). Despite this continuity, however, there have also been some changes. Even though in the mid-1990s, a woman is not yet regarded as being completely independent in the social sphere, we find indicators of a greater awareness of what traditional Iranian values might be. This allows criticizing conventional modes of thinking and acting. The post-revolutionary filmmakers find answers to open questions and contradictions which the prerevolutionary cinema could only point to. This has been possible because of the development of a specific Iranian film language which – despite its continued

35 Hillman 1982: 25. 36 Altman 1999: 49–50.

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Western-orientedness – applies a new symbolism. This means that the Revolution may have informed the Iranian interpretation of “Western” models and symbols by emphasizing other values than was the case in the pre-revolutionary era. In this respect, the Revolution marks a crucial turning point: At least in the 1990s, the pre-revolutionary “masculine” rebellion seemed to give way to courageous and self-conscious acts by female filmmakers and their female protagonists.

Bibliography Altman, Rick (1999) Film/Genre. London. Floor, Willem M. (1981) “The Political Role of the Lutis.” In Modern Iran. The Dialectics of Continuity and Change, edited by Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie, Albany: 83–93. Föllmer, Katja (2004): “Aspekte des populären iranischen Films. Do zan – Film, Presse und Diskurs.” Iranistik 5: 61–80. Friedland, Roger (2002) “Money, Sex, and God: The Erotic Logic of Religious Nationalism.” Sociological Theory, 20(3), 398–99. Hillman, Michael C. (1982): “The Modernist Trend in Persian Literature and Its Social Impact.” Iranian Studies 15(1): 7–29. Kian-Thiébaut, Azadeh (1998): Secularization of Iran a Doomed Failure? The New Middle Class and the Making of Modern Iran. Paris. Naficy, Hamid (1985): “Iranian Writers, the Iranian Cinema, and the Case of Dash Akol.” Iranian Studies 18(2): 231–251. Naficy, Hamid (2001): “Veiled Voice and Vision in Iranian Cinema: The Evolution of Rakhshan Banietemad’s Films.” In Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls: Gender in Film at the End of the Twentieth Century, edited by Murray Pomerance. New York: 37–53. Naficy, Hamid (2011/2012): A Social History of Iranian Cinema, 4 vols. Durham/London. Sadr, Hamid Reza (2006): Iranian Cinema: A Political History. London. Upton, Joseph M. (1960): The History of Modern Iran: An Interpretation. Cambridge. Zerāʿati, Nāṣer (ed.) (2004): Ḵaṭerāt-e Zendegi-ye Behruz Voṯuqi (The Memoirs of Behruz Voṯuqi). San Francisco.

Internet Sources Overview of further versions of Cinderella: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinderella (last accessed on 17.01.2014).

Tobias Nünlist

Between Change and Persistence: Reżā Julāʾi’s Short Story Miti-Jenn as a Mirror of Social Developments in Iran Abstract: This paper explores various aspects relevant to an understanding of current developments in Iranian society through Reżā Julāʾi’s short story Miti-Jenn (published in Tālār-e Ṭarab-ḵāneh, 1371/1992)1. Born in Tehran in 1950, Julāʾi is a well-known writer who has won several literary prizes. Julāʾi frequently situates his stories and novels (e. g. Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni) in the Qājār period (1796–1925). Having had a closer look at his œuvre, however, it becomes impossible to ignore the present-day implications of his interpretations. The short story Miti-Jenn allows us to identify both constant and changing elements in the development of modern Iranian society between the Constitutional Revolution (1905–11) and today. This analysis will center on the tensions between reason and superstition, and between reality and the surreal. It will focus on Reżā Julāʾi’s use of traditional demonical beliefs as a key to understanding some of the central problems of present-day Iran.  

Reżā Julāʾi: Introductory Remarks Reżā Julāʾi is a firmly established modern Iranian prose-writer and winner of several literary prizes. Ḥasan Mir-ʿĀbedini discusses him in his study of modern Persian prose,2 and Yusuf ʿAliḵāni includes him in his collection of ten writers of the so-called third generation (nasl-e sevvom).3 In the West, however, Julāʾi has gone virtually unnoticed, even by researchers. Kamran Talattof in his introduction to modern Persian literature simply mentions his name.4 In Ein Fenster zur Freiheit, Mohammad H. Allafi at least gives

1 2 3 4

All internet sources mentioned in this article were last consulted in January 2010. Mir-ʿĀbedini 1999: 934–935, 986–994, 1106, 1233. ʿAliḵāni 2001: 35–50. Talattof 2000: 109.

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-008

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some brief information about his biography and œuvre.5 Other reviews of Persian literature by Western scholars were published before the Islamic Revolution of 1978–79 and consequently could not include any references to Julāʾi. Julāʾi himself remains discreet about his biography and prefers to be known through his literary texts: “If you want to know me, read my novels and short stories attentively. Biographical facts do not matter.”6 His opinion gives a first impression of the author’s character and opinions. While respecting his reservations, I still consider it useful to give a short overview of Julāʾi’s biography and œuvre. The following summary is largely based on various Persian internet sources, though special attention is paid to the biographical sketch published on Julāʾi’s personal website.7

Biography and Œuvre Julāʾi was born into a Tehrani middle-class family in 1329/1950. Having graduated from Alborz High School, he commenced studies at the University of Shiraz in 1347/ 1968. At the same time, he began to write literary texts which he published in various reviews. In 1353/1974 he obtained a BA degree in economics at the University of Shiraz, having undergone many challenges and discouraging setbacks, as he sardonically comments. He published his first collection of short stories, Ḥekāyat-e selseleh-ye pošt-kamānān (The saga of the bent ones), in 1362/1983. These early writings were not favorably received, but the situation changed radically with the publication of Jāmeh be ḵunāb (Blood-soaked clothes) in 1368/ 1989, a collection of twelve short stories. The book won the Louḥ-e zarrin literary award in 1370/1991 as well as a distinguished prize for the best collection of short stories in post-revolutionary Iran. Julāʾi, regarded meanwhile as an important figure on the Iranian literary scene, is respected as a writer with a fine command of Persian who cultivates a new, personal style. As well as being an author, Julāʾi remains active as a translator, reader and publisher. Thanks to these activities, he is financially independent. In 1369/1990,

5 Allafi 2000: 24–29, 30–50 (translation of an excerpt of Julāʾi’s novel Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni). 6 Personal communication from Julāʾi (e-mail, February 2002). 7 Julāʾi’s personal website: www.rezajoulaee.com. Biographical information provided by his daughter A. Julāʾi: http://www.rezajoulaee.com/Biography/DaughterWrite.htm; Yusuf ʿAliḵāni interview with R. Julāʾi: http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=31010; Interview with R. Julāʾi, in: Qābil. Majalle-ye dāstān-o šeʿr (http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx?id=219); see also: Nünlist 2005: 47–51.

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he published the novel Šab-e ẓolmāni-ye Yaldā (The dark Yaldā-night) and the story Ḥadiṯ-e dord-kešān (The dregs-drinkers’ tale) in one volume. In 1371/1992 Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵāneh (The Ṭarab-ḵāneh-Hall) followed, a collection of twelve short stories written between 1365/1986 and 1368/1989 which includes Miti-Jenn, the subject of the present article. The author considers Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni (The attack on the life of His Majesty; 1374/1995) to be one of his most important texts. In 1376/1997, the novel Jāvedānegān (The everlasting ones) was published, followed in 1377/1998 by another collection of ten short stories entitled Nastaranhā-ye ṣurati (Pink dog roses). Bārān-hā-ye sabz (Green rains; 1380/2001), a collection of six short stories, won the Yaldā Literary Award. The author emphasizes that his latest novel Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān (Quicksilver and the alchemy of the soul; 1381/2002) illustrates well the deeper meanings of his literary œuvre in general. Although Julāʾi is a successful writer of novels, his short stories are equally important.8 Conditions in Iran at present do not allow Julāʾi to publish his texts. The author announced another novel in 2006 entitled Ḵiyābān-hā-ye barrāq-o nimehtārik-e šabi bārān-zade (The shining streets of a dim rainy night), but it was not available in 2010, when the present article was written. The following list gives a chronological overview of Julāʾi’s literary œuvre: 1362/1983 1. Ḥekāyat-e selseleh-ye pošt-kamānān9 (a collection of short stories) 1368/1989 2. Jāmeh be ḵun-āb10 (a collection of eleven short stories) 1369/1990 3. Šab-e ẓolmāni-ye Yaldā-o Ḥadiṯ-e dord-kešān11 (a novel and a long story [dāstān-e boland]). 1371/1992 4. Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵāneh12 (a collection of twelve short stories) 1374/1995 5. Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni 13 (a novel) 1376/1997 6. Jāvedānegān14 (a long story)

8 Interview with Reḍā Julāʾi published at http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx?id=219; p. 3. 9 The saga of the bent ones. 10 Blood-soaked clothes. 11 The dark Yaldā-night and the dregs-drinkers’ tale. 12 The Ṭarab-ḵāneh-Hall. 13 The attack on the life of His Majesty. 14 The everlasting ones.

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Nastaran-hā-ye ṣurati 15 (a collection of ten short stories) 8. Bārān-hā-ye sabz16 (a collection of six short stories) 9. Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān17 (a novel)

7.

1377/1998 1380/2001 1381/2002

Literary Style and Technique A thorough analysis of Julāʾi’s writing style is beyond the scope of an initial survey. Some general remarks on his literary and technical preferences, however, allow us to situate him in a broader cultural context. From 1360/1981, Julāʾi was employed as a reader in a Tehrani publishing house where he was in daily contact with other writers, Maḥmud Doulatābādi, Reżā Barāheni and Hušang Golširi among them. He benefited greatly from this literary milieu which stimulated his own artistic work.18 He attended Golširi’s writing classes repeatedly in 1364/1985, but although Julāʾi enjoyed Golširi’s encouragement, he avoided this highly competitive literary milieu and preferred to develop his own style. In so doing, Julāʾi was influenced by different South American writers. Translations into Persian made him familiar with Julio Cortázar, Jorges Luis Borges, and Gabriel García Marquez.19 The writer was fascinated by Borges’ and Marquez’ efforts to bridge the ontological gap between reality and an imaginary world. Julāʾi dealt in several texts with the introduction of the medium of film into Iran at the beginning of the twentieth century. Deeply impressed by attempts to remove the boundaries between reality and imagination in Iranian cinema, he tried to apply these techniques to his own literary texts later on. By doing so, Julāʾi hoped to launch a process of reciprocal influence between film and literature. Convinced that this new medium allowed the writer to express complicated situations in simple images, he profited from its succinct language. The short stories published in the Bārān-hā-ye sabz collection resemble film scripts.20 Julāʾi actually

15 Pink dog roses. 16 Green rains. 17 Quicksilver and the alchemy of the soul. 18 Interview with Reżā Julāʾi by Yusuf ʿAliḵāni: 5–6, http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=31010. 19 An international congress organized by the “Iranian Literature Foundation” from 26 May to 1 June 2007 in Tehran and Eṣfahān was dedicated to the study of Latin American literature and its influence on Iranian writers (Kongre-ye bayn ol-melali-ye Adabiyyāt-e Āmrikā-ye Lātin). 20 Interview with Reżā Julāʾi by Yusuf ʿAliḵāni: 9–10, http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=31010.

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collaborated on various film projects during a period of about eight to ten years. Dāriuš Mehrjuʾi21 intended to produce a film entitled Kārāgāh (The police inspector), based on Julāʾi’s short stories Sayl-āb (The flood) and Parvandeh (The file), both published in Jāmeh be ḵunāb. Unfortunately, the film was never completed. Other projects failed for different reasons, e. g. politically motivated interventions or personal disagreement among the partners. The writer is particularly concerned about the suppression of a film project dealing with the CIA-supported coup against Moḥammad Moṣaddeq in the summer of 1332/1953. The film should have been broadcast as a TV soap opera under the title Tābestān-e abri-ye 32 (The cloudy summer of [13]32), but the project was stopped at a very advanced stage under circumstances that were never explained.22 Although highly interested in modern artistic genres, Julāʾi often locates his texts in the past. His latest novel, Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān, is situated in the context of the Mongol invasion of Iran,23 even though in his earlier writings, the author showed a special interest in the Qājār period (1796–1925).24 This period even influenced his style: The vocabulary of the majority of his short stories published in Jāmeh be ḵunāb, Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵāneh, and in his novel Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni,25 was archaic. There are expressions taken directly from Arabic, the syntax is intricate, the style lush, and ornate terms current in Iran in the second half of the nineteenth century are employed. This stylistic combination makes some of Julāʾi’s texts less accessible to the general public. The author writes primarily for an elite  

21 Dāriuš Mehrjuʾi was born in 1318/1939. In the West he is best known for his film Gāv (The Cow; 1348/1969). For further information see Wakeman 1987/1988: 2:663–669; and “Internet Movie Database”: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0576529/. 22 Interview with R. Julāʾi by Yusuf ʿAliḵāni: 9, http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=31010. 23 The Mongols overran and devastated Iran at the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries C.E. In Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān, Julāʾi analyses the nightmares of a painter who flees from the vengeance of the Mongol Khan. In a short overview of the text, literary critic Ḥ. MirʿĀbedini (see: http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=3690660001) refers to several points shared between Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān and Dante’s Divina Commedia. Both texts describe a fictive journey through the human soul. The atrocities committed by the Mongols when attacking Iran form the cruel background of Julāʾi’s analysis of the darker aspects of the human psyche. 24 Therefore critics often asked Julāʾi a question that he has now placed on the entry page of his personal website: “Čerā dar-bāreh-ye doureh-ye Qājār mi-nevisi?” (“Why are you writing about the Qājār period?”). See: Personal website of the author: www.reza joulaee.com. Julāʾi became familiar with the Qājār period in two different ways: His grandmother frequently told him anecdotes about this dynasty when he was a child. Later, he consulted scientific studies of this period and the social and historical developments in Iran during the nineteenth century (personal communication from the author; Tehran, February 2005). 25 The novel Suʾ-e qaṣd be ḏāt-e homāyuni analyses the political and social motivations of a group of Iranian intellectuals plotting an attack on the life of Moḥammad ʿAli Shah in 1908.

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readership. Because Julāʾi frequently situates his novels and short stories in a specific historical context, Mir-ʿĀbedini and Allafi ascribe to him an important role in the development of the historical novel in modern Persian prose fiction.26 But Julāʾi’s literary texts are not primarily concerned with the past. If he deals with the past, it is out of a conviction that the past has lasting effects on the present. Because of all too frequent cruel invasions during the last millenium, the author argues, the “Orientals” (šarqi-hā) have suffered hard setbacks and have been helpless victims of indescribable atrocities. In fact, their enemies have wrought havoc with their inner and outer lives.27 Deeply interested in exploring the psychological dimensions of human existence, Julāʾi considers the honest description of the real self a complicated process. Because all too frequently, looking into the chasm of one’s own being is too difficult a task, one shrinks back from removing the veil which conceals one’s own inner abyss.28 The present article sets out to illustrate the writer’s aims and convictions through an analysis of his short story Miti-Jenn. His text provides us with a deep insight into fundamental aspects of the historical, economic, and intellectual developments of Iranian society at the beginning of the twentieth century. A closer look will allow us to identify a series of elements which characterize Iran to this day.

The Short Story Miti-Jenn: an Analysis Main Protagonists and Historical Context The short story Miti-Jenn, published in the collection Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵaneh along with eleven other stories in 1371/1992, was written between 1365/1986 and 1368/ 1989. As is the case with many other so-called short stories (dāstān-e kutāh) by Iranian writers, the reader is confronted with a rather long text of about twenty-

26 Mir-ʿĀbedini 1999: 3;986–994; Allafi 2000: 25. 27 Author’s personal website: www.rezajoulaee.com, introductory page:

‫ ﺳﺮﺩﺍﺑﻪ ﻫﺎ ﻭﺩﻫﻠﯿﺰﻫﺎﯾﯽ‬،‫ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻫﺎﯾﻤﺎﻥ‬،‫ ﺑﺎ ﺭﻭﺣﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻣﺜﻞ ﮐﻮﭼﻪ ﻫﺎﯼ ﮔﺬﺷﺘﻪ ﻣﺎﻥ‬.‫ﺷﺮﻗﯽ ﻫﺴﺘﯿﻢ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬ ‫ ﺑﺲ ﮐﻪ ﻣﺜﻞ‬.‫ ﺑﺲ ﮐﻪ ﺗﻮﺳﺮﯼ ﺧﻮﺭﺩﻩ ﺍﯾﻢ ﺩﺭ ﻃﻮﻝ ﺗﺎﺭﯾﺦ‬.‫ ﺗﻮ ﺩﺭ ﺗﻮﺳﺖ‬،‫ﮐﻪ ﺑﺮﺍﯼ ﻓﺮﺍﺭ ﻣﯽ ﺳﺎﺧﺘﯿﻢ‬ .‫ﻏﺎﺭﺗﯿﺎﻥ ﺑﺮ ﺳﺮﻣﺎﻥ ﺭﯾﺨﺘﻨﺪ ﻭﭘﺲ ﻭ ﭘﯿﺶ ﻭﺟﻮﺩﻣﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ ﺯﯾﺮ ﺭﻭ ﮐﺮﺩﻧﺪ‬ 28 Author’s personal website: www.rezajoulaee.com, introductory page:

‫ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻫﺰﺍﺭ ﻭ ﯾﮏ ﺩﻟﯿﻞ‬.‫ ﺧﻮﺩ ﻭﺍﻗﻌﯽ ﺁﺩﻡ‬.‫ ﺻﺮﯾﺢ ﻭﺻﺎﺩﻕ‬.‫ﭼﻘﺪﺭ ﺳﺨﺖ ﺍﺳﺖ ﻧﻮﺷﺘﻦ ﺩﺭﺑﺎﺭﻩ ﯼ ﺧﻮﺩ‬ ‫ ﭼﻪ‬.‫ ﺭﯾﺨﺘﻦ ﺭﻭﯼ ﺩﺍﯾﺮﻩ‬.‫ﭘﯿﭽﯿﺪﻩ ﯼ ﺭﻭﺣﯽ ﻭﺷﺎﯾﺪ ﻧﺎﻣﻌﻘﻮﻝ ﺁﻭﯾﺰﺍﻥ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮﯼ ﺗﺎ ﺑﮕﺮﯾﺰﯼ ﺍﺯ ﺑﺮﺩﺍﺷﺘﻦ ﻧﻘﺎﺏ‬ .‫ ﺳﺮ ﻓﺮﻭ ﺑﺮﺩﻥ ﺩﺭ ﭼﺎﻩ ﻭﺟﻮﺩ‬.‫ﺩﺷﻮﺍﺭ ﺍﺳﺖ ﮐﻨﺪﮐﺎﻭ ﺁﺷﮑﺎﺭ ﺩﺭ ﻻﯾﻪ ﻫﺎ‬

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five pages. The text is divided into three parts of seven to nine pages each. These parts are simply numbered 1 to 3, without subtitles. The plot primarily develops through the interaction of two protagonists, Jahāngir-Khan and the narrator. Their relationship is complicated by the appearance of a third being called Miti-Jenn. The text describes Jahāngir-Khan as a monavvar ol-fekr, an intellectual.29 He was sent to Europe (farang) to study the technology of steam engines, a detail alluding to the technological backwardness of Persia at the end of the nineteenth century. His two aunts who consider a prolonged stay in the West an act of kofr (religious unbelief) oblige Jahāngir-Khan to return to his home country after completing his studies. Back in Tehran, however, Jahāngir-Khan does not find an occupation that corresponds to his technological training. Julāʾi adds mockingly that in those days, just two steam engines existed in Iran (mamālek-e maḥruseh). The first one, a steam coach owned by the late Moẓaffar al-Din Shah,30 awaited the end of its days in the Dušān-Tappeh Building,31 while the other, belonging to Otor-Khan Rašti and nicknamed “Keh-keh-barin”, was rusting away under ten-month rainfalls in Gilan.32 Given the circumstances, Jahāngir-Khan begins to translate French novels into Persian, but he cannot publish them.33 He is therefore obliged to abandon his cultural projects. Together with the narrator, he turns to the highly esteemed profession of journalism (šoḡl-e šarif-e jarideh-negāri), as Julāʾi explains with an emphatic undertone.34 Clearly situated in the period of the Constitutional Revolution (1905–1911), the story emphasizes the extremely confused (maḡšuš) situation in Tehran.35 The Shah alternates between controlling the country by coercive measures and trying to win over the newly established parliament (majles) by flattery. The people (ḵalāʾeq-e ebn ol-vaqt) sometimes adhere to the defenders of the šariʿa (mašruʿeh), and other times accept the kabābs offered by the constitutionalists (mašruṭeh).

29 Miti-Jenn 32.6–10. 30 The Qājār ruler Moẓaffar al-Din Shah (1853–1907) reigned from 1896 to 1907. 31 Dušān-Tappeh: an area situated in the east of Tehran; during the Qājār period, it was the location of a hippodrome; one of the city gates of old Tehran was called Dušān Tappeh (Dehḵodā 1377/1998). 32 Miti-Jenn 32.10–15. 33 For the importance of the translation movement in the second half of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century in Iran, see: Balaÿ/Cuypers 1983: 27–33. 34 Miti-Jenn 32. 16 f. The name Jahāngir-Khan probably alludes to the well-known journalist Mirzā Jahāngir-Khan Širāzi (1875–1908), the editor of the Ṣūr-e Esrāfīl newspaper. See: Parvin 1998: Index: Ǧahāngīr-Khan Širāzi. 35 Miti-Jenn 32.2–21.

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Julāʾi describes the tense atmosphere in Tehran vividly and impressively:36 Everybody is suffering from hunger and the cold winter weather, galloping inflation, and the brutality and tyranny of the Qājār rulers. Bread has become extremely expensive, and coal is sold at the price of red gold. Thus light and warmth have left the gatherings of friends and the hearts of people. The situation is made worse by general violence. The inhabitants of Tehran incessantly hear the thundering cannons of the Bāḡ-e Šāh Regiment37 and the yelling of the swordsmen of the Silāḵur Regiment.38 At Meydān-e Tup-ḵāneh,39 the slashed bodies of the constitutionalists hang upside down from plane trees. In the circumstances, it does not surprise that people, having lost their minds (pā az dāyereh-ye taʿaqqol birun goḏāšteh), assume that they live in the kingdom of jenn and paris (dar molk-e jenn-o pari zendegi mi-konid). Their destiny seems to have been put into the hands of soothsayers and geomancers (āyineh-bin-hā o-rammāl-ān).40 The main incident of the story happens in the following context: Miti-Jenn, the above-mentioned imaginary being (moujudi ḵiyāli), appears in the capital. It drives the Qājār despots (mostabeddin) out of their senses and makes the courtiers (dar-bāriyān) go crazy, while giving the suppressed masses some relief. This episode – significantly, the author calls it a mythic fable (afsāneh) – is the main topic of conversation and the principal theme of the short story. Such a characterization leads us back to further reflections on Julāʾi’s writing style.

Magical Realism The author often describes his writing style as magical realism, and this characterization is well illustrated by the short story Miti-Jenn. On the one hand, the tale is situated in a clearly-defined historical and geographic framework which is depicted in minute detail (Tehran during the Qājār period, especially during the Constitutional Revolution). On the other hand, Julāʾi projects a second realm onto this reality-based background with the multilayered episode of an imaginary creature called Miti-Jenn. Irrupting into everyday life, it disturbs the ordinary state of affairs. The boundaries between reality and the imaginary begin to merge.

36 Miti-Jenn 32.22–33.9. 37 Bāḡ-e Šāh is situated in western Tehran. During the Qājār period, the rulers frequently resided in this park (Dehḵodā 1377/1998). 38 Silāḵur: an area situated in the šahrestān Borujerd (Province of Lorestān). The SilāḵurRegiments were famous for their bravery (Moṣāḥeb 1380/2001). 39 Name of an important place in central Tehran; the old Arg was situated nearby. 40 Miti-Jenn 33.7–9.

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Julāʾi, who is deeply interested in a re-evaluation of reality (vāqeʿiyyat), assumes that this concept has undergone important transformations during the last century.41 As lived reality has often been bitter if not almost unbearable, especially for people living in the “East”, they long for relief and escape. According to Julāʾi, it is the duty of the artist – whether writer, filmmaker, painter or poet – to develop a new and independent understanding of the world. Ideally, the point of view of the artist differs from that of the public. Hidden behind factual reality lies another level of existence, a parallel world.42 Short stories of Julāʾi’s other than Miti-Jenn reflect this conviction of his. The following two short stories may serve as examples: Šāh-kār (The masterpiece)43 and Moʿjezeh dar bārān (A wonder in the rain).44 In both texts, having recourse to the medium of film illustrates Julāʾi’s understanding of magical realism. In Šāh-kār, a filmmaker called Mirzā Aṣḡar-Khan, a highly respected artist of the Nāṣer al-Din Shah era45 who had withdrawn from public life for a long time, presents his latest film in a soirée at the royal court of Moḥammad ʿAli Shah.46 The artist considers this film to be his masterpiece (šāh-kār). The film shows the bombardment of the Iranian parliament (ʿadālat-ḵāneh) by the Cossack Brigades on 23 June 1908 (2 Tir 1287), on the orders of Moḥammad ʿAli Shah. Cannons are thundering as the Cossacks attack the people assembled in front of the Majles. A pall of white smokes rises to reveal dozens of bodies. On the screen, Mirzā Aṣḡar-Khan is seen searching for his son who has been killed, together with a great number of other victims. When Mirzā Aṣḡar-Khan suddenly discovers the body of his child, he jumps into the screen in front of the public and participates personally in the unfolding events. While the Shah orders that the scoundrel be seized, the filmmaker runs to the body of his son, puts his head in his lap, and sheds bitter tears. Several versions circulated in Tehran about the end of this soirée. One group claimed that Mirzā Aṣḡar-Khan – from out of the film – threw a piece of wood at the Shah who had taken cover behind his chair. Others were convinced that Mirzā 41 Interview with Reżā Julāʾi published at: http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx?id=219. 42 Interview with Reżā Julāʾi published at: http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx?id=219:

‫ ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪﻩ ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﺩﯾﺪ ﻭﺩﺭﮐﯽ ﻣﺘﻔﺎﻭﺕ ﺑﺮﺍﯼ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺩﺳﺖ‬:‫ ﺍﻣﺎ ﺩﻧﯿﺎﯼ ﺍﺧﺘﺼﺎﺻﯽ ﻫﺮ ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪﻩ؟ ﺟﻮﺍﺏ‬:‫ﺳﻮﺍﻝ‬ ‫ ﺫﻫﻨﯿﺖ ﻭﻧﮕﺎﻩ ﺧﻮﺩﺭﺍ ﭼﻨﺎﻥ ﺑﭙﺮﻭﺭﺍﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮﯼ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ ﺍﺯ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﺁﺷﻨﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﮕﺎﻥ ﻣﯽ‬.‫ﻭﭘﺎ ﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ ﺑﻪ ﺳﺮﺍﻍ ﻣﻘﻮﻻﺗﯽ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬.‫ ﺑﺒﯿﻨﺪ ﻭﺍﺭﺍﺋﻪ ﮐﻨﺪ؛ ﯾﻌﻨﯽ ﺁﻧﭽﻪ ﻭﺭﺍﯼ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺗﺼﺎﻭﯾﺮ ﺳﺎﺩﻩ ﻭﺳﻄﺤﯽ ﺍﺳﺖ‬،‫ﺑﯿﻨﻨﺪ‬ .‫ﺭﻓﺘﻦ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺯ ﺍﯾﻨﺠﺎ ﻧﺎﺷﯽ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮﺩ‬

43 44 45 46

Published in the collection Jāmeh be ḵunāb. Published – as Miti-Jenn – in the collection Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵaneh. Nāṣer al-Din Shah, 1831–96, reigned from 1848 to 1896. Moḥammad ʿAli Shah, 1872–1925, reigned from 1907 to 1909.

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Aṣḡar-Khan shot at the king with a pistol. A third group heard how the filmmaker had insulted the Qājār ruler. At the end of the film, Mirzā Aṣḡar-Khan loads the body of his son onto his shoulders and walks away. The following morning, he was seen one last time weeping at a newly-dug grave. He disappears afterwards. Julāʾi in Moʿjezeh dar bārān also uses direct participation in a film which is actually running on a screen.47 The episode discussed here describes the difficult economic situation in Iran at the beginning of the twentieth century when unemployment was widespread. In a small cinema, a father is watching a film with his son. When – on the screen – work is offered, the father jumps directly into the film. As one of the last spectators, he gets hold of a balloon lifting him up to an ideal abode where work abounds and the sorrows of everyday life are a thing of the past. Before disappearing, the father tells his perplexed child that he would return with enough money to resolve all their difficulties. This recourse to the medium of film illustrates Julāʾi’s endeavor to bridge the gap between immediate reality and the imaginary. We encounter the same effort in Miti-Jenn. Here, the mingling of different levels is more complex: At the beginning of the tale, the narrator and Jahāngir-Khan are sitting in their small printing office discussing the latest news.48 Jahāngir-Khan alludes to Miti-Jenn whom everybody seems to fear.49 Julāʾi explains his conviction by starting a meta-discussion on superstitious attitudes. On the one hand, Jahāngir-Khan clearly refutes the belief in supernatural beings such as jenn and paris. People who believe in their existence have not had the advantage of a serious education, and they ignore even the most basic insights of modern science.50 On the other hand, however, Jahāngir-Khan accepts that these tales circulate in Tehran and are on everyone’s lips. Confronted with the tense political situation, people attribute every incident which surpasses their own powers to Miti-Jenn, this exceptional creature, who penetrates castles unnoticed and climbs up every wall. And last but not least, MitiJenn helps people achieve their rights.51 This last function will be of prime importance.

47 48 49 50

Moʿjeze dar bārān (published in Tālār-e ṭarab-ḵāneh): 131.15–132.24. Miti-Jenn 33–36. Miti-Jenn 34.25: .‫ﺑﻪ ﻫﺮ ﮐﺲ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻨﮕﺮﯼ ﻫﯿﺒﺖ ﺟﻦ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻪ ﺧﻮﺩ ﮔﺮﻓﺘﻪ‬ Miti-Jenn 33.19–20. ‫ﺍﺫﻫﺎﻥ ﮐﺴﺎﻧﯽ ﺍﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻮﯾﯽ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻠﻢ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺸﺎﻡ ﺁﻧﻬﺎ‬

51 Miti-Jenn 33.22–24:

‫ﻭ ﺍﯾﻨﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﺭﻭﺍﯾﺎﺕ ﺳﺎﺧﺘﻪ‬ .‫ﻧﺮﺳﯿﺪﻩ‬

‫ﻣﻮﺟﻮﺩﯼ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻪ ﺗﺎﺯﮔﯽ ﻇﻬﻮﺭ ﮐﺮﺩﻩ ﺁﻧﭽﻪ ﺍﺯ ﯾﺪ ﻗﺪﺭﺕ ﺁﻧﻬﺎ ﺧﺎﺭﺝ ﺑﻮﺩ ﺑﻪ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﺧﯿﺎﻟﯽ ﻧﺴﺒﺖ ﻣﯽ‬ .‫ﺩﺍﺩﻧﺪ ﻭﺍﻭ ﺑﻪ ﺟﺎﯼ ﺁﻧﻬﺎ ﺩﺍﺩ ﺧﻼﯾﻖ ﺭﺍ ﻣﯽ ﺳﺘﺎﻧﺪ‬

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From the narrator’s perspective, there are no exact boundaries between reality and the imaginary. He asks the reader whether sense perception is indeed reliable when dealing with the external world.52 According to the author, an exclusively rational attitude does not allow for extraordinary phenomena to be integrated into a comprehensive world-view. Phantoms (ašbāḥ, sg. šabaḥ) fleeing in the twilight, voices (aṣwāt, sg. ṣawt) heard from the cellar, objects (ašyā) disappearing suddenly, or mysterious lights shining from behind trees would have no place in an exclusively rational understanding. But Julāʾi, once more hiding his real intentions,53 explains that in his short story, he is not concerned with the jenn, the childbed-demon called Āl54 or a genius named ḡul.55 Rather, his story analyzes the behavior of a handful of men pretending to have thorough knowledge of the sensual world. Society has to follow them, walking behind their banner devoutly beating its breast.56 Last but not least, society has to obey them blindly, even if they are misleading them.57 Our author, however, is not speaking about things which should not be mentioned (nā-goftani-hā rā bogḏārim), such as the conflict between mašruṭeh and mašruʿeh. His real intentions only emerge through an analysis of Jahāngir-Khan’s research on Miti-Jenn.

Jahāngir-Khan’s Research on Miti-Jenn Being invited to a soirée by a friend, Jahāngir-Khan is offered the possibility of further investigating the existence of Miti-Jenn. The gathering is attended by some guests who claim to have had personal encounters with this unusual creature.58 During his research, Jahāngir-Khan experiences several episodes which illustrate the author’s endeavor to bridge the gap between different levels of existence. One minute, the reader is confronted with real events, the next, he is plunged into the imaginary. As the conversation turns more informal (ḵodemāni), one of the guests – who so far has absolutely refused to believe in the existence of jenn and paris59 –

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Miti-Jenn 31.3–4: ‫ﺁﯾﺎ ﺩﺭ ﻣﺸﺎﻫﺪﻩ ﮐﺎﺭ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﯾﮑﺴﺮﻩ ﺑﺮ ﺣﻮﺍﺱ ﻭﻣﻨﻄﻖ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺗﮑﯿﻪ ﺩﺍﺭﯾﺪ؟‬ Miti-Jenn 31.9–13. For the Āl, see: Eilers 1979. For the ḡul, see: MacDonald/Pellat 1965: 1078:b; Omidsalar/Omidsalar 2003: 393–395. An obvious allusion to the ʿĀšurā ceremonies. Miti-Jenn 32.1: .‫ﻭﺧﻼﯾﻖ ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺑﺎ ﻃﻨﺎﺏ ﭘﻮﺳﯿﺪﻩ ﺁﻧﺎﻥ ﺑﻪ ﭼﺎﻩ ﺭﻭﻧﺪ‬ Miti-Jenn 35.5–13. Miti-Jenn 36.13.

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describes his visit to Moʿin ol-Mamālek’s house.60 In the garden, he discovered a footprint said to be that of Miti-Jenn.61 This footprint, in the shape of a horseshoe, is a recurring element in Julāʾi’s story. Obviously proving the existence of an imaginary being, it points to a different level of reality, behind the world of everyday manifestations. The author, however, immediately returns to the real world, explaining that Miti-Jenn had stolen Moʿin ol-Mamālek’s jewellery, having shown up at his house some time earlier. The landlord who has seen this unusual being, describes him as a tall man, dressed in black completely and with blue light shining from his eyes.62 On his way home at midnight in the company of some of the guests, JahāngirKhan witnesses another incident involving Miti-Jenn.63 Their coach suddenly stops en route because a second carriage is blocking the way. Its frightened driver had stopped when he noticed a scuffle taking place in the coach. His passenger, a certain Major Ḥasan-Khan, was feeling poorly, and a red spot could be seen on his face. Before losing consciousness, the major was just able to utter the name MitiJenn. Questioned about the incident at home, he explains that he felt a hard blow to his face. Jahāngir-Khan, who is making further investigations, is later told that Ḥasan-Khan had consumed too much opium and been completely intoxicated that evening. Ḥajab-ʿAli, a cook, takes the journalist immediately back to reality by telling him about a man named Āḡā-Miti living in an area in southern Tehran inhabited mostly by outlaws, e. g. drug addicts, prostitutes, and procurers.64 During further investigations in this rough area, Jahāngir-Khan meets a wretched old man who has been in prison for two years for several crimes including the theft of Moʿin olMamālek’s jewellery.65 In his youth, he had accomplished extraordinary feats.66 People are therefore convinced that this Āḡā-Miti is responsible for all the deeds attributed to Miti-Jenn. Jahāngir-Khan sums up the results of his investigations by concluding that Miti-Jenn is nothing but a wretched being addicted to opium, in  

60 It most probably refers to Mirzā Abu l-Ḥasan Khan Moʿin ol-Mamālek, an aristocrat from Semnan. During his career of 50 years, he served various Qājār rulers including Nāṣer alDin Shah. See ʿĀmeri 1388/2009. See also: http://www.niazpardaz.com/‫ﺍﺯ‬20%‫ﺭﺿﺎﺷﺎﻩ‬ %20‫ﺗﺎ‬20%‫ﻣﺤﻤﺪﺭﺿﺎ‬20%‫ﭘﻬﻠﻮﯼ‬-a-179106. 61 Miti-Jenn 36.15: .‫ﺍﺛﺮ ﭘﺎﯼ ﻣﯿﺘﯽ ﺟﻦ‬ 62 Miti-Jenn 36.16–21. 63 Miti-Jenn 37.7–38.18. 64 Miti-Jenn 39.18. 65 Miti-Jenn 40.8, cf. 36.17. 66 Miti-Jenn 40.4–5: .‫ ﻭﮐﻒ ﺯﻧﯽ ﻫﺎ ﮐﺮﺩﻩ ﺍﻡ‬... ‫ﺩﺳﺖ ﺑﻪ ﺍﻋﻤﺎﻝ ﻣﺤﯿﺮ ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻮﻝ ﺯﺩﻩ ﺍﻡ‬

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fact a Miti-Šire-i (šire: opium). This real person has subsequently been transformed into the fictive Miti-Jenn. The journalist intends to publish an article on Miti-Jenn.67 But the narrator, fearing political repercussions, opposes this idea. His refusal is motivated by leaflets circulating in the capital which are attributed to Miti-Jenn and which contain scathing attacks on the royal court and the despotic rulers. The planned article could therefore create serious problems for their newspaper. If the authorities arrested Jahāngir-Khan, they would interrogate him in prison and eventually ask him: “Your Excellency (scil.: Jahāngir-Khan), are you still unaware of the situation in this kingdom?”68 While this question takes the reader back to the hardship of everyday life, another episode stresses the conflict and, at the same time, the intended ambiguity between reality and the surreal. Visiting a graveyard one night, JahāngirKhan discovers bright lights shining from behind the trees and approaches the scene.69 In front of a ruined dome (gombad), beggars, mad-men, and blind and crippled people are celebrating the wedding of a couple from southern Tehran. The description mentions the names of several places where the bridegroom (Pāmenār, Sabzeh-Meydān) and the bride (Gār-Māšin, Meydān-e Pāqāpuq) have their homes.70 Thus, Julāʾi suspends the boundaries between the fictional and the real once again. When the assembled guests discover the clandestine observer (rāport-či), they drag Jahāngir-Khan before their white-bearded chief (riš-sefid).71 Their master, however, considers him to be innocent. Jahāngir-Khan attends their feast and once more plunges into a fairy world: Rich meals and exquisite drinks are served. Even at the weddings of aristocrats, one would look in vain for something comparable. Julāʾi adds that the world has in fact been turned upside down.72 The author does not change perspective for no reason but jumps between the real and the imaginary so as to confuse the reader.73 He thus manages to transmit his message. At midnight, the white-bearded chief, who delivers a speech to the assembly, first complains about destiny which made them all infirm and wretched. He then insults the Shah and the despotic rulers who do not allow them to earn an honest livelihood and who expel them from the city under threat of

67 68 69 70 71 72 73

Miti-Jenn 35.14–25. Miti-Jenn 35.21–22: ‫ﺍﻭﺿﺎﻉ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﻠﮏ ﺑﺎ ﺧﺒﺮ ﻧﯿﺴﺘﯿﺪ؟‬ Miti-Jenn 44.10–45.25. Miti-Jenn 44.26–45.1. Miti-Jenn 44.22–26. Miti-Jenn 44.26: .‫ﺣﻘ ًﺎ ﮐﻪ ﮐﺎﺭ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﻭﺍﺭﻭﻧﻪ ﺍﺳﺖ‬ Miti-Jenn 45.5–12.

‫ﺣﻀﺮﺕ ﺁﻗﺎ ﻣﮕﺮ ﺍﺯ‬

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torture. He also criticizes the constitutionalists as being responsible for the general economic disaster of the country. Even the bridegroom, the bride, and the guests do not escape from his bitter attacks. He expressly calls them parasites (moft-ḵor). After this speech, the guests empty their crystal cups.74 While Jahāngir-Khan lies in the arms of a wizened woman who caresses him, he observes the others crawling over each other and crying out lustfully. Finally, Jahāngir-Khan dozes off. When he wakes up at daybreak, he finds himself alone in the graveyard. Everybody has left. Only rubbish, discarded clothes, and a tent are reminders of the nocturnal wedding. The community of jenn has disappeared into the soil like water.75

The Jenn as Liminal Beings: Foes of Humankind The above analysis supports Julāʾi’s view that another realm of being, not completely separate from factual reality, underlies the world of everyday experience. From time to time, it irrupts into the real world which we perceive through our senses. Exceptional circumstances, periods of extreme political tension, and liminal situations in general, favor the intrusion of elements of the surreal into everyday life. This other realm is traditionally considered the domain of demonical beings (jenn), and it plays, in fact, an important part in the short story. Miti-Jenn’s function calls for some general comments on Islamic demonology. The term jenn, as a collective, is the standard Arabic expression for ghosts and other similar beings in the entire Muslim world. To this day, jenn are extremely important in almost all sections of Muslim society. Because they are mentioned in the Qurʾān76 and by the sunna, to deny their existence is considered an act of unbelief (kofr). In an unpublished lecture delivered in 1975, Fritz Meier showed that the jenn are morally indifferent: They may be good or bad.77 This characteristic distinguishes them from Christian demons which by definition are bad. Depending on their character, jenn manifest themselves to humans as friends or foes. In his short story, Julāʾi insists they are both. Taking a closer look at their negative

74 75 76 77

Miti-Jenn 45.16–25. Miti-Jenn 45.25: .‫ﺟﻤﺎﻋﺖ ﺟﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺁﺏ ﺩﺭ ﺯﻣﯿﻦ ﻓﺮﻭ ﺭﻓﺘﻪ ﺑﻮﺩﻧﺪ‬ Qurʾān, Sura 72, explicitly called “The Jinn”, is entirely dedicated to these beings. Meier 1975. On demonology in the Muslim world, see: Nünlist 2015.

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aspects,78 generally speaking, Islam considers the jenn to be liminal beings. They appear in liminal situations, and this they do in three ways: a) On a spatial level, jenn are associated with all kinds of infertile regions. They people deserts, gorges, ruined buildings, and dirty places (e. g. graveyards, baths, latrines). They live in places at least temporarily abandoned by humans. Their abodes are situated on the boundaries (limen: threshold) of the orderly world (cosmos). During his research on Miti-Jenn, Jahāngir-Khan goes to some dismal areas in southern Tehran where he meets with prostitutes and drug addicts who live on the fringes of society.79 The cemetery in which Jahāngir-Khan attends the nocturnal wedding ceremony is also an area situated on the borders of the orderly world.80 b) But the liminal nature of the jenn also has a temporal dimension. Jenn mainly appear in transitional situations. On a micro-cosmic level, they are associated with the darkness of night. Their influence is feared in the context of childbirth, marriage, death, and illness, especially mental illness.81 On a macrocosmic level, the New Year period is extremely dangerous. It is considered a period of transition during which the cosmos risks falling back into amorphous chaos.82 Julāʾi – to a degree – re-activates these age-old beliefs by situating his short story in the context of the Constitutional Revolution, a period of turmoil and general chaos. He concludes his description remarking that, faced with the general disorder during the Constitutional Revolution, people thought they were living among demonical beings, in the kingdom of jenn and paris.83 Significantly, Jahāngir-Khan’s last and worst series of confrontations with Miti-Jenn happens in the context of the Iranian New Year (nouruz).84 The hero, wandering aimlessly through Tehran, looks for a present for his future wife. The narrator tries to reconstruct his adventures in the third and last part of the short story:85 When Jahāngir-Khan visits the narrator, he is extremely confused, unshaven, and has red eyes. In short: he resembles a person who has gone mad86 and is  

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

For the role of the jenn as friends of humans, see below, part 3. Miti-Jenn 39.1–20. See above: paragraph with footnote 70; and Miti-Jenn 44.10–45.25. Dols 1992: 3, 216–220 and passim. See: Eliade 1989: 65–77; Wensinck 1923: 158–199. Miti-Jenn 33.8: .‫ﻣﯽ ﭘﻨﺪﺍﺷﺘﯿﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺩﺭ ﻣﻠﮏ ﺟﻦ ﻭﭘﺮﯼ ﺯﻧﺪﮔﯽ ﻣﯽ ﮐﻨﯿﺪ‬ Miti-Jenn 47.24–25. Miti-Jenn 46–55. Miti-Jenn 46.16–18: ‫ﺭﯾﺸﯽ ﻧﺘﺮﺍﺷﯿﺪﻩ ﻭﭼﺸﻤﻬﺎﯼ ﻗﺮﻣﺰ ﻭﺳﺮﻭﺿﻌﯽ ﭼﻮﻥ‬

‫ﭼﻨﺪ ﺭﻭﺯ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺍﯾﺸﺎﻥ ﺑﺎ‬ .‫ﻣﺠﺎﻧﯿﻦ ﺑﺪﯾﺪﺍﺭ ﻣﻦ ﺁﻣﺪ‬

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hardly able to tell what has happened.87 In the Islamic world, madness (jonun) is usually attributed to the intervention of jenn. c) But the jenn – apart from their appearance in exceptional situations on a spatial and temporal level – are also liminal beings in a third sense: They are guardians of boundaries, and they hinder humans from committing morally prohibited actions. During recent field work in Syria, the anthropologist Gebhard Fartacek observed that jenn intervene when social codes or taboos are ignored. Their intervention calls the culprit to account for his misdeeds.88 These observations take us back to certain incidents in the short story which are rationally inexplicable. Miti-Jenn often hurts his victims physically.89 Some of Jahāngir-Khan’s confrontations with Miti-Jenn illustrate Fartacek’s thesis. They make us wonder whether the hero may have disregarded some socially accepted rules and thereby provoked the revenge of the jenn. The following two explanations are particularly interesting: While Jahāngir-Khan was wandering aimlessly through Tehran, he constantly felt somebody staring at him.90 Several times, he is actually able to distinguish the frightening glance of a man observing him directly. Blue columns of light are shining from his eyes. This description recalls the idea of the Evil Eye (Arabic: al-ʿayn; Persian: čašm, čašm-zaḵm) which is considered a manifestation par excellence of demonical forces.91 This spectre (šabaḥ) – it must be identified with Miti-Jenn – finally presents itself once more to Jahāngir-Khan.92 After a long pursuit, the hero, caught in a trap, stands in front of an iron door blocking his way. Trying to climb over the door to escape his persecutor, he is suddenly pulled down. Beneath his feet, he discovers the spectre laughing at him mockingly.

87 Miti-Jenn 47.18–23. 88 Fartacek 2010: 157–161. 89 This being was, e. g., made responsible for the attack on Major Ḥasan-Khan; see above: paragraph containing footnote 63. 90 E.g. Miti-Jenn 48.1–2. 91 For further information on the Evil Eye, see: Šakurzāda/Omidsalar 1987: 44–47. For the sake of completeness, another incident which happened during Jahāngir-Khan’s roaming through the capital in search for a present for his future wife (Miti-Jenn 47.24–49.22) needs to be mentioned: Jahāngir-Khan has entered a jeweller’s shop in the Lālehzār-quarter. While he is looking at the bracelets and rings displayed in a show case, he suddenly discovers a tall man completely clad in black standing on the opposite side. This man is observing him expectantly. Jahāngir-Khan is frightened by two columns of blue light emerging from his eyes. On leaving the shop, Jahāngir-Khan resembles someone gone mad (Miti-Jenn 49.20: ‫)ﺑﺎ ﺣﺎﻟﺘﯽ ﺷﺒﯿﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺼﺮﻭﻋﯿﻦ‬. Ṣarʿ (epilepsy in particular and madness in general) is attributed to attacks by the jenn. 92 Miti-Jenn 51.16–22.  

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This spectre addresses Jahāngir-Khan and orders him to keep away from politics.93 His warning suggests that active participation in politics is dangerous. A person interfering in politics in Iran – the short story analyses the situation during the Constitutional Revolution – easily transgresses boundaries and thus lives in a dangerous liminal situation. Consequently, he may be exposed to the attacks of the jenn. The text alludes to the potential danger of political intervention on another occasion.94 After the failed attack on Moḥammad ʿAli Shah’s life,95 people just grumble to themselves about the general situation in the country. They do not express their dissatisfaction openly and keep quiet just as their ancestors did. Too often their tongues had been torn out.96 Nonetheless, the struggle for freedom is important, but because of its dangerous nature, it is primarily the duty of exceptional beings.97 Ordinary people should avoid such activities. There is, however, a second reason which provokes the intervention of the jenn. At the beginning of his short story, Julāʾi describes Jahāngir-Khan as an intellectual (monavvar ol-fekr) with a modern Western technological education.98 Jahāngir-Khan repeatedly belittles superstitious beliefs in the existence of supernatural beings,99 and so do several other figures.100 Apparently, a belief in demonical beings is incompatible with a modern world view. A series of remarks at least suggests this assumption. Because such an attitude openly contradicts convictions which Julāʾi formulated elsewhere, it calls for further investigation. Jahāngir-Khan, no longer able to escape the spectre in front of the iron door, is taught a lesson (ʿebrat).101 The ghost criticizes Jahāngir-Khan for having exclu-

93 Miti-Jenn 52.1: .‫ﻣﺘﻮﻗﻌﻢ ﮐﻪ ﭘﻠﺘﯿﮏ ﻧﺰﻧﯿﺪ‬ 94 Miti-Jenn 41.11–20. 95 As a reaction against this attack on his life, Moḥammad ʿAli Shah dissolved the newly established parliament (bombardment of the majles: 23 June 1908). 96 Miti-Jenn 41.15–18:

‫ﺧﻼﯾﻖ ﺩﺭ ﺩﻝ ﮔﻠﻪ ﻣﻨﺪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﻭﺿﺎﻉ ﻭﺩﺭ ﻋﻤﻞ ﻗﺪﻣﯽ ﺍﺯ ﻗﺪﻡ ﺑﺮﻧﺪﺍﺷﺘﻨﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻋﺎﻓﯿﺖ ﺭﺍ ﺩﺭ ﺣﻔﻆ ﺯﺑﺎﻥ ﻭﺍﻋﻤﺎﻝ‬ ‫ﺧﻮﺩ ﻣﯽ ﺩﺍﻧﺴﺘﻨﺪ ﻭﺍﯾﻦ ﺻﻔﺖ ﮔﺮﺍﻧﺒﻬﺎ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺍﺟﺪﺍﺩ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺑﻪ ﺍﺭﺙ ﺑﺮﺩﻩ ﺑﻮﺩﻧﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺯﺑﺎﻥ ﺍﺯ ﭘﺲ ﺣﻠﻘﻮﻣﺸﺎﻥ‬ .‫ﺑﯿﺮﻭﻥ ﮐﺸﯿﺪﻩ ﺷﺪﻩ ﺑﻮﺩ‬ 97 Miti-Jenn 41.18–20: ‫ﺣﺮﯾﺖ ﺍﺯ ﻧﺎﻥ ﺷﺐ ﻭﺍﺟﺒﺘﺮ ﺍﻣﺎ ﮐﺴﺐ ﺁﻥ ﺑﺮﺍﯾﺸﺎﻥ ﻣﮑﺮﻭﻩ ﻭﺍﺯ ﻭﻇﺎﯾﻒ‬ .‫ﺍﺯ ﻣﺎ ﺑﻬﺘﺮﺍﻥ ﻣﺤﺴﻮﺏ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻮﺩ‬ The expression az-mā-behtarān denotes demonical beings. See: Dehḵodā 1377/1998. 98 Miti-Jenn 32.7. 99 Miti-Jenn, e. g. 33.17–21; 34.17–19; 43.4–9. 100 Miti-Jenn, e. g. 36. 13 f.; 36.25–26. 101 Miti-Jenn 52.9.  

 

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sively intellectual convictions.102 By pressing its foot against the iron door, it tries to prove the existence of a level of being which is beyond rational explanation. Obliged to bow down, Jahāngir-Khan discovers the imprint of a foot (jā-ye pā) on the door. He can feel it with his fingers. Another footstep on the pavement resembles imprints discovered elsewhere, in the houses of notables, on the roofs of buildings, or at places inaccessible to normal creatures, e. g. on gutters.103 These footsteps, a leitmotif in the short story, are the general topic of conversation in Tehran. Although standing in front of the iron door, Jahāngir-Khan sees these footprints, he is still not convinced of their reality. In order to remove any lingering doubts, the spectre first expands until it reaches the top of the door. Immediately afterwards, it shrinks to the height of Jahāngir-Khan’s knees. Some moments later, it flies away across the moon.104 But before doing so, the spectre heavily slaps Ǧahāngīr-Khan’s face twice.105 Miti-Jenn reproaches Jahāngir-Khan that he has repeatedly belittled the manifestations of the imaginary.106 In so doing, he has rejected the existence of the fictional and therefore deserves to be punished.107 The author calls the existence of this other level of reality a scientifically established fact. Anybody ignoring it is punished by the intervention of the jenn.  

Miti-Jenn – the Friend of Humans: The Continuing Relevance of Reżā Julāʾi’s Short Story for an Analysis of More Recent Developments in Iranian Society The preceding analysis seemed to take us far away from the present. Initially, we were mainly concerned with the Constitutional Revolution at the beginning of the twentieth century and then turned to Islamic demonology. But Julāʾi is not a writer 102 Miti-Jenn 52.8: .‫ﻣﻨﻮﺭﺍﻟﻔﮑﺮﻫﺎ ﺩﯾﺮﺑﺎﻭﺭﻧﺪ‬ 103 Miti-Jenn 40.18–22. 104 Winker (1936: 9) describes a comparable scene: An ʿifrit first increases to a considerable height and then sinks down. Finally he disappears under the earth. 105 Miti-Jenn 53.14–18. 106 Miti-Jenn 54.1–2: ‫ﺍﮔﺮ ﺑﺮ ﺍﺣﻮﺍﻝ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺛﺎﺑﺖ ﻗﺪﻡ ﺑﻮﺩﯼ ﺍﯾﻦ ﭼﻨﯿﻦ ﺍﻣﻮﺭ ﻭﻫﻤﯿﻪ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺴﺨﺮﻩ‬ 107

.‫ﻧﻤﯽ ﮔﺮﻓﺘﯽ‬ Miti-Jenn 53.4–5: .‫ﺁﻧﮑﺲ ﮐﻪ ﺧﺮﺍﻓﺎﺕ ﺭﺍ ﺩﺭ ﺑﺴﺖ ﺑﺎﻃﻞ ﻣﯽ ﺩﺍﻧﺪ ﺑﻪ ﻋﻠﻢ ﺍﻋﺘﻘﺎﺩﯼ ﻧﺪﺍﺭﺩ‬

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of historical stories and novels. His literary œuvre, on the contrary, is of prime importance for the analysis of more recent social developments in Iran. Interested mainly in the present and the future, Julāʾi insisted in an interview that he had no nostalgia for the past.108 Concrete historical events only make up twenty percent of his writings and merely constitute the framework of his tales, while eighty percent is pure imagination (ḵiyāl, taḵayyol). This use of the imaginary which allows Julāʾi to bridge the gap between the past and the present, is well illustrated by an episode at the very end of Miti-Jenn.109 The narrator, trying to explain the different experiences during JahāngirKhan’s last walk through Tehran from a rational point of view, has to concede that this is nearly impossible. Having recalled the general atmosphere of tyranny in the capital, he alludes to the political and social tensions for which he holds a despotic Shah responsible. In these circumstances, he insists that the appearance of an exceptional creature like Miti-Jenn is absolutely rational.110 In their affliction, people consider Miti-Jenn a sign of the approach of the end of time (az ʿalāyem-e āḵer oz-zamān). Praying to God, they secretly beg a thousand times each day not to be deprived of this extraordinary creature who all alone bears the burden of the Iranian nation.111 Julāʾi once more alludes to the prayers of the people.112 If every day, he explains, the cold sighs of a desperate nation rose to heaven, they would finally cause a thin fissure in God’s throne. Through this fissure, the jenn and paris would descend on earth to help humankind. By introducing the idea of jenn and paris descending to earth, Julāʾi rejects another interpretation. The concept of the end of time recalls the figure of the Mehdi re-establishing a just order on earth where previously, terror and tyranny were omnipresent.113 Maybe Miti-Jenn assumes a comparable role by defending

108 Interview with Reżā Julāʾi published on: http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx?id=219, p. 3. 109 Miti-Jenn 54.15–55.10. 110 Miti-Jenn 54.21–23:

‫ﺩﺭ ﺍﻭﺿﺎﻉ ﻭﺍﺣﻮﺍﻟﯽ ﺷﺒﯿﻪ ﺑﻪ ﺁﻧﭽﻪ ﻣﻠﺖ ﻭﺷﺎﻩ ﻣﺴﺘﺒﺪ ﻭﻟﻮﻃﯿﻬﺎ ﻭﻣﻌﻠﻖ ﺯﻧﻬﺎ ﻭﺷﺎﻣﻮﺭﺗﯽ ﺑﺎﺯﻫﺎ ﭘﺪﯾﺪ ﺁﻭﺭﺩﻩ‬ .‫ ﻇﻬﻮﺭ ﻣﻮﺟﻮﺩﯼ ﺁﻧﭽﻨﺎﻧﯽ ﻣﻨﻄﻘﯽ ﺑﻮﺩ‬،‫ﺑﻮﺩﻧﺪ‬ 111 Miti-Jenn 46.4–10:

‫ﺑﻨﺪﻩ ﺩﺭ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺑﺎﺏ ﮐﻪ ﭼﮕﻮﻧﻪ ﻣﯿﺮﺯﺍﯼ ﻗﺪﮐﻤﺎﻧﭽﻪ ﺑﺘﻨﻬﺎﯾﯽ ﺑﺎﺭ ﻣﻠﺘﯽ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻪ ﺩﻭﺵ ﮔﺮﻓﺖ ﻭﺍﯾﻦ ﮐﻪ ﺩﺭ ﺑﻌﻀﯽ‬ ‫ ﺧﻼﯾﻖ ﺗﻦ ﺑﻪ ﺍﻧﻮﺍﻉ ﺿﺠﺮﺕ ﻭﻣﮑﺎﻓﺎﺕ ﺳﭙﺮﺩﻩ ﺩﻡ ﺑﺮ ﻧﻤﯽ ﺁﻭﺭﻧﺪ ﻭﺩﺭ ﭘﻨﻬﺎﻥ ﺭﻭﺯﯼ ﻫﺰﺍﺭ ﺑﺎﺭ ﺩﺳﺖ‬،‫ﺍﺣﻮﺍﻝ‬ ‫ﺑﻪ ﺩﻋﺎ ﺑﺮﺩﺍﺷﺘﻪ ﮐﻪ ﺧﺪﺍﻭﻧﺪ ﺳﺎﯾﻪ ﻣﯿﺘﯽ ﺟﻦ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺳﺮ ﺁﻧﺎﻥ ﮐﻢ ﻧﮑﻨﺪ ﻭﺣﺘﯽ ﯾﮑﺒﺎﺭ ﻫﻤﺘﯽ ﻭﻟﻮ ﺑﻪ ﮐﻼﻡ ﺍﺯ‬ ‫[ ﺻﺤﺒﺘﯽ ﻧﺪﺍﺭﻡ ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﺎﻧﺎ ﺑﻪ‬...] ‫ﺧﻮﺩ ﻧﺸﺎﻥ ﻧﻤﯽ ﺩﻫﻨﺪ ﻭﺍﯾﻦ ﮐﻪ ﺍﯾﻨﻬﺎ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻼﯾﻢ ﺁﺧﺮﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ ﺍﺳﺖ ﯾﺎ ﻧﻪ‬ .‫ﻣﺒﺎﺣﺚ ﻓﺮﺍﻋﻘﻞ ﺩﺧﺎﻟﺖ ﺩﺍﺭﺩ‬

112 Miti-Jenn 54.23–25. 113 For the figure of the Mehdi, see: Halm 2005: 36–39.

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people’s rights under the extremely difficult circumstances prevailing during the Constitutional Revolution. From an exclusively rational point of view – which is unacceptable to the author – we have to ask whether Miti-Jenn has to be identified with the soteriological figure of the Mehdi. Such an explanation may be confirmed by linguistic evidence.114 In southern Tehran, e. g. at Meydān-e Šuš or Shah ʿAbd ol-ʿAẓim, the name Mehdi is pronounced Meyti or even Miti.115 In the figure of Miti-Jenn, several concepts merge. On the one hand, he assumes the role of the Mehdi appearing at the end of time to re-establish a just state of affairs and to drive away the usurpers. On the other, the author has recourse to Islamic demonology, and he integrates in his short story different elements of this widespread belief. In conclusion, I would like to highlight an aspect which has passed unnoticed so far. Julāʾi mentions several times that the different actors resemble each other. Twice Jahāngir-Khan, clearly embarrassed, says that the demonical creature which appeared to him resembled the narrator. He explicitly compares the hat of the spectre to the one the narrator used to wear.116 In a second instance, JahāngirKhan directly likens Miti-Jenn to the narrator. He is even convinced that he has long been acquainted with this imaginary creature.117 The possible identity of the main actors, namely the narrator, Jahāngir-Khan, and Miti-Jenn, calls for an explanation. In Islamic demonology, we encounter the conviction that human beings have a qarin, a raʾiyy, a tābiʿ, a ṣāḥib or a šayṭān.118 All these expressions denote a sort of double of the individual. In Persian, this idea is expressed by the term ham-zād which refers to a creature born along with the individual.119 The word ham-zād does not occur in Julāʾi’s text. This, however, does not mean that the concept itself is absent from it. Jahāngir-Khan repeatedly insists on  

114 The term miti is once vocalized in the text (Miti-Jenn 33.17). 115 I thank Dr. Hamid Hosrawi, University of Zurich, for this information. 116 Miti-Jenn 43.17–19:

‫ﺑﻐﺘﺔ ﺷﺨﺺ ﺳﯿﺎﻫﭙﻮﺷﯽ ﺭﺍ ﺩﯾﺪﻡ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻃﺮﯾﻘﻪ ﻏﯿﺮ ﻣﻌﻤﻮﻝ ﺟﻠﻮ ﺁﻣﺪﻩ ﺷﻨﻞ ﺳﯿﺎﻫﯽ ﺑﺮ ﺩﻭﺵ ﻭﮐﻼﻩ ﻗﺎﺑﻠﻤﻪ‬ .‫ﺍﯼ – ﺷﺒﯿﻪ ﺑﻪ ﮐﻼﻫﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺗﻮ ﮔﺎﻩ ﺑﺮ ﺳﺮ ﻣﯽ ﮔﺬﺍﺭﯼ – ﺑﺮ ﺳﺮ ﺩﺍﺷﺖ‬ 117 Miti-Jenn 52.4–6: ‫ ﻣﺜﻞ‬:‫ ﻟﺬﺍ ﺑﻪ ﺍﻭ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ‬.‫ ﺷﺒﺎﻫﺖ ﺑﺎ ﺷﻤﺎ ﺩﺍﺷﺖ‬... ‫ﺍﮔﺮ ﻭﻫﻨﯽ ﺑﺮ ﺷﻤﺎ ﻧﺒﺎﺷﺪ ﺍﻧﺪﮐﯽ‬ .‫ﺁﻥ ﮐﻪ ﺷﻤﺎﺭﺍ ﻣﯽ ﺷﻨﺎﺳﻢ‬ 118 For further information, see Henninger 1963:302 with note 176; Eilers 1979: 64; Dols 1992: 304; Pielow 1998: 48; Fartacek 2010: 60 f. 119 Ham-zād: Hedāyat 1963: 42, 86:

‫ﻣﺸﻬﻮﺭ ﺍﺳﺖ ﮐﻪ ﭼﻮﻥ ﻓﺮﺯﻧﺪﯼ ﻣﺘﻮﻟﺪ ﺷﻮﺩ ﺟﻨﯽ ﻫﻢ ﺑﺎ ﺍﻭ ﺑﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﻣﯽ ﺁﯾﺪ ﻭ ﺑﺎ ﺁﻥ ﺷﺨﺺ ﻫﻤﺮﺍﻩ ﻣﯽ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ‬ .‫ﻭﺁﻥ ﺟﻦ ﺭﺍ ﻫﻤﺰﺍﺩ ﻣﯿﮕﻮﯾﻨﺪ‬ This definition is taken from Borhān 1342/1963. See also Eilers 1979: 36, 38, 51, 63.

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his feeling that somebody is following on his heels, and each time, the expression ham-rāh, ham-rāhi is used.120 The underlying idea is the same. At the end of the story, Julāʾi confirms this interpretation. The narrator explicitly presents himself to the reader as Miti-Jenn.121 The figure of the narratorMiti-Jenn, evidently a double of the journalist Jahāngir-Khan, was printing leaflets to help people who suffered from tyranny.122 He considers it his duty to awaken the Iranian nation. His task is complicated by the extreme degree of social disunity and political fragmentation (šeddat-e tafarroq-o tašattot).123 Because of this disunity, the various political actors in Iran were quarrelling about their inheritance around the deathbed of their native country during the Constitutional Revolution.124 This final observation leads one to question whether the appearance of an extraordinary being like Miti-Jenn might indeed resolve the problems and difficulties Iran has had to face more recently ̶ problems and difficulties essentially due to various kinds of disunity.

Bibliography ʿAliḵāni, Yusuf (2001) Nasl-e Sevvom. Dāstān-nevisi-ye Emruz. Tehran. Allafi, Mohammad H. (2000): Ein Fenster zur Freiheit: 100 Jahre moderne iranische Literatur – drei Autorengenerationen. Frankfurt am Main. ʿĀmeri, Hušang (1388/2009): Az Reżā Šāh tā Moḥammad Reżā Pahlavi: Mošāhedāt va Ḵāterāt-e Mirzā Javād Ḵān ʿĀmeri (Moʿin-al-Mamālek). Tehran. Balaÿ, Christophe / Cuypers, Michel (1983): Aux Sources de la Nouvelle Persane. Paris. Borhān, Moḥammad Ḥosayn ebn-e Ḵalaf (1342/1963 [1063 h.q./1653]): Borhān-e Qāṭeʿ, edited by Moḥammad Moʿin. Tehran. Dehḵodā, ʿAli-Akbar (1377/1998): Loḡat-nāmeh. 2nd edition. Tehran Dols, Michel W. (1992): Majnun: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society. Oxford. Eilers, Wilhelm (1979): Die Āl, ein persisches Kindbettgespenst. Munich. Eliade, Mircea (1989): Le mythe de l’éternel retour. Paris. Fartacek, Gebhard (2010): Unheil durch Dämonen? Geschichten und Diskurse über das Wirken der Ǧinn. Eine sozialanthropologische Spurensuche in Syrien. Vienna. Halm, Heinz (2005): Die Schiiten. Munich. Hedāyat, Ṣādeq (1963): Nirangestān. Tehran. 120 Miti-Jenn 47.5: .‫ﺩﺭ ﺗﻤﺎﻡ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﺪﺕ ﻫﻤﺮﺍﻩ ﺑﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻮﺩ‬ Miti-Jenn 54.9–10: .‫ﻣﯿﺘﯽ ﺍﺯ ﻣﺪﺗﻬﺎ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺍﻭﺭﺍ ﻫﻤﺮﺍﻫﯽ ﻣﯽ ﮐﺮﺩ ﻭﺑﻪ ﺭﯾﺸﺶ ﻣﯽ ﺧﻨﺪﯾﺪ‬ See also Ṣ. Hedāyat’s definition in footnote 119: “wa bā ān šaḵṣ ham-rāh mi-bāšad”. 121 Miti-Jenn 55.9–10. 122 Miti-Jenn 55.1–8. 123 Miti-Jenn 55.6. 124 Miti-Jenn 42.2–6.

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Henninger, Joseph (1963): Geisterglaube bei den vorislamischen Arabern. Vienna. Julāʾi, Reżā (1362/1983): Ḥekāyat-e Selseleh-ye Pošt-kamānān. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1368/1989): Jāmeh be Ḵun-āb. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1369/1990): Šab-e Ẓolmāni-ye Yaldā-o Ḥadiṯ-e Dord-kešān. 2nd ed. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1371/1992): Tālār-e Ṭarab-ḵāneh. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1374/1995): Suʾ-e Qaṣd be Ḏāt-e Homāyuni. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1376/1997): Jāvedānegān. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1377/1998): Nastaran-hā-ye Ṣurati. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1380/2001): Bārān-hā-ye Sabz. Tehran. Julāʾi, Reżā (1381/2002): Simāb-o Kimiyā-ye Jān. Tehran. MacDonald, D.B. / Pellat, Ch. (1965): “Ghūl” in: Encyclopaedia of Islam. 2nd ed., edited by P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W.P. Heinrichs. Leiden: 2:1078:b. Meier, Fritz (1975): “Die Stellung des Geisterglaubens im Islam.” Paper presented at the XIX. Deutscher Orientalistentag in Freiburg i.Br. (Manuscript available at the Fritz Meier Nachlass NL 323: D 4.3.11, Universitätsbibliothek Basel). Basel. Mir-ʿĀbedini, Ḥasan (1999): Ṣad Sāl Dastān-nevisi-ye Irān. Tehran. Moṣāḥeb, Ḡolam-Ḥosayn (1380/2001): Dāʾerat ol-Maʿāref-e Fārsi. Tehran. Nünlist, Tobias (2005): “Verschobene Zeiten – über den iranischen Erzähler Reżā Jula’i.” Orte. Schweizer Literaturzeitschrift 139: 47–51. Nünlist, Tobias (2015): Dämonenglaube im Islam. Berlin. Omidsalar, Mahmoud / Omidsalar, Teresa P. (2003): “Ḡul.” In Encyclopaedia Iranica, edited by Ehsan Yarshater et al. New York: 11:393–395. Parvin, Nāṣer al-Din (1998): Tāriḫ-e ruz-nāme-negāri-ye Irāniyān-o digar pārsi-nevisān. 2 vols. Tehran. Pielow, Dorothee (1998): Lilith und ihre Schwestern. Düsseldorf. Šakurzāda, Ebrāhim / Omidsalar, Mahmoud (1987): “Čašm-Zaḵm.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, edited by Ehsan Yarshater et al. 5: 44–47. Talattof, Kamran (2000): The Politics of Writing in Iran. A History of Modern Persian Literature. Syracuse. Wakeman, John (ed.) (1987/1988): World Film Directors. 2 vols. New York. Wensinck, Arent J. (1923): “The Semitic New Year and the Origin of Eschatology.” Acta Orientalia 1: 158–199. Winker, H.A. (1936): Die reitenden Geister der Toten. Stuttgart.

Internet Sources (last consulted in January 2010) Reżā Julāʾi’s official website: www.rezajoulaee.com. Yusef ʿAliḵāni interview with R. Julāʾi: http://sokhan.com/articles.asp?ID=31010. Interview with R. Julāʾi, in: Qābil. Majalle-ye dāstān-o šeʿr. (http://www.ghabil.com/article.aspx? id=219). Review of Simāb-o kimiyā-ye jān, from Ḥ. Mir-ʿĀbedini: http://sokhan.com/articles.asp? ID=3690660001 Entry of Dāriuš Mehrjuʾi in the “Internet Movie Database”: http://www.imdb.com/name/ nm0576529/. http://www.niazpardaz.com/‫ﺍﺯ‬20%‫ﺭﺿﺎﺷﺎﻩ‬20%‫ﺗﺎ‬20%‫ﻣﺤﻤﺪﺭﺿﺎ‬20%‫ﭘﻬﻠﻮﯼ‬-a-179106.

Note on Contributors Katajun Amirpur is Professor of Islamic Studies/Islamic Theology at the University of Hamburg. Her research topics are: Islam and gender as well as reformist approaches to the Qurʾan. She is the author of several books including “Den Islam neu denken: Der Dschihad für Demokratie, Freiheit und Frauenrechte”, “Unterwegs zu einem anderen Islam: Texte iranischer Denker (Buchreihe der Georges Anawati Stiftung)”, “Abdolkarim Soruschs theologische Hoffnungszeichen: Iran” and “Die Entpolitisierung des Islam: ʿAbdolkarīm Sorušs Denken und Wirkung in der Islamischen Republik Iran”. Roswitha Badry is Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Freiburg, Germany. Her publications and research interests center on the modern history of North Africa and the Middle East, the continued influence of classical ideas in modern Islam, Shiite Islam, gender issues and (auto-)biographies of religious scholars. Her publications include “Liebe, Sexualität, Ehe und Partnerschaft – Paradigmen im Wandel. Beiträge zur Orientalistischen Gender-Forschung”, coedited with Maria Rohrer and Karin Steiner (Freiburg, 2009). Katja Föllmer is senior lecturer and interim director of the Institute for Iranian Studies at the Georg-August University of Göttingen and member of the research team of the ERC project “Private Pieties. Mundane Islam and New Forms of Muslim Religiosity: Impact on Contemporary Social and Political Dynamics”. She is the author of “Satire in Iran von 1990 bis 2000 – Eine Analyse exemplarischer Texte” and “Farid ud-Din Attar: Die Konferenz der Vögel” (a German translation of Attar’s Mantiq ut-tair). Her recent work focuses on the pre-Islamic heritage in 19th and 20th-century prose literature. Her fields of interest include modern Iranian culture and society, Iranian media and communication, Iranian satire, film and press, classical and modern Persian literature. Erika Friedl is Professor emerita of Anthropology at the Western Michigan University. She has spent many years doing ethnographic research in Iran, mostly on women’s and children’s issues. She is the author of “The Women of Deh Koh: Lives in an Iranian Village”, “Folk Tales from a Persian Tribe: Forty-Five Tales from Sisakht in Luri and English”, “Children of Deb Koh: Young Life in an Iranian Village” as well as the co-editor of “In the Eye of the Storm: Women in PostRevolutionary Iran”. Ramin Jahanbegloo is a political philosopher. He is presently the Executive Director of the Mahatma Gandhi Centre for Nonviolence and Peace Studies and the Vice-Dean of the School of Law at Jindal Global University Delhi, India. He was an Associated Professor of Political Science and a Research Fellow in the Centre for Ethics at University of Toronto from 2008 to 2012 and an Associate Professor of Political Science at York University in Toronto from 2012 to 2015. Among his many publications are “Iran: Between Tradition and Modernity” (Lexington Books, 2004) and

DOI 10.1515/9783110399882-009

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“Civil Society and Democracy in Iran” (Lexington Press, 2011), and “Democracy in Iran” (Palgrave 2013). He is the winner of the Peace Prize of the United Nations Association in Spain (2009) for his extensive academic works in promoting dialogue between cultures and his advocacy for nonviolence. Astrid Meier is Deputy Director of the Orient-Institut Beirut since October 2013. From 2011 to 2013 she was visiting professor of Islamic and Arabic studies at the University of Halle-Wittenberg. Her research is focussed on the social and legal history of early-modern Ottoman Syria as well as on famines and food systems in pre-colonial and colonial Sudanic Africa. Her current research project aims at shedding more light on rural societies in the Middle East between 1750 and 1850. She has also worked extensively on Arabic historiography and biographical writing. Tobias Nünlist is a Privatdozent and researcher at the Asia-Orient Institute (Department of Islamic Studies) of the University of Zurich. His research topics are Islamic demonology, magical practices, Persian literature, and codicology. He is actually preparing a study on devotional scrolls of high quality dating from the 14th to the 19th centuries. He is the author of “Himmelfahrt und Heiligkeit im Islam”, “Dämonenglaube im Islam”, and “Katalog der Handschriften der Zentralbibliothek Zürich”. Amir Sheikhzadegan is a senior researcher at the University of Fribourg. He has been a visiting fellow at the Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO) in Berlin as well as at the Religion and Society Research Center of the Western Sydney University (Australia). He is the author of “Der Griff des politischen Islam zur Macht: Iran und Algerien im Vergleich” (2003) as well as the co-editor of “Die Schweiz zwischen Multi- und Transkulturalität” (2015). His fields of interest include societal change in Iran, Islam in Switzerland, Islam and modernity, civil society, spiritual transformation and narrative identity.

Index of Names and Places ʿAbbāsqolizādeh, Maḥbubeh 102, 105 ʿAbdi, ʿAbbās 51 Abrahamian, Ervand 32 Abū Zaid, Naṣr Ḥāmid 52 Adorno, Theodor W. 68 Ahmadinejad, Mahmoud 1, 63, 96, 101, 105, 107 Aḥmadzādeh, Masʿud 27 Al-Ahmad See Āl-e Aḥmad, Jalāl Āl-e Aḥmad, Jalāl 7–8, 17, 20, 22–23, 25–26, 46, 60–61, 64, 66–67, 69, 71–72, 75, 93, 132 ʿAli, Imām 28, 93 Allafi, Mohammad H. 155–156, 160 Arāni, Taqi 38 Arendt, Hannah 73 Arkoun, Muhammad 108 Asad, Talal 5 Ashraf, Ahmad 2 Āšuri, Dāriuš 66, 74 Bani Eʿtemād, Raḵšān 142–143, 145–152 Bāqi, ʿEmād od-Din 51, 73 Barāheni, Reżā 158 Barlas, Asma 108 Basel 7, 11 Baširiyeh, Ḥosayn 32, 74 Bayat, Assef 60 Bāzargān, Mahdi 39–42, 51 Boir Ahmad 9, 112, 115–117, 119, 121 Borges, Jorges Luis 158 Boroujerdi, Mehrzad 61, 71 Borujerdi, Ayatollah Sayyed Ḥosayn 34, 36, 38 Bultmann, Rudolf 76 Castro, Fidel 27 Che Guevara, Ernesto 27, 45 Comte, August 3 Corbin, Henry 46 Cortázar, Julio 158 Dabbāḡ, Ḥosayn Ḥājj Farajollāh See Soruš, ʿAbdolkarim Dāvari, Reżā 67–68, 71–72, 74

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Derrida, Jacques 52, 54, 61 Dilthey, Wilhelm 52 Dorri-Najafābādi, Qorbān-ʿAli 61 Doulatābādi, Maḥmud 158 Dubai 50 ʿEbādi, Širin 100, 105 Ehsani, Kaveh 32 ʿEnāyat, Ḥamid 23 Engels, Friedrich 23 Faḵr-e Rāzi, Imām Abu-ʿAbdollāh Moḥhammad 77 Fanon, Frantz 7, 17, 23, 27, 46 Fardid, Aḥmad 8, 67–69, 71 Fāṭemeh See Fātima, the Prophet’s daughter Fātima, the Prophet’s daughter 93–94 Feuerbach, Ludwig 3 Floor, Willem 2 Foruḡi Bastāmi, Mirzā-ʿAbbas 77 Foucault, Michel 52, 90 France 42 Freire, Paulo 3 Freud, Sigmund 68 Fromm, Erich 3 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 52, 54 Ḡaninežād, Musā 74 Ganji, Akbar 51, 63, 71, 73–74 Golesorḵi, Ḵosrou 28 Golširi, Hušang 158 Gulf, Persian 26 Habermas, Jürgen 52 Ḥāʾeri Yazdi, Mahdi 51 Ḥajjāriān, Saʿid 51 Hāšemi Rafsanjāni, ʿAli Akbar 48 Heidegger, Martin 23, 52, 67–68, 72 Hick, John 77–80 Hollywood 131–132, 142–143 Ḥosayn, Imām 21, 28 Ḥosein See Ḥosayn, Imām Huntington, Samuel P. 65

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Illich, Ivan 3 Irāni, Nāṣer 70–71 Isfahan 134 Jaʿfari, Šaʿbān 18 Jahanbegloo, Ramin 71 Jalāʾipur, Ḥamid Reżā 73 Julāʾi, Reżā 11, 155–169, 171–175

Mojtahed Šabestari, Moḥammad 8, 51, 75–76, 80–81, 103 Montaẓeri, Ayatollah Ḥosayn-ʿAli 51, 72 Moṣaddeq, Moḥammad 1, 6–8, 17–20, 26–27, 29, 31, 35, 37, 39–42, 55, 71, 159 Moṭahhari, Ayatollah Morteżā 9, 92–94, 101, 104 Muḥammad, the Prophet 51, 54, 79

Kadivar, Moḥsen 8, 51, 75, 78–79, 101 Kamrava, Mehran 66, 76 Kār, Mehrangiz 100 Karbala 21, 28 Karbāsči, Ḡolāmḥosein 49–50 Karun 116 Katouzian, Homa 1, 19 Keddie, Nikki R. 31 Khameneʾi, Sayyed Ali 95 Khatami, Mohammad 54, 62–65, 67, 69, 72, 74, 95–96 Khiabany, Gholam 32 Khomeini, Ayatollah Ruhollah 8, 17, 20–22, 25–26, 28–29, 44–45, 47, 50, 61, 63–64, 81, 90–91, 95 Khosravi, Shahram 32 Kimiyāʾi, Masʿud 134–136, 138, 150, 152 Kuh-e-Dena 116, 121

Naficy, Hamid 134, 142, 149 Nāʾini, Ayatollah Mirzā Moḥammad Ḥosayn 33, 37, 41, 43 Najmabadi, Afsaneh 2 Narāqi, Eḥsān 23 Nuri, Ayatollah ʿAbdollāh 103 Nuri, Sheikh Fażlollāh 22, 29

Lankarāni, Moḥammad Fāżel 101 Lefebvre, Henri 4 London 52 Lyotard, Jean-François 52

Qābel, Aḥmad 72 Qājārs 1 Qom 20, 35, 37–38, 71, 76, 80

Mahdavi Kani, Ayatollah Moḥammad Reżā 73 Mahdi, Imām 20, 104 Marquez, Gabriel García 158 Marshall, Garry 143 Marx, Karl 3, 23, 68 Mashhad 39, 138 Massignon, Louis 46 Mehrjuʾi, Dāriuš 137, 149, 159 Meṣbāḥ Yazdi, Moḥammad Taqi 63 Meybodi, Fāżel 71 Mir Salim, Moṣtafā 62 Mirsepassi, Ali 22 Moḥammad ʿAli Shah 159, 163, 171

Orwell, George 29 Pahlavi regime 6, 10, 26–27, 45 Pahlavi, Mohammad Reza Shah 8, 17–19, 26, 28, 34, 36, 133 Pahlavi, Reza Shah 6–8, 19, 34, 117, 119, 133 Pannenberg, Wolfhart 76 Paris 46, 113 Parsons, Talcott 3 Popper, Karl 68

Rahnavard, Zahrā 101 Rāšed, Ḥosayn-ʿAli 36–37, 43, 46 Reimer, Everett 3 Ricœur, Paul 52 Rostow, Walt W. 4 Rouhani, Hassan 1, 55 Šaʿbān Bimoḵ See Jaʿfari, Šaʿbān Šabestari See Mojtahed Šabestari, Moḥammad Saʿdi Širāzi, Mošref-od-Din 108 Ṣadr, Šādi 106 Sadri, Mahmoud 52, 69 Sāʿedi, Ḡolāmḥoseyn 137, 149 Saeed, Abdullah 97

Index of Names and Places

Saḥābi, Yadollāh 40–42 Saʿidzādeh, Hojjat ol-Eslām Moḥsen 100, 102 Salvatore, Armando 3 Saqafi, Morād 62, 75 Šariʿati, ʿAli 8–9, 17, 21–23, 25, 27–28, 46, 60–61, 64, 66–67, 69–73, 75, 81, 93–94 Šariʿati, Moḥammad Taqi 39–40, 46 Šariʿatmadāri, Ayatollah Sayyed Moḥammad Kāẓem 37, 43, 47 Sartre, Jean-Paul 23 Šāyegān, Dāriuš 23, 74 Šerkat, Šahlā 100 Shiraz 121, 156 Sisakht 10, 113–122, 124–125 Siyahkal 27 Soruš, ʿAbdolkarim 8, 51–54, 66–72, 76–80, 103 Spinoza, Baruch de 68 Sreberny, Annabelle 32 Ṭabāṭabāʾi, ʿAllāmeh Sayyed Moḥammad Ḥosayn 37–38, 77, 80–81 Ṭabāṭabāʾi, Javād 71–72 Talattof, Kamran 155 Ṭāleqāni, Ayatollah Sayyed Maḥmud 39–42, 70 Ṭāleqāni, Aʿẓam 102 Tapper, Richard 2 Tavakoli-Targhi, Mohamad 4

181

Tavassoli, Sasan 75–76 Tehran 32, 35, 37, 39, 41–42, 49–50, 52, 65, 67, 105, 113, 119, 122, 155, 161–164, 166–167, 169–170, 172–174 Tehrāni, Reżā 70, 75 Tillich, Paul Johannes 76, 80 Turkey 50 UK, the 6 USA, the 6, 39, 42, 44, 71 Vakil, Sanam 32 Voṯuqi, Behruz 135 Weber, Max 52, 68 Wehling, Peter 3 Yasuj 114 Yazd 134 Yazid 28 Yeroushalmi, David 2 Yusefi-Eškevari, Ḥasan 8, 51, 103 Zagros 9, 116, 121 Zāhedi, General Fażlollāh 18 Zanjāni, Ayatollah Sayyed Reżā 40 Zaynab, the Prophet’s granddaughter 94 Zibā Kalām, Ṣādeq 73 Zinnemann, Fred 138