The Discovery of Iran: Taghi Arani, a Radical Cosmopolitan 9781503629806

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The Discovery of Iran

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The Discovery of Iran Taghi Arani, a Radical Cosmopolitan

Ali Mirsepassi

Stanford University Press Stanford, California

S ta nfor d U n i v er si t y Pr e ss Stanford, California ©2021 by Ali Mirsepassi. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free, archival-­quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Mirsepassi, Ali, author. Title: The discovery of Iran : Taghi Arani, a radical cosmopolitanism / Ali Mirsepassi. Description: Stanford, California : Stanford University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: L CCN 2021010706 (print) | L CCN 2021010707 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503629141 (cloth) | ISBN 9781503629806 (ebook) Subjects: L CSH: Arrānī, Taqī—Political and social views. | Nationalism— Iran—History—20th century. | Cosmopolitanism—Iran—History— 20th century. | Philosophy, Marxist—Iran—History—20th century. | Iran—Intellectual life—20th century. Classification: LCC HX385.2.A8 M67 2021 (print) | LCC HX385.2.A8 (ebook) | DDC 335.4092—dc23 L C record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010706 L C ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010707 Cover photograph: Sepah Square, the main square in Tehran, Iran, April 20, 1946. (AP Photo/Tom Fitzsimmons) Cover design: Rob Ehle Typeset by Kevin Barrett Kane

For Arshid

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Contents

Acknowledgments ix Note on Transliteration xi Timeline: Taghi Arani’s Life and Work xiii INTRODUC TION: 1 Transnational

Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

Cosmopolitanism: Arani’s Life and Times

1 33

2 Among

the Nationalists in Berlin, 1922–­1929

71

3 Arani’s

Early Writings: A Racialized National Narrative

85

4 For

a Radical Cosmopolitan Iran

106

5 The

Persian Language, Past and Present

126

6 ʿErfan,

Reason, and the Nation

CONCLUSION: An Unfinished Iranian Enlightenment Notes  171 Selected Bibliography  193 Index  199

141 158

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Acknowledgments

Over the course of writing and producing this book, I benefited from the invaluable help of colleagues, friends, and students. I offer to them my genuine gratitude for making this study a more compelling piece of scholarship than would have been possible without the benefit of their insight and advice. Before I committed to carrying out this study, I discussed with Arash Azizi the possibility of completing a joint study on Taghi Arani. While we soon realized that our two discrete visions might uneasily cohabit a single volume, Arash encouraged me to see the project through, and kindly permitted me to use in this book some of his translations of Arani’s essays. As I completed the study, I revisited and edited these translations, and added to them some of my own. Bita Mousavi worked with me during the isolating months of the Covid­19 pandemic to edit and produce the final manuscript. Her careful editing and thoughtful comments have enhanced the book’s clarity and argumentation. My sincere gratitude to Bita for her contributions to this book, and for the substantial time she has devoted to it. Tadd Fernee edited an earlier version of the manuscript, and I remain appreciative of his contribution. Mehdi Faraji, Zoya Honarmand, Mehmet Darakçıoğlu, Younes Jalali, Tehreem Nahar, and Hossein Kamali assisted me with translations, identification of source materials, and editing, and to them all I am grateful. Ervand Abrahamian, Eskandar Sadeghi-­Boroujerdi, and Siavush Randjbar-­Daemi reviewed an earlier version of this study, which benefited greatly from their incisive comments. I am indebted to them for constructive

x Acknowledgments

critiques and collegial advice. The two anonymous reviewers at Stanford University Press provided thoughtful feedback, which I have endeavored to incorporate in the following pages. To Stanford University Press’s stellar editor, Kate Wahl, whose comments helped place the study’s argument on a more sound footing, and whose editorial guidance made its publication possible, I owe special thanks. I am fortunate to have worked with Kate and her team, including Caroline McKusick, and I express my appreciation to them for seeing this study to completion. Lastly, I am grateful for the unstinting support I continue to receive from the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at New York University. I owe a great deal of thanks to the dean of the Gallatin School, Susanne Wofford, and to the faculty and students at NYU, whom I am proud to call colleagues.

Note on Transliteration

The transliteration of Persian words and names follows the system suggested by the Iranian Studies Journal, with the following exceptions: • The consonant ghayn is represented by “gh” and qaf by “q,” but this difference has not been retained in the transliteration of “Taghi.” Instead, the most common rendering of Arani’s given name has been used throughout. • For the names of individuals, their own preferred spelling is used if accessible. Where this information was not available, the most common transliteration is used. In general, ʿayns and hamzas have been omitted wherever a name is commonly transliterated without them. • Current Persian pronunciation has been followed, except when transliterating Arabic. In such cases the International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies transliteration scheme is followed.

Dates In some cases, two dates are used to cite Persian materials (e.g., 1395/2016). In such cases, the first date is based on the solar hijri calendar, which is currently used in Iran, and the second one is its equivalent Common Era date.

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Timeline Taghi Arani’s Life and Work

1902

September 5: Arani is born in Tabriz.

1906

October 7: Mozaffar al-­Din Shah signs the new constitution.

1908



Arani starts primary school and takes Qurʾan and Arabic lessons in Tabriz.1

1912

Arani’s family leaves Tabriz for Tehran.

1914

World War I breaks out. Iran declares neutrality. British, Russian, and Ottoman armies enter and occupy Iran. Arani starts high school in Tehran.

1919

1920

1920

1922



Arani participates in a demonstration against the Anglo-­ Iranian Agreement of 1919. Arani graduates from high school and enters the School of Medicine in Tehran. June: The Communist Party of Iran is founded in Bandar Anzali, Gilan. August: Arani leaves Tehran for Berlin. He takes up a job at Kaviani Press in Berlin. October: Arani is admitted as a visiting student to Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin (Friedrich-­ Wilhelms-­Universität zu Berlin).

1923

March: Arani enrolls full-­time in Berlin University.

xiv Timeline

1924



February: Arani writes “The Persian Language” for Berlin-­based Persian journal Iranshahr. Spring: Arani meets the well known German Orientalist and Iran scholar Friedrich Rosen. August: Arani authors “Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran,” published in the Berlin-­based Persian journal Farangestan.

1925



Arani edits and publishes several classic Persian texts by Saʿdi, Naser Khosrow, Omar Khayyam, and Obeid Zakani (in collaboration with Mohammad Qazvini and Friedrich Rosen). Arani starts teaching Persian at the Oriental Languages Institute of Berlin. Arani and a small group of Iranian students in Berlin found the Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia (RRPP). December 15: Reza Khan takes his imperial oath, becoming the Shah of Iran.

1926

1926

1927

1928



April 26: Reza Khan is coronated Reza Shah Pahlavi, ruling Iran until his forced abdication in 1941. December: Arani receives funding from Iran’s Ministry of War to continue his studies in Berlin, and pens a collection of books in Persian published by Kaviani Press as Series in Exact Sciences. Arani publishes Principles of the Science of the Soul, General Psychology as part of the Series in Exact Sciences series. He and two well known Iranian Marxists, Morteza Alavi and Ahmad Asadi, attend a meeting of the League against Imperialism (organized by the Comintern) in Egmont Palace, Brussels. November 29: The Iranian minister in Berlin, Yadullah Azodi, makes a request to the German Foreign Ministry for Arani’s expulsion from Germany. December 19: Arani is awarded a doctorate in chemistry from Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin.

1929



Spring: Arani leaves Berlin for Iran, where he starts working for the Ministry of War and teaching at Nizam High School.



Timeline 

xv

1931

Arani publishes Theories of Science in Tehran.

1932

Arani republishes an extended edition of his Principles of the Science of the Soul in Tehran.

1933

1934



December: The Pahlavi state grants Arani a license to publish Donya magazine. February: Inaugural issue of Donya is published in Teh ran; it contains an opening editorial by Arani. Arani publishes The Hypothesis of Relativity. February–­A pril: Arani publishes “Mysticisms and Principals of Materialism” across issues 1, 3, and 4 of Donya. June: Arani writes an important editorial appraising the reception of Donya on the occasion of the sixth issue’s release. September–­O ctober: Arani travels to Germany. December: After an eight-­month delay, the ninth issue of Donya is published.

1935



March 21: The country’s name, as used in foreign-­ language correspondences, is changed from Persia to Iran. June: Arani publishes “Changing the Persian Language” in issues 11 and 12 of Donya. September: The twelfth and final issue of Donya is published. June–­A ugust: Arani travels to Berlin to attend a science conference. As an envoy for the Ministry of War, he works on forensic chemistry issues.2 Late August–­e arly September: Before his return from Berlin to Iran, Arani spends three days in Moscow, where he meets Kamran Aslani.3

1936

1937



Summer: Arani is appointed director of education in the Ministry of Industry. February 12: The Iranian police begin arresting and detaining the Group of Fifty-­Three for their supposed involvement in communist activities.

xvi  Timeline

April: Arrest of the Fifty-­Three continues. Abdolsamad Kambakhsh is arrested.4 May 8: Arani is arrested at his home in Tehran. December: Formal charges are brought against the Fifty-­Three by the chief prosecutor. 1938

November 2–­1 5: The Fifty-­Three are tried. November 12: Arani delivers a strong defense in court for the group’s innocence and right to political activity. November 13: The chief prosecutor makes his closing argument. November 15: The court announces sentences for every member of the Fifty-­Three. Arani is sentenced to a maximum of ten years in prison.

1940

February 4: Arani dies, allegedly of typhus, in prison.

1941

August 25: Anglo-­Soviet forces invade Iran. September 16: Reza Shah Pahlavi is forced to abdicate. His son, Mohammad Reza Shah, assumes power. September: Many political prisoners, including the Fifty-­Three, are released from prison.

The Discovery of Iran

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Introduction Iranian Nationalism, Revisited “Persia, after New Year’s Day, will not be Persia anymore. . . .” New York Times, 19351

Unnaming the Nation On New Year’s Day, 1935, the Associated Press reported that a national reckoning was looming over Iran. By diplomatic decree and in one fell swoop, “Persia” would be no more, and “Iran” would come into international existence. What triggered the fall of a nation, if only in name, with so long and illustrious a history? Why would people who prided themselves of their ancient patrimony choose to reject their country’s name? Any researcher scouring contemporary Iranian newspapers for a “complete local account” of the name change will only meet with disappointment. The absence of any mention, let alone discussion, of the “end of Persia” in contemporary Iranian discourse is striking. Perhaps this is because for Iranians, Iran had never been Persia. It had been Iran for as long they could remember.2 The Iranian foreign minister had summarily demanded on December 4, 1934, that foreign governments desist in three months’ time from referring to the country as Persia. Come March 1935, they should, the decree stipulated, call it by its “real” name, Iran.3 The Iranian government sought to compel European countries in particular, as standard-­bearers of the international order, to refrain from using the name “Persia.” What inspired the Iranian state’s commitment to enforcing a name change? How has this event been interpreted by historians and scholars of modern Iran? The issue is critical, considering that the small window of time between the 1935 name change and the dawn of World War II, which coincided with the second period of Reza Shah’s rule (1934–­41), directly shaped the future of Iran as a modern nation-­state and the development of Iranian nationalism.

2 Introduction

The Associated Press speculated that the name change was motivated by the Iranian state’s desire to align the nation with the so-­called Aryan race.4 This “racial supremacy” thesis, used to explain everything from the name change to Iran’s supposedly troubled relationship with Arabs and Islam, soon supplanted all other explanations to reach the status of common wisdom as Reza Shah’s putative sympathy for Germany became well known. European governments followed suit and attributed the same motive to the name change, an about-­face they regarded with evident dismay. “Iran,” they suspected, was a racialized epithet. The British government at first found the request “silly” and considered resisting it.5 Then, as now, the racial-­supremacist thesis required little more than a glance at contemporary events and alliances emerging across Europe and in Germany to seem all too true. That some Iranian statesmen and intellectuals openly embraced German racialist ideas and willfully implicated Iran in a fictive struggle over the Aryan nation added to the credibility of the thesis. What actual evidence exists, however, for the speculated motives impugning the name change as racialist? The rationale for the name change is more intricate than the assumed desire of projecting Iran’s “Aryan” identity internationally. A fresh look at this policy’s gestation and a more nuanced perspective on Iran-­Germany relations during the 1930s, then, are required to appreciate the complexity and contingency of its motivations. The “un-­naming” of Iran was externally directed; the change in nomenclature affected foreign and, more specifically, European countries. “Iran” already circulated domestically as the nation’s name and was the historic term that neighboring Islamicate countries had for centuries used to refer to the country. Why would a government demand that foreign nations identify the country in racialized terms, while disregarding its current usage among its people? How do we explain this? The change occurred during a critical period in the formation of Iranian nationalism, so the historiographic silence surrounding the name change is curious indeed. There are two accounts as to who first broached the idea of introducing a formal change in nomenclature. Most scholars have identified the culprit using the directive Iran’s foreign minister issued to Iranian embassies abroad. The directive states that the Iranian ambassador to Germany, Abdolqasem Najm,6 an alleged Nazi sympathizer, had perhaps persuaded Reza Shah of the need for a name change.7 In Iran, however, another understanding prevailed. It was believed that Saeed Nafisi, a renowned scholar on friendly terms with Reza Shah’s advisors, had led a group of Iranian luminaries,



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

3

including former Prime Minister Mohammad Ali Foroughi and former Foreign Minister Seyed Hasan Taqizadeh, in convincing the Shah that the name change was necessary to improve the nation’s standing in the world. And there is indeed evidence of Reza Shah’s respect for Nafisi as a scholar: On the occasion of the 1934 jubilee celebrating the establishment of the Pahlavi monarchy, he commissioned Nafisi to write the history of his rule.8 Nafisi’s two-­volume survey, The Social History of Iran, continues to be considered a pioneering work of scholarship.9 Perhaps the sole document explaining the government’s rationale for the name change is a retrospective article by Nafisi, which was published in a leading Iranian daily, Ettelaʿat, on December 10, 1934, three days after Iranian officials had apprised foreign governments of the name change. Nafisi’s argument for foreign government’s use of “Iran” in place of “Persia” rested on the conviction that the former name better captured the multiethnic makeup of a nation in which Persia (Pars) was only one region. According to Nafisi, the name “Persia” could never encompass the diversity of cultures constitutive of the historical reality of Iran, and instead gave the impression of a multiethnic nation ruled by one ethnic group. Nafisi’s argument, however, was convoluted. Alongside his insistence on Iran’s ethnic plurality, he argued that these differences were in fact overridden and subsumed by a unifying identity: Iranians, he reasoned, collectively constituted a branch of the nezhad-­e sefid (white race) and were therefore Aryan. The name “Iran” promised the possibility not only of capturing Iran’s ethnic mixture without compromising it, but of evoking the grandeur of its ancient past.10 Nafisi expressed gratitude to European Orientalists for their wisdom in electing to use the term “Iran” to describe the region encompassing contemporary Iran, Afghanistan, and beyond.11 Rather than determine whether the attempt to annul “Persia” as the name for Iran does or does not confirm the existence of Iranian Aryanism, this book views the name change as, above all, institutionalizing a new autocratic mode of imagining modern Iran. The years 1934 and 1935 inaugurated a novel form of top-­down Iranian nationalism which aimed to mold the nation in the image of the king. Despite these discontinuities, Nafisi’s text still forwards the civic aspirations of the constitutionalist tradition, mechanisms for realizing which were outlined in the Iranian Constitution of 1906. Even the new autocratic nationalism of Reza Shah’s rule retained residual elements of civic nationalism. In this light, Nafisi’s clouded argument captures a new bipolar reality of civic activism moderated by autocratic force. His is not an

4 Introduction

argument motived purely by racial animus. Nafisi himself, perhaps, failed to realize the improbability of imagining Iran in a way similar to the new Republic of Turkey. Instead, he desired an ethnically “inclusive” Iran at the same time that he attempted to situate it within the pantheon of Aryanism.

Taghi Arani’s Civic Nationalism The present study critically reexamines the intellectual history of Iranian nationalism as it developed during the often overlooked interwar period (1919–­35). It does so by situating at its center the life and thought of Taghi Arani, who married the analytical insights of Marxist materialism to a cosmopolitan ethics of progress through international scientific exchange. Arani’s radical secularism combined the principles of civic nationalism with a humanist imaginary for the future of the Iranian nation. He relentlessly preached the values of modern science and of class and gender equality; but in anticolonial fashion he was skeptical of cultural capitulation to the West, unlike many of his modernist counterparts. He sought to reconcile Iran to its own history before and after the Islamic conquests, a history of syncretic exchange rejected by Persian purists as the Arabization of Iran and romanticized by their traditionalist counterparts as the apex of Iranian civilization, while reconciling its present to the modern West. Arani’s vision for Iran transcended the cultural nationalism of the secularists of his time and the Westoxification discourse dominating Iran during the second half of the twentieth century. In the process of exploring Arani’s life and writings, we uncover the fertile intellectual spaces that flourished during the interwar years, which were far from being a period of decentralization and decay. In those years, Iranian intellectuals debated distinctive ways of imagining modern Iran and produced innovative political and intellectual tracts, literary and artistic productions, and cultural spaces as they labored to “discover” a new Iran. Political and civic organizations formed in these spaces to discuss recent scientific achievements, educational reform, and the meaning of the human condition, all in an attempt to amalgamate these insights into a new national imaginary. Arani’s radical secularism bore the imprint of the spaces he traversed and the turbulence around him. He lived with his Azeri family in Tabriz until its occupation by Russian forces propelled them to relocate to Tehran. From there, Arani traveled in 1922 to Berlin to study for his doctorate in chemistry. It was in Weimar Berlin, a cultural and intellectual hub, that



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

5

Arani’s intellectual and political journey started. He was taken in by an illustrious group of Iranian nationalists who had made Berlin their home during the interwar period. Under their tutelage and at the young age of twenty-­one, Arani penned for Berlin’s leading Persian journals, Iranshahr and Farangestan, fiery defenses of Iranian nationalism and denunciations of the neo-­Ottoman contention that Iran was too ethnically fragmented to constitute a viable nation. Before long he had insinuated himself in a Berlin-­based circle of radical Iranians, yet he continued to draw inspiration from the sciences as a doctoral student in the chemistry department of Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin. Soon after arriving in Berlin, however, Arani distanced himself from his earlier nationalist posture and began to embrace the tenets of Marxism and a broad social-­scientific outlook. His exposure to those ideas furnished him with the analytical tools needed to understand modernity dialectically. It was at this point that Arani voiced a prescient critique of the antirationalist risks inherent in radical nationalists’ and traditionalists’ embrace of “mystical” thinking. It is against the rising tide of authoritarian nationalism that this book presents Taghi Arani’s writings and his vision of a cosmopolitan Iran. Rather than kowtowing to Stalinism or the fashionable quasisocialism of the statist model, Arani reinterpreted the democratic socialist tradition according to the needs and material reality of his country, in a fashion reminiscent of contemporary figures like Jawaharlal Nehru. Arani’s idea of “civic nationalism” and his cosmopolitan vision for Iran decentered Soviet Marxism as the sole alternative available to Third World reformers. Whether in Iran or during his six years in Berlin, his radicalism was tempered by his holistic care for the nation. Invested as much in questions of progress and development as in culture and language, his leftist tendencies and interest in Marxism were formed within cultural and national dimensions. Arani’s confrontation with revivalists and antimodernists is also valuable for the window it offers onto Iran’s intellectual scene in the 1930s. The decade was marked by the rise of competing secular and religious antimodernisms, both of which Arani publicly contested in the pages of Donya, the magazine he and a few associates pulled together to publish upon his return to Tehran in the 1930s. Arani’s writings during this period focalized three ideas: one, the necessity of educating Iranians in the sciences and the critical role of national education in general; two, the Persian language as the cornerstone around which a modern and secular Iranian identity ought to coalesce; and three, a critique of antimodern

6 Introduction

currents emanating from Europe, which secular and religious nativists in Iran adopted to abet their assault on the possibility of progressive social and cultural change in Iran.12  Arani’s mature writings also discussed Iran’s interlocking historical and cultural relationship with the Islamic and Arab worlds as well as with modern Europe. The pragmatism of his social-­scientific thinking led him to acknowledge as observable fact that Europe had outstripped the world in wealth and technological advancement, a reality that afforded its citizens on balance a higher living standard. Recognizing the correlation between material wealth, scientific progress, and quality of life, however, did not necessitate for Arani the capitulation of Iran, or any other developing country, to the West. While he stressed the necessity of following a European model of progress, his evolutionary (as opposed to teleological) understanding of history rendered absurd the notion that Western capitalist society epitomized the “final stage” of human civilization—­a point that corrects our contemporary tendency to equate secularism or social-­scientific thinking with concessions to Western superiority. With the wheels of modernization already in motion, Arani encouraged Iranians, as the scholar Khosrow Shakeri put it, “‘to participate in developing a transnational modernity’ rather than resist it.” 13 But what did modernity mean to Arani? Since for him history proceeded through a dialectical sequence of eventuation, negation, and synthesis, modernity and modernization did not demand a violent and permanent rupture with the traditional past. Modernity, instead, would negate some elements of tradition and remold others into a new, modern national culture. Antimodernist intellectuals did not share Arani’s conclusions, however. In the current study, we encounter, vis-­à-­vis Arani’s responses to their challenges, traditionalist detractors who drew on Islamic and European thought to vindicate their opposition to modernity. This study further argues that the creation of a modern and centralized Iranian nation-­state should not be attributed entirely to Reza Shah. Intellectuals and politicians, some critical of Reza Shah, played early and decisive roles in conceptualizing the basis for a unified Iranian nation. Arani’s sociological analysis of Iran’s class structure, as well as his attempt to historicize ideas by considering foremost the social-­material context in which they originated, opened up a distinct understanding of the role of Iranian intellectuals in initiating national social reform. Arani reasoned that because Iran, a predominantly agricultural nation, lacked a large working class, the urban educated class (or intellectuals)



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

7

would have to instigate social change. They would set in motion the realization of the nation’s full revolutionary potential by educating its disinherited. Arani’s concern with education, mass democratic participation, and what this work refers to as “the care of the nation” prompted him to explicate carefully his position on another specific debate concerning intellectuals: language reform. In his 1935 essay “Changing the Persian Language” (Taghyir-e Zaban-e Farsi), Arani forcefully rebuked the revivalists or linguistic purists. Concerned with the relationship between the material dynamics of modernization and how they shape cultural transformation, Arani recognized that the Persian language was not only central to but common across the Iranian social imaginary, and for this reason he offered an inclusive basis for national identity: a vision at once modern, cosmopolitan, and progressive. For Arani, indeed, the Persian language was a “cultural experience:”14 a space he could use to discuss Iran’s historical relations with Arabs and Islam, while also envisioning a future Iran reconcilable to modernity and the West. At the same time, Arani lucidly argued for the urgency of maintaining Iran’s cultural specificities. His notion of cosmopolitanism, or of Iran as a transnational idea, was entangled in a complex understanding of the social function and political potential for unification latent in language. Arani’s nationalism is therefore distinct. Although he dissociated himself from the cultural chauvinism of authoritarian and dogmatic nationalisms, he continued to sympathize with one mode of nationalist commitment—­ what he termed “materialist nationalism.” Materialist nationalism is rooted in love for the most tangible aspects of a nation: its land, food, people, and the best of its cultural experiences. This nationalism, Arani argued, rooted as it was in reality, was amenable to a cosmopolitan ethics. This is what is meant by commitment to the care of the nation. The hostility of chauvinistic nationalism, to other cultures, rendered it unable to engage or exchange with potentially beneficial foreign insights and technologies.  Arani’s later writings offer a compelling critique of the dominant nationalism of his time. His critique is at once anthropological, pragmatic, and political. Any attempt to “purify” the Persian language, he argued, would be ineffectual, since the artificially purified language would have no connection to people’s daily concerns and no bearing on their usage of it. His conviction was rooted in a pragmatic recognition of the impossibility of avoiding the use of Arabic words that had thoroughly insinuated themselves into everyday Persian, or of replacing these words with “purely” Persian ones. Arani, however, also opposed the revivalists on overtly political

8 Introduction

grounds: “The radicalized Iranian narrative, with its conviction of ethnic superiority, strongly resembled European antimodernism and even fascism.”15 Both revivalists and fascists, he argued, sought to deny history and replace it with an invented reality. Rather than deny Persian its history by replacing its Arabic-­laced literary artifacts with the Persian of millennia ago, Arani argued that Iranians ought to appreciate the historicity of Persian syncretism. Within this recognition, borrowing European or Arabic words was synonymous no longer with contamination, but with the currents of history. There is a broad homology between Arani’s arguments against the Persian purists and his critique of the antimodernists. Just as the antimodernists rejected scientific rationalism as an alien import inferior to intuitive knowledge or ʾelm huzuri, the revivalists rejected words of European or Arabic origin as corrosive to Persian’s intrinsic perfection. Arani challenged both modes of thinking by rejecting the division they erected between self and other, or between native and foreign, to demonstrate first that neither language, culture, nor religion existed in stasis but developed in relation to the material relations—­the modes of production, divisions of labor, and class structure—­prevalent in any given society; and, second, that one could not revert to a reified past, since that past was not only fictitious but an outlet for the despair the dominant classes felt when confronted by modernity. Arani did not limit his critiques to his Iranian peers; he took issue with European antimodernists as well. He identified the French philosopher Henri Bergson’s critique of abstract rationality as expressive of a general “modern predicament of despair.” Arani claimed that middle-­class mystics like Bergson, distraught over the turbulence of the modern world, committed the same follies as the uneducated, and escaped into the vapor of ʿerfan, or mystical knowledge, to avoid confronting the growing pains of a more democratic society. In such a new society, both the elites of old and the provincial peasants of Iran would be shorn of their customs and privileges. While Arani linked mysticism to the existential despair of a class, he did not write about the emergence of a classless society or even the end of capitalism. He focused on a sociological analysis of society, since his principal concern was everyday human empowerment through democratic institution building. While this introduction introduces Arani as a thinker whose nationalism sought to uplift Iran through international collaboration, not isolation, it



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

9

should be emphasized that many of his interwar contemporaries saw no need to balance the needs of their nation against those of the world, or to share the sensitivity Nehru attributed to Gandhi, and which we might extend to Arani: Gandhi was an intense nationalist; he was also, at the same time, a man who felt he had a message not only for India but for the world, and he ardently desired world peace. His nationalism, therefore, had a certain world outlook and was entirely free from any aggressive intent. . . . He had said: “My idea of nationalism is that my country may become free, that if need be the whole of the country may die, so that the human race may live. There is no room for race hatred here.” . . . And again: “I do want to think in terms of the whole world. My patriotism includes the good of mankind in general. Therefore, my service of India includes the service of humankind.”16

Neither Indian nor Iranian intellectuals approached the outside world uniformly; powerful currents within each country located cultural authenticity in ethno-­religious purity, and political stability in military rule. Some Iranian intellectuals, however, did have an open view based on a selective embrace of transnational currents. The ideational landscape of Iran, in this way, bore a striking similarity to that of India. Under the pressure of colonial domination, Indian leaders imagined an independent India free from foreign oppression, but the contents of their nationalisms covered a wide political spectrum. As in Iran, we see two fundamentally different conceptions of the modern nation. One envisioned the nation as a purified entity to be rid of alien contaminants and guarded from external corrosion, while the other saw benefits to be gained from an integrative engagement with transnational ideas and practices. These are two distinct visions of “caring for the nation” that nonetheless understand nationalism and cosmopolitanism as ethical questions. For interwar intellectuals, then, the nation was not merely a territorially constricted project, but a wider human concern.

The Idea of Modern Iran The history of Iranian nationalism, state building, and modernity has been analyzed extensively by scholars of diverse methodological persuasions. Their investigations have largely centered on the discursive development of nationalism, or on the institution-­building and state-­making processes that structured articulations of Iranian modernity. Recent scholarship reveals a

10 Introduction

growing interest in the “idea of Iran,”17 or the processes of national identity formation. In these accounts, Iran is a globally produced national imaginary. Yet these studies often overlook the interwar period, which this study focalizes as crucial to the discursive formation of the modern Iranian nation.18 Iranian thinkers of the late nineteenth century encountered an impasse. Older national imaginaries, inspired by the leitmotifs of Persian kingship or Iranian Islam, were fading. Simultaneous with this was the ascendancy of European power, bolstered by political liberalism and by scientific and technological development. At this conjuncture, mashruteh (constitutional) intellectuals identified the “traditional” or “nonmodern” elements of Iranian political culture in order to reform them. Advocating a new Iran, their modernity was a vaguely conceived political system defined as hokumat-­e qanun (rule of law). This transformation in Iranian political thinking, which focalized the law’s unifying and modernizing potential, was the crowning achievement of the Constitutional Revolution (1905–­11). Intellectuals limited their discussions of Iran to the supposedly objective economic and technological factors causing its political and cultural malaise—­leaving those subjective factors that influenced how Iranians perceived the nation unexplored, in favor of uncritically embracing a European model of development. With the interwar period, the idea of Iran became a serious point of discussion and debate. Although a “nationalist” project, the work of imagining the nation anew was in many instances an outward-­looking endeavor. The possibility of a progressive nationalism is best articulated in Arani’s later works. His writings from the 1930s, which explicitly renounce his earlier “ethnic nationalist” stance, form this book’s point of departure. He conceived a cosmopolitan Iran enriched by its embrace of civic virtues and modern modes of thought. Richard Wolin’s distinction between Kantian “perpetual peace” and Herder’s “cultural belonging” is helpful in clarifying Arani’s cosmopolitan nationalism.19 Wolin argues that, for Kant, the idea of cosmopolitanism “envisioned the extension of republican norms to international relations”: For Kant, following Rousseau, republicanism solved the problem of modern political freedom, insofar as it was the only form of political rule that facilitated genuine individual and collective self-­determination. The ancient regime, as a society of orders or estates, violated the precept of equal citizenship. Its political institutions were anything but representative or democratic. Instead, the substance of political decision-­making was left to



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the whim of the monarch or prince and his or her cabinet, with the rest of the populace reduced to the status of “subjects.” The people were, for the most part, merely passive objects of the sovereign’s will. 20

Wolin further explains: “In opposition to Kant and his fellow philosophers, in Another Philosophy of History (1774), Johann Gottfried Herder devised a competing model of cosmopolitanism, one that was predicated on ‘cultural belonging’ rather than formal civic criteria or ‘right.’”21 These two models parallel the divergent roads Iranians faced in the late nineteenth century. Iranian constitutionalists, we might say, took the Kantian road, advocating an equitable reordering of power relationships through a social contract that would bind citizens to the state and vice versa. They affirmed a civic nationalist reconstructive principle. In the second half of the twentieth century, however, following decades of dictatorship and a foreign-­orchestrated coup d’état ousting the nationalizing Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddeq from office, a new politics evolved that conceived of the state not as the guarantor of political freedom but as a “moral and cultural” agent tasked with realizing a “good society.” This culturalist conception of the state affirmed ethnic nationalism, and deployed Islam as a unifying construct. These divergent visions of Iranian modernity emerged from a single tradition of anticolonial struggle. Attempts to limit and reform state power for the sake of empowering individual citizens clashed with the project of building a modern society based on the “purified” restoration of local tradition. A normative order protected by politico-­legal institutions is the only alternative to “the traditional, anti-­normative Realpolitik approach,” in which ideologically masked abuses of power are left unrestrained. As Wolin argues, this principle will remain an empty ideal unless integrated at an international level, or with “democratic participation on a global or world scale.” Wolin’s cosmopolitan insight breaks with the Eurocentric parochialism of the radical democratic tradition of the 1789 revolution: “Historically, the republican tradition has viewed the prerogatives of democratic self-­rule as rooted in and bounded by place, today, conversely, self-­government ‘requires a politics that plays itself out in a multiplicity of settings, from neighborhoods to nations to the world as a whole [and] requires citizens who can think and act as multiply-­situated selves.’”22 Should we accept Wolin’s argument, its implications would commit us to pursuing a democratic revolution capable of overcoming the inequalities issued by capitalism and reinforced by the institutional adjuncts of core

12 Introduction

capitalist countries: “The most urgent imperative concerns the persistent and ever-­widening gulf between the prosperous nations and their impoverished counterparts in the developing world.”23 This position is at once radical and abundantly evidenced by daily growing disparities. A history of secular socialist responses to these questions is more urgent than ever. An academic preoccupation with the “cultural fragment” has caused us to dismiss prematurely the rooted social-­democratic traditions of non-­Western countries as cases of ideological contamination. The process of excavating secular socialist thought in Iran (and elsewhere) is, then, a project not just of recuperating the past, but of addressing questions still pertinent to equitable development.

Achieving Iran: The Interwar Years Recent studies have departed from the view of Iranian nationalism as an inorganic ideological import adopted and subsequently imposed on Iranians from the highest levels of politics, in favor of stressing the political and positional plurality of voices that contributed to what we retrospectively label nationalist thought. The following section analyzes three recent studies of Iranian nationalism: Ali Ansari’s The Politics of Nationalism in Modern Iran, Afshin Matin-­Asgari’s Both Eastern and Western: An Intellectual History of Iranian Modernity, and Arshin Adib-­Moghaddam’s Psycho-­nationalism: Global Thought, Iranian Imaginations. Each work offers a sophisticated view of Iranian nationalism and emphasizes the multivocal struggles generated over the contents of national imaginaries. An examination of these recent texts on Iranian nationalism and modernity edges us closer to an understanding of Taghi Arani’s unique contribution to Iranian intellectual thought. In contrast to the above works, the present book covers the interwar period more extensively. It covers more specifically the years 1922 to 1935, and primarily focuses upon a single individual, Taghi Arani, whose intellectual output displayed a consistent but evolving interest in questions of Iranian modernity and nationalism. The three reviewed monographs, mentioned above, exercise a more general approach within a wider temporal purview, since they do not focus on one individual’s thought. This book engages in close readings of Arani’s most important writings, while the other studies situate the emergence of modern Iranian nationalism within a global context. Matin-­Asgari and Ansari’s texts are richly historical, whereas Adib-­ Moghaddam’s book is a theoretical exploration of “psycho-­nationalism,” or the strictly enforced delineation between “us” and “them,” friend and foe,



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khodi and ghayr-­e khodi. All three of those texts share a political project: critiquing political thought in contemporary Iran by examining the seeds of authoritarianism planted by the Pahlavi state and cultivated today by the Islamic Republic of Iran. What this work shares with the others is the contention that understanding Iranian nationalism requires a transnational vista. A transnational frame not only renders the formation of Iranian nationalism intelligible, but breaks with Eurocentric conventions. For our purposes, it also contains the possibility of restoring the life and thought of Arani to the history of modern Iranian nation formation. Despite this shared project, the present work adopts a different methodological and conceptual approach. A chief divergence rests in its studied restriction to the interwar period. The social imaginary cultivated during this interval (1919–­35)24 had the potential of becoming a political reality for Iran, though it was ultimately marginalized to the advantage of autocratic traditions. Although suppressed by 1935, this pioneering intellectual trend served as a powerful and innovative narrative for envisioning modern Iran as a democratic nation. For Arani, this possibility centered on the notion of civic nationalism and on cultivating a public ethic of “care of the nation,” not racial or national supremacy. Ansari, in The Politics of Nationalism in Modern Iran,25 offers a revisionist history of Iranian nationalism by highlighting, in contrast to top-­down accounts that center on the person and policies of Reza Shah at the exclusion of most other actors, its fundamental multiplicity. As Ansari puts it, “This study has sought to address a number of imbalances in the study of modern Iran, the shaping of Iranian identity, and the development of nationalism.”26 Within this polyvocal landscape, the potential existed for articulating what Ansari calls an Iranian Enlightenment. Ansari’s study also seeks to correct the presentism inflecting recent scholarship on early Iranian nationalism, which reads into its development the causes, however indirect, of the Islamic Revolution. Rather than read the past with such contemporary conceit, Ansari instead focalizes the revolutionary upheaval introduced by constitutionalist intellectuals, arguing that “the real revolutionary changes took place in and around the Constitutional Revolution and its aftermath” and “that this aftermath extends far beyond the traditional parameters.”27 Ansari argues that it was the period after the Constitutional Revolution that offered the decisive conditions needed to articulate a radically new idea of the Iranian nation. However, he links this new conception of Iran to the formation of the first Pahlavi state: “. . . The rise and rule of Reza

14 Introduction

Shah must be understood as the Constitutionalist response to the failures of government and the absence of authority. It was in this pivotal period that the meaning of Iran and the Iranians was defined for the modern age and the modern state.”28 Ansari understands that Iranian constitutionalists and post-­intellectuals were more deeply influenced by the British Enlightenment tradition than by French republicanism, and were keen on crafting a national Enlightenment project for Iran: “These ideas were influenced less by the French Revolution and its legacy and more by the enlightenment ideas that preceded it, especially the ideas of Republic of Letters and its political corollary, the Republic of Laws, that were epitomized in the Anglo-­American enlightenment tradition.”29 Ansari further challenges received notions of Iranian nationalism by insisting that in this period, nationalism had a pronounced democratic dimension. Nationalists attempted to unify Iran not on the basis of the nation’s supposedly unique cultural particularities, but through widespread civic engagement: “It was understood nationalism was a means of improving the welfare of the nation through the reform of the state and the cultivation of society, not a state of being which justified or explained an innate exceptionalism. Chauvinism was nonsense that betrayed the project being pursued and could be just as if not more destructive to the public good.”30 Ansari sees in this civic-­minded nationalism a new “idea of Iran,” which “provided above all a narrative thread that was distinct and different: an idea of Iran that gave meaning to being Iranian.”31 Nationalists such as Foroughi, Iranshahr, and Taghizadeh, whom we today regard as irredeemably dogmatic, envisioned a new political order in which Iran would be at home in the modern world, despite its unsettling changes. It is in this sense, Ansari explains, that the meaning of this nationalism “was intended to be real as well as ideal; it was to be founded, to quote Taghizadeh, on the basis of ‘freedom and justice.’”32 Among Ansari’s core insights is his distinction between the political marginalization of this democratic idea of Iran and its complete discursive extinction. Although forcibly suppressed by the Pahlavi state, the popular idea of Iran remained an enduring albeit marginalized feature of Iranian civil society, and continued to manifest itself in mass mobilizations, most recently in the Green Movement: That this vision failed to be fully realized should not detract from its validity of purpose, or from the substantial achievements that were attained in the brief period during which the ideas of the Constitutionalists were sovereign.



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These “enlightenment nationalists” were in many ways the founding fathers of modern Iranian nationalism and identity. They created a new political space within which others might flourish.33

Furthermore, while state officials did not institutionally back this vision of Iran’s future, Ansari underlines that even in defeat, a democratic idea of Iran continued to shape the national political scene in the form of an ensuing information war, which resulted from mobilization against factions seeking to denigrate Enlightenment-­inspired reformers as being contaminated by foreign influence: “The ideological challengers that emerged all disparaged the ‘liberal’ tendency (as they saw it) that had preceded them, at once dismissing the mythology they promoted, and degrading their predecessors’ construction of nationalism as something altogether ‘Western.’”34 Yet Ansari argues that upon closer examination, these conflicting imaginings of Iran shared a commitment to safeguarding national “authenticity.” The intellectual and material underpinnings of these and later nationalisms derived from a common pattern: “Yet all three trends, be it the peculiar dynastic nationalism of Mohammad Reza Shah, the secular socialism of the Left, or the religious nationalism of the Islamists, found themselves wedded to a particular idea of Iran and as indebted to mythologies as any among the Constitutionalists.” 35 Nonetheless, the idea of Iran indebted to the Constitutional Revolution differed from later nationalist mythologies in its self-­consciousness, built-­in reflexivity, and modern sociological outlook, whereas rival national imaginings presupposed the very thing they set out to conceptualize: the coherence of the nation and the rights of its rulers. Ansari wrote: “The difference was that whereas the Constitutionalists of the Iranian enlightenment recognized and sought to harness the power of mythologies, their successors at times appeared blithely unaware of the narratives they were constructing, or indeed, of their continued indebtedness to the logic of the West.”36 While Ansari’s argument is sound at a general level, the limitations of his conclusions are revealed as we extend them to particular intellectuals, like Arani, whose writings and life he only selectively interprets. Ansari judges Arani, on the limited basis of his earlier writings, an “enthusiastic supporter of centralization based on the Sasanian model,” whose thought “simply does not stand up to historical scrutiny.”37 The present book, however, examines Arani’s mature work to demonstrate that he stood solidly for a cosmopolitan and democratic Iran.

16 Introduction

Ansari argues that a naive belief in the calculated benefits of a modernizing despot compelled intellectuals to support Reza Shah. Many veterans of the Constitutional Revolution believed that, in historicist terms, strategic alliances with an “enlightened dictator” might jettison mass religious conservativism and catapult Iran into modern republicanism. The dictator would be made irrelevant by his own achievement and would fall, according to the logical necessity revealed by European historical experience: For these people, a rejuvenated Iranian monarchy, even an autocratic one, under the energetic guidance of someone of the caliber of Reza Khan, could be just the catalyst required for the rapid transition of Iran from a traditional monarchy to a working modern republic. It could not have escaped their notice that the European experience showed just this development: Enlightened despots had succeeded in making themselves ultimately irrelevant to the process, but they had been essential factors in leading an otherwise conservative population, inherently resistant to change, towards reform. For them, Reza Khan was a means to an end.38

Ansari’s argument for the multiplicity of voices formative of Iranian nationalism invites us, above all, to return to and reassess the so-­called Reza Shah era. A renewed investigation reveals that the name is misplaced. The years between 1921 and 1941 should not be condensed into the Reza Shah era, as if his dictatorial will were the sole driver of Iran’s historical change. On the contrary, the multiple currents of the Constitutional Revolution were very much alive then. The tendency to identify this era with the person of Reza Khan has disguised the varied influences that shaped the period in ways which belie its characterization as a brutal autocracy masquerading as a constitutional monarchy. On a number of different levels, the influence of the Constitutionalists throughout these years was pervasive, and the achievements of the period, taken as a whole, were impressive.39 Afshin Matin-­Asgari’s Both Eastern and Western: An Intellectual History of Iranian Modernity charts the twentieth-­century construction of Iranian modernity, highlighting intellectual patterns that unfolded across a transnational trajectory. 40 A century of global intellectual interactions, Matin-­ Asgari maintains, sustained and shaped Iranian modernity. His expansive spatial outlook and emphasis on intellectual exchange rebut essentialist



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claims that an inborn predilection for autocracy has driven Iranian history and nativist intellectuals’ claims to indigenous purity. Matin-­Asgari’s view is stridently transnational, arguing that national imaginings in general are not solely local or national: The authoritarian nationalism and dictatorial nation-­building project of the 1920s–­1930s were the results of an illiberal consensus in early Iranian nationalist thought. This was in line with and influenced by similar regional and global patterns, rather than being the product of supposedly perennial patterns of Iranian “despotism.”41

Iranian nationalism, in Matin-­Asgari’s account, emerges as a transnational amalgamation of East and West. Iranian thinkers did not limit their intellectual horizons to Western Europe, but looked to newly ascendant nations like the Soviet Union, Turkey, and Japan for inspiration. With respect to Taghi Arani, however, Matin-­Asgari’s conclusions are less compelling than the insights his history of modern Iranian nationalism offers. His discussion of Kaveh magazine (1916–­22) first introduces “future Marxist intellectual Taghi Arani (1903–­1940)” as an editor.42 Matin-­Asgari acknowledges Arani’s originality and importance; he writes that against “formidable odds, a small group of intellectuals launched an ambitious project to systematically introduce Marxism into Iran,” whose “leader, Taghi Arani,” was “distinguished [by] his principled defiance of dictatorship, combined with a selfless dedication to the cause of the poor and working classes.”43 Matin-­Asgari depicts Arani’s outlook, as expressed in Donya, as well-­meaning but nonetheless Eurocentric: “Donya’s role [was] in articulating the most radically science-­ based worldview of 1930s Iran. Donya’s embrace of scientific materialism underpinned its commitment to a global yet Euro-­centric Marxist paradigm of modernity.”44 To understand why Matin-­Asgari associates Arani with “Eurocentrism,” we must first examine how he interprets Iranian nationalism. He reads causality into events that culminated in “authoritarian nationalism [becoming] hegemonic only after defeating contending nationalist trends that were liberal democratic, constitutionalist or revolutionary populist.”45 Yet this conclusion has an aura of inevitability about it. Matin-­Asgari reads the future into the occurrences of decades past, imposing a unified order onto the history of Iranian nationalism to predetermine an unhappy end: “Kaveh’s retreat from constitutionalism anticipated the rise of 1920s–­1930s

18 Introduction

Pahlavi-­era authoritarian nationalism.”46 Elsewhere, Iranshahr forcefully argued for a “fundamental reform of social morality,” anticipating the ideology of the 1979 revolution.47 What is the logic linking together disparate (and ideologically conflicting) events into a unifying inevitability? Matin-­Asgari deploys various “axiomatic” principles, from racialism to Eurocentrism, to order and narrate his history of Iranian nationalism—­a move that lends a sense of predetermination to Iran’s authoritarian outcome. He argues, for example, that “racialism” became “an internalized axiom of Iranian nationalism.”48 Elsewhere, he notes that “by the early twentieth century, the necessity of surrender to modern European civilization was axiomatic among Iranian intellectuals.”49 These distinctive axioms (racialism, Eurocentrism, etc.) combine to form Matin-­Asgari’s general view of modern nationalism. Matin-­Asgari’s repeated invocation of epochal axioms imputes considerable unity to the development of nationalist thought, since axiomaticity implies that each iteration of nationalism developed around an internally coherent logic. Indeed, Matin-­Asgari advances a dialectical logic of unification: Iranshahr reaches beyond Kaveh’s explicitly Eurocentric intellectual frame, to give modern Iranian nationalism its classical articulation, laying bare its fundamental contradictory claim of being both “Eastern and Western,” while also authentically and unchangingly Iranian. . . . Despite their dubious intellectual merit, such arguments reversed Kaveh’s negative estimation of “Eastern” worldviews. Instead, they redirected Iranian nationalist discourse Eastward, specifically toward India, presented as the font of an archaic mystical knowledge that the West lacked or had forgotten.50

Matin-­Asgari thus identifies a “classical articulation” for Iranian nationalism and treats it as a fixed template enduring for decades. He treats Eurocentric and “authentic” nationalisms as cut from a common cloth. The authoritarian Eurocentrism of dominant civil society is contested by its dialectical opposite in a claim to indigenous authenticity: Taghizadeh and his collaborators in Kaveh gave up their vaguely liberal or social democratic convictions to advocate illiberal blueprints of nation building, justified according to a haphazardly conceived “Western” worldview, urging “surrender to European civilization.” A rival intellectual trend appeared in Iranshahr, rejecting Kaveh’s blatant conformity to European



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standards to propose instead a nation-­building project within a modern “Iran-­centric” worldview. Despite its purported rejection of Eurocentrism, Iranshahr was more deeply influenced by European thought, as it embraced the German critique of Western modernity’s moral nihilism, rampant social conflict and urge to global domination.51

Both views were unified by a single logic, which was neither purely Iranian nor Western but a transnational compound of Soviet, Kemalist, Indian, and other elements. The fusing force to Matin-­Asgari’s interpretive logic, behind the heteroclite surface, was Orientalism: “Kaveh was equally deferential to German intellectual authority, and particularly Orientalist scholarship.”52 Iranshahr, ironically, was equally Orientalist—­without being so aware. Here is the crux of Matin-­Asgari’s argument. Iran’s exposure to Orientalism, which pervaded both Eurocentric and Iran-­centric nationalism, was rooted in its geohistorical encounter with Germany. This German-­Iranian encounter seeded the future of Iranian nationalism, and in Matin-­Asgari’s view, “To better understand this crucial but neglected German-­Iranian ideological encounter, we need a brief background overview of certain German intellectual trends, particularly German Orientalism, in the wake of the Great War.”53 The transmission of Orientalist logic through this geopolitical encounter crystallized in an inexorable authoritarianism defining Iranian nationalism: “The genesis of Iran’s authoritarian nationalist ideology [was] in a global encounter between Iranian émigré intellectuals and German political culture in 1920s Berlin. The specific site of this productive encounter was the pages of Berlin-­based periodicals Kaveh, Iranshahr and Name-­ye Farangestan.”54 Thus, Iranians propagated German-­inspired nationalist thought through the intellectual organs of a new civil society. Yet according to Matin-­Asgari, theirs was a fundamentally authoritarian vision. Again, this conclusion is based on a broad survey of the ideas discussed in those three journals. While the group of Iranian scholars and intellectuals based in Berlin during the interwar period may well have included nationalists with authoritarian tendencies, they were not a homogenous bunch. Some were inspired by German Orientalists, and others were mostly motivated by Enlightenment ideas and scientific discourse. Arani studied chemistry at the Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin as a doctoral student until his eventual graduation in 1928. Alongside his research in the sciences, Arani taught Persian at the Oriental Languages Institute, where he edited a number of Persian classical texts with the German

20 Introduction

scholar of Iran Friedrich Rosen. It is curious to impugn Arani for these associations as a positivist uncritical of Orientalism. In the 1920s, serious systematic study of Iran happened largely under the auspices of European Oriental institutes. Arani was critical of nativist discourses dominating Iran’s intellectual and cultural space, so it is understandable that he articulated his thoughts using the less common tool kit of materialism and scientific reasoning.55 Rather than view Arani’s application of scientific principles to social analysis as proof of his positivism, we should treat his gravitation toward materialism as a deliberate philosophical rejection of the idealism prevalent among his traditionalist and chauvinist-­nationalist counterparts. Matin-­Asgari continues his criticism of Arani on still other grounds, faulting him and his colleagues at Donya for their supposedly elitist sensibilities: Donya’s basic conception of modernity was one in which an intellectual elite, armed with a scientific materialist worldview, led the masses toward this society free from class and gender hierarchies. According to his confidently positivist narrative, scientific advances would inevitably bring about social progress and human emancipation.56

One gets the sense here that Arani, Donya’s creator and editor, should be thought of as a patronizing character. But why? Because he recognized himself as a member of Iran’s small but strategically positioned intellectual middle-­class, and studied at a German university? If this is not the substance of Matin-­Asgari’s criticism, it is not self-­evident what is. Donya was one of a few journals in 1930s Iran to advocate openly for radical positions, and to that extent one might accuse it of “elitism,” and even of positioning itself as a member of a progressive vanguard. While Arani did believe that, given the absence of a sizable and politically practiced Iranian working class, intellectuals could significantly influence the spread of revolutionary sentiment, he did not subscribe to a Leninist notion of vanguardism. In the end, Matin-­Asgari concludes that in a trap of “intellectual overconfidence,” “Donya underestimated authoritarian nationalism itself, which was powerfully present as official state ideology.”57 Matin-­Asgari offers scant quotational support for this view, while passing over Arani’s later vision of a cosmopolitan and democratic Iran. Matin-­Asgari’s interpretation of Arani’s positivism and materialism deserves a more detailed discussion, since he is not wrong to suggest that



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at times Arani imbued historical materialism with the quality of law in a framework that “fused history, politics, economics, laws, ethics and religion into a single materialist philosophical frame, sustained by the methodology of physical sciences.”58 In certain instances, Arani accounted for social or cultural realities as automatic outcomes of determinative material conditions, a tendency manifested in his essay “Mysticism and Principals of Materialism.”59 There are, however, other important pieces (“Changing the Persian Language,” an editorial for the sixth issue of Donya, among others) in which Arani qualified his earlier stance.60 We need to look elsewhere, to instances in which Arani broke from the evolutionary stageism that marked his earlier accounts of human history in favor of emphasizing the nonlinear development of language and culture, to appreciate that he was not so reductive a thinker as Matin-­Asgari suggests. Arani treated these domains as relatively autonomous social arenas, and offered a sophisticated analysis of the nonmaterial forces constitutive of social reality. If Arani were a positivist, he scarcely partook of the Comtean tendency to reduce every social action to determinate laws. Like Ernst Mach,61 he embraced the progressive significance of a modern scientific method for understanding and creating positive social change, while insisting that human experience cannot be reduced to a one-­dimensional theory with universal scope. This study recovers the little-­noticed complexities and originality of Arani’s thought by examining his most overlooked texts and arguments and assessing their contributions to Iranian intellectual history. There are implications at stake larger than the question of Arani’s legacy. He is but one figure the specificity of whose thought has been glossed over in order to narrate more easily the development of Iranian nationalism. Matin-­ Asgari treats Arani and other early nationalist thinkers as one-­dimensional figures in order to forge a cogent argument. Yet, when examined against the wider evidence, his classifications, however clear, cannot account for the innumerable tensions distinguishing dissonant intellectual visions characteristic of nation-­making and imagining in 1930s Iran. The key to a proper understanding of Arani’s vision of Iranian modernity is to be found above all in his writings on the Persian language, and in two editorial pieces, published in Donya, on his conception of the idea of Iran. In these imaginative writings, Arani once again broke with the intellectual mainstream to reinterpret Iran’s relation to the West, its modern culture, and its own history—­including the complex issue of the Iranian encounter with Islam. In Arani’s later writings, published after 1925, we find a nuanced and

22 Introduction

thoughtful set of ideas that soften the occasionally blunt materialism that inflected his writings on the sciences and the evolutionary nature of social change. Several chapters of this book will offer detailed discussion of these pioneering works, and with the insights gained, we can better evaluate the values and visions central to twentieth-­century Iranian cosmopolitanism and national imagining. We will in the process see how Arani’s vision ran against the “axioms” of authoritarian and Eurocentric nationalism characterized by Matin-­Asgari, who only touches on Arani in summarizing the transmission of German Orientalism from Weimar Germany to late Qajar and early Pahlavi Iran, and in comparing Donya to contemporary political publications. Such imbalances in Iranian historiography have produced distortions that lend themselves to the reproduction of false formulas. This study seeks to correct two particular consequences of this tendency: one, the underestimation of the historical significance and scope of the Constitutional Revolution; and two, the subsumption of the interwar period into the so-­called Reza Shah era. The study of Arani underlines the possibility of alternative imaginings of the Iranian nation that embraced cosmopolitan and democratic roads. Arshin Adib-­Moghaddam’s Psycho-­nationalism: Global Thought, Iranian Imaginations suggestively combines critical political analysis, a transnational scope, and case studies of specific collective imaginings to trace the development of Iranian nation formation in a framework that integrates the global and local: “Horizontally, the idea of Iran is a global phenomenon and has to be engaged with as such. Vertically, the idea of Iran has been inscribed into the very consciousness and body of Iranians.”62 Adib-­Moghaddam analyzes nationalist “social imaginaries” as constellations of symbols and images circulating among regimes competing to consolidate and expand their power. His argument diverges from the empirically grounded cases of Matin-­Asgari and Ansari in that he defines nationalism as an instrument of state power practiced principally through the state-­monopolized mechanism of “othering,” which burrows itself into collective consciousness, hence the “psycho” attached to it: psycho-­nationalism is “a division-­creating device.” Adib-­Moghaddam is careful, however, to distinguish nationalism as a divisive device of state officials from the everyday nationalist identifications of ordinary Iranians. Iranian national identity, by Adib-­Moghaddam’s account, is a pluralistic outgrowth of “the cosmopolitan and multicultural reality of Iran.” This argument evokes a multicultural politics comparable to the Indian



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“composite cultural” ideal that drove the national movement and its Nehruvian experiment in postindependence democracy. Gandhi argued that the average Indian embraced the multicultural ethics of a “composite culture,” and Adib-­Moghaddam echoes this sentiment, writing about “the inherently global imagination that many Iranians hold” as they “imagine the country in cosmopolitan and multicultural terms.” He contrasts this identification of Iran, with its ethnic and linguistic heterogeneity, against those who “think the country monolithic, either primarily ‘Persian,’ ‘Islamic’ or ‘Shia,’ or even French as the Shah once wrote.”63 The claim that the diversity of everyday life produces heterogenous attachments to the nation, whereas the state imposes homogeneity for the purpose of control, is central to Adib-­ Moghaddam’s argument.64 A contention shared by the three reviewed texts is that the conventional periodization of Iranian nationalism is Eurocentric. The Eurocentric argument hinges the development of Iranian nationalism on the modern colonial period. This frame, Adib-­Moghaddam contends, cannot survive scrutiny. The historical depth of Iranian nationalism cannot be explained by a colonial deus ex machina. Instead, nascent nationalists drew on institutional and imaginative rudiments traceable to premodern Iranian political experiences: The conventional literature of Iranian studies locates the emergence of the modern nation-­state in the period of the Pahlavi dynasty, in particular the emergence of a nationalized infrastructure including banks, universities, citizenship and/or a national Iranian army under the leadership of Reza Shah who ruled Iran between 1925 and 41. [Yet] the modern contours of the Iranian nation-­state were created as early as the Safavid dynasty which ruled Iran between 1501 and 1722.65

Adib-­Moghaddam argues that “the Safavids institutionalised the second prominent psycho-­nationalist trope in the Iranian imagination, namely through a set of ‘Shia paraphernalia.’ Many of these devices to control Iranians continue to function as ideological pillars of the contemporary Iranian state.”66 While Adib-­Moghaddam’s temporal depth counters the perception that Iranian nationalism emerged as a bolt from the blue only in the early twentieth century, he extends Iranian nationalism so far back into the past as to dilute the transformative specificities of its various iterations, leaving little room for an analysis of the particular contributions that interwar intellectuals like Arani made to its modern articulation.

24 Introduction

The Forgotten Interwar Period While the texts under review, representative of the recent state of Iranian nationalism studies, refine our understanding of Iranian nationalism by situating its emergence and evolution in a transnational context, they study the interwar period and the thought of individual innovators like Taghi Arani only in passing. The interwar period was nevertheless foundational to the history of Iranian nationalism. It was during those years that various thinkers participated organically in a reformulation of the ideals first articulated during the constitutional movement. The present study offers a fuller view of the entire spectrum of Iranian nationalism, as theorized and practiced by its leading architects, by revisiting this seminal moment in the formation of Iranian nationalism through the little-­studied radical magazine Donya. This major contribution by Arani has been discounted by contemporary scholars, but an exploration of its contents reveals an alternative, antiauthoritarian imagination of Iranian nationalism at work. These insights have been elided by a tendency to depict Iranian nationalism as the internalization of European racialism and its application toward authoritarian political ends. It is this bifurcated approach that underpins, first, Ansari’s contention that Iranian nationalism was drifting toward authoritarianism based on a genealogical defect or an accumulated propensity for authoritarianism; second, Matin-­Asgari’s insistence that Iranian nationalism was an ideological extension of its foreign patrons, not a body of thought internally grown and contested; and third, Adib-­Moghaddam’s argument that psycho-­nationalism can be traced to a variety of causes—­from Cartesian anthropocentrism to utopianism—­while minimizing the importance of capitalism as the unifying transnational context for struggle and the definer of conflicting interests. Yet in 1930s Iran, nationalism, as deployed by the first Pahlavi government, disguised the conflicting interests of the state and its citizenry by blaming external “others” for the consequences of capitalist power abuse. The three texts, and particularly Ansari and Matin-­Asgari’s studies, also share a preoccupation with the genealogical study of authoritarian nationalism as practiced by the Pahlavi state. They are uninterested in dwelling on less dominant nationalisms bereft of state support, and so Matin-­Asgari focuses on Arani’s early “ethnic nationalist” writings at the expense of his later writings that champion a cosmopolitan ideal for the Iranian nation. Ansari, meanwhile, rightly argues that the historical epithet “Reza Shah



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

25

period” occludes divergent national tendencies; yet he proceeds to dilute the details of thought generated during the interwar period. While taking into account the insights offered by Ansari and Matin-­Asgari, we must shift our focus to the articulations of modern Iran advanced by political activists and thinkers like Arani if we are to displace Reza Shah as the axis of interwar Iran. In conceptually reconfiguring Iranian nation-­formation, we immediately recognize the limits of writing intellectual history as the history of dominant ideas. To overemphasize dominant ideas is to read history as a homogeneous bloc while burying the adversarial ideas that pointed to different possible futures. We must not privilege the ideologies of those historical actors who, by successfully monopolizing political and economic resources, achieved ascendancy over a given society. This is done even in the case of Matin-­Asgari, who writes in the tradition of Marxian historiography. While Matin-­Asgari briefly discusses the Berlin Circle, a cohort of Iranian émigrés that included Arani, and reviews some of his later writings in Donya, he does not investigate the more substantial writings in which Arani critiqued nationalist thought among the Berliners. Both Ansari and Matin-­Asgari tend to narrate Iran’s modernity as a failed project, perhaps as a result of their disappointment with the entrenchment of the Islamic Republic. They seek to provide a “logical” explanation of this unwanted fact; yet a backward-­looking search for the roots of modern authoritarianism has obscured the complexity of Iranian modernity and nationalism, occluding entire historical episodes such as the interwar period. This presentist reading of Iranian history may explain the absence of any serious study of Arani’s later evolution, and the disproportionate attention given to his writings as a college student in Berlin. In his recent overview of modern Iranian history, Abbas Amanat concedes to the temptation to focus on Arani’s early, chauvinistic writings.67 Amanat introduces Arani to readers by foregrounding his supposed commitment to Aryan supremacy: The career of Taqi Arani (1903–­1940), a forerunner of the Tudeh Party, and his gradual conversion from nationalism to Marxism, is a case in point. A product of the post-­constitutional environment, he started as an ardent nationalist (as his adopted surname Arani—­meaning “Aryan” but also “someone from Aran,” the ancient name for Azerbaijan—­suggested). His later education as a student on government scholarship in Berlin in

26 Introduction

the tumultuous years of the Weimar Republic gradually turned him into a socialist with a penchant for dialectic materialism and the scientific theory of relativity.68

Yet Arani did not invent his family name; his father adopted it. Younes Jalali, who has studied Arani’s biography extensively, confirms this origin of Arani’s last name: This name was adopted by his father, so it was not his choice or adoption later in life; also, it has nothing to do with Aryan but with Eran which is a part of Azerbaijan Republic now. The earliest reference to it goes back to Qataran Tabrizi who has panegric poetry praising the rulers of Eran (11th century AD); so this name simply refers to the family ancestry north of Aras, then Gare-­Bagh, then Tabriz.69

Amanat is of course correct to remark that an intense nationalistic environment pervaded the postconstitutional period. It is also accurate that Arani’s nationalism was inflected by racialist thinking in his early years in Berlin, before gravitating toward Marxism. It should be emphasized, however, that Arani’s flirtation with ethnic nationalism was a fleeting phase in his early life. The few writings that evidence his ethnic nationalism were written in his early twenties, and yet historians judge Arani on this basis of his earliest positions, which he would himself later denounce. Arani arrived in Berlin in August 1922, at the age of nineteen. He advocated the imposition of the Persian language throughout Iran in two 1924 essays: “Zaban-­e Farsi” (The Persian Language) and “Azerbaijan: Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran” (Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran). Only a year later, in the fall of 1925, Arani helped form a Marxist group in Berlin, the Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia (RRPP), and after that year, no piece of writing advocating ethnic nationalism can be traced to him. What we find after this period are denunciations of the racialized nationalism of his time.70 Intellectual history is always more interesting, and far more revealing, when scholars avoid the temptation of focusing on prevalent ideas expounded by well known individuals. The study of lesser-­known ideas and individuals is not only more intriguing, but needed if analytical silences, such as the one shrouding the intellectual history of the interwar era, are to be lifted. It is in this spirit that this study revisits Arani’s life and thought.



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

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Even within Iranian circles, Arani is known above all as a political figure, and most of his philosophical and sociological writings are not seriously studied or read. In recent years, however, there have been several works on Arani published in Persian.71 One particularly important English-­language work is Younes Jalali’s biography of Arani, Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin.72 Jalali offers a wealth of biographical information about Arani. His storytelling style, however, renders distinguishing analysis from description and fact from speculation difficult. While these new works are a welcome expansion to the study of Arani’s political and intellectual legacy, the present work seeks to push the frontiers of this development further. While the aforementioned works have opened new avenues of inquiry for future scholars, they share a lacuna that this study hopes to fill: the importance of the interwar period to understanding the history of Iranian nationalism. We see in these years a wealth of intellectual possibilities and alternative imaginings of a modern Iranian nation-­state. Once we have grasped the importance of the interwar period, we can begin to contextualize and appreciate the meaning of Arani’s participation in debates about the idea of Iran. A cacophonous cast participated in interwar debates on the future of the Iranian nation: Persian-­language purists, religious antimodernists, and others exposited cosmopolitan, republican, and civic views of modern Iran. The origins of the counter-­Enlightenment current formative to the Islamist politics of subsequent decades are arguably also traceable to these years. The failure to study seriously the interwar debates that incubated these diverse ideas risks reducing the dynamism of the era to a single current: “authoritarian nationalism.” This book transcends this reductive convention by carefully examining Arani’s most critical writings, unearthing in the process a new, progressive perspective from which to write modern Iranian intellectual history.

Iran and the Aryan Myth Decades after the 1935 name change, and in the wake of the 1979 revolution, a new nationalist perspective emerged that called into question the ideological underpinnings of the initial change and proposed “un-­naming” Iran “Persia.” The late Eshan Yarshater, a respected scholar of Iran, led the charge with a 1989 piece in Iranian Studies. He advanced there the position, popular among some sympathizers of the late shah, that Iranians ought to revive “Persia” as the globally recognized name of the nation. The 1935 name change, he claimed, had been a historical blunder: “In 1935 the Persian government requested

28 Introduction

countries with which it had diplomatic relations to call Persia ‘Iran,’ which is the name of the country in Persian. This was a grievous error based on a misdirected sense of nationalism.”73 Yarshater, however, overlooked that “Iran” had not only long been used by Persian speakers to refer to the region, but also by Azeris, Kurds, and Arabs, who resided in the country for centuries, as well as by Iran’s West and South Asian neighbors. The choice of “Iran” had been a political and representative act, befitting its reconstruction as a modern and democratic nation. Yet Yarshater deplored “Iran” as a “barren word devoid of associations,” which might as easily exist in “Africa” as in “South East Asia.” He championed instead “Persia,” which, he claimed, was universally “associated with a number of pleasing notions.” The term “emphasize[d] the country’s cultural heritage,” and for Yarshater that heritage was distilled in artifacts like Persian carpets, Persian miniatures, and Persian gardens, which invoked the sublime artistry of a celebrated civilization. Yarshater perpetuated the racial-­supremacist thesis by implying that the motivation behind the name change to “Iran” had sprung from the Iranian diplomatic corps, who harbored sympathies for the then-­ascendant Nazi German regime: “The suggestion for the change is said to have come from the Persian ambassador to Germany, who came under the influence of the Nazis. At the time Germany was in the grip of racial fever and cultivated good relations with nations of ‘Aryan’ blood.”74 While Yarshater emphasized racialist motives as internal to official Iranian thinking and policy, other Iranian nationalists maintained that Germans, and especially those Germans who regarded Iranians as Aryans, likely had encouraged the 1935 Iranian name change. The facts of the matter, however, suggest a different story. Upon examining the origins, evolution, and politicization of the term “Aryan” in modern Europe, with its corresponding growth in significance elsewhere, we find that Iranians did not passively receive European and specifically German influence. To be sure, the notion of an Aryan race is a myth tainted by the political ideology that emerged to legitimate biological racism. At the academic level, the notion of an Aryan race is entangled in the story of Orientalism. Nonetheless, well before the grossest manipulations of this racial paradigm, certain Iranians adopted and adapted the Aryan myth to reaffirm Iran’s former glory in the wake of its civilizational descent. David Motadel has documented how, in the late nineteenth century, “from India to Afghanistan to Iran, the concept of an ‘Aryan master race’ took hold, a development that was part of the wider story of the globalization



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

29

of modern ideologies, such as nationalism and racial thought.”75 In Iran, the Aryan myth began to percolate through intellectual discourse during the Qajar era. For certain intellectuals, Aryanism captured the glory of a pre-­ Islamic Iran unspoiled by Arab influence, to which it could conveniently point to explain Iran’s supposed backwardness relative to dominant colonial powers. These concepts flourished in the 1930s, making their way even into the earliest school textbooks commissioned by the Pahlavi state; and they culminated, so the story goes, in Reza Shah’s 1935 order that the country be called “Iran” in international communications and correspondence. During Reza Shah’s rule, select members of the Iranian elite were in fact keen to learn from German, Italian, and Turkish authoritarianism, and some may have endorsed Persian cultural purification as a necessary component of national renewal. The “common” belief that Nazi Germany enjoyed an outstanding reputation in Iran and strong relations with the Pahlavi government, however, is hardly accurate.76 Nazi Germany and Iran repeatedly found themselves on opposite sides of international relations, and many high-­ranking Iranian officials were pro-­British. Diplomatic documents in the Iranian National Archives in Tehran suggest that Germany played a secondary and subordinate role at best in the renaming process. A memorandum from the Foreign Ministry addressed to all Iranian embassies abroad stressed, as Nafisi did in his Ettelaʿat article, that Persia as a province was not synonymous with Iran. Foreigners, it continued, had come to associate the word “Persia” with prejudices, poverty, ignorance, chaos, and weak sovereignty. “Racial considerations” were adumbrated only at the document’s end, and consisted of the claim that Iran shared “the racial origins of the Aryans”—­a point worth emphasizing especially since “much noise” was “made in great countries about the Aryan race.”77 Yet we know that the Germans influenced more than just the Iranian ambassador’s thinking, and that Reza Shah himself looked favorably upon Germany. While granting this, Yarshater’s view seems ahistorical and static: “The adoption of the name ‘Iran’ no doubt undermined the country’s cultural reputation and dealt a severe blow to its long-­term interests. To educated people everywhere the name ‘Persia’ is associated with a number of pleasing notions that in the main emphasize the country’s cultural heritage.”78 Yarshater’s logic fails to differentiate between a sovereign nation’s name and its various cultural institutions and attributed ideas. The fact that we speak of “English” gardens, architecture, buildings, or tea is not at variance with

30 Introduction

the idea of calling the country “Britain.” Naming the country Britain is a political choice, a bid to encompass a diversity of cultures, traditions, dialects, and languages under a shared national name. The principle (if not the reality) of equality in belonging is underpinned by the choice of “Britain” as the nation’s name. Similar concerns, however ideologically confused, propelled the project of renaming the country Iran. More importantly, Yarshater failed to reject the notion that Iranians should comport themselves so as to elicit positive impressions among people in the West. Even if we concede the validity of that notion, it is not true that the European image of “Persia” was as described. One need only look at European scholarship on Iran in the nineteenth or the early twentieth century to see that Persia had been shorn of its cultural associations, to be made a symbol of national decline. Yarshater conceded this point, writing, “It is true that ‘Persian’ also brings to the Western mind the Persian wars with Greece, and the home of an absolute monarchy that is often contrasted to Greek democracy; but even then ‘Persia’ does not evoke the image of a weak or backward country, but rather of a robust and mighty empire.”79 Yarshater, clinging to an image of Persia as powerful and pristine, neglected to account for the historical conditions behind the name change. The change was not an ideological blunder but the Pahlavi state’s first step toward inaugurating authoritarian nationalism, which suppressed the important circulation of intellectual debate that had defined the Iranian interwar period. The country’s name change embodied this critical conjuncture: the end of an era of vibrant and wide-­ranging debate and dialogue on the character of modern Iran. The Iranian state under Reza Shah had tolerated, and had even seemed to encourage, the cultural pluralism and the national discussion on Iranian nationalism in what is regarded as the first period of the first Pahlavi’s rule. But the state’s leniency toward that civic debate came to an end by 1934. The scheme to change the country’s name was an effort to announce the emergence of modern Iran on the world stage as a state ruled by the will of its sovereign.

Arani’s Thought in a Contemporary Context This book endeavors to expand our knowledge of a critical threshold that defined the interwar period. Doing so will allow us to avoid a one-­dimensional understanding of Iranian nationalism based on selective readings of Berlin-­ based intellectuals, a tendency shared by most arguments for Iran’s predilection toward “authoritarian nationalism.” A serious study of Arani’s writings on the



Iranian Nationalism, Revisited

31

Persian language and his critiques of competing nationalist narratives provides a compelling counterargument to the “authoritarian nationalist” thesis. The subsequent chapters document Arani’s radical imagining of the “idea of Iran.” In a genealogical endeavor, Arani revisited Iran’s history and “discovered” along the way cultural resources capable of unifying the nation as it faced the challenges born of a modernized but divided world system. Arani’s nationalism insisted on the importance of retaining a dialectical appreciation for the past while investing in the Persian language as a glue strong enough to cohere the nation culturally. For Arani, Iranian civic nationalism required a unifying narrative equal to the task of transcending ethnic or racial nationalism. This study roots the diversity of national imaginings for modern Iran in this period, which was perhaps even more fertile intellectually than the politically seminal constitutional period. The relatively neglected intellectual output of this time offers an opportunity for understanding how public intellectuals with no ties to the Pahlavi state or attendant ideological obligations conceived of the idea of Iran. Iranian nationalisms, both conservative and radical, had their intellectual genesis in these thinkers’ formative encounter with the radicalism of Weimar Berlin, and reached their full articulation in early 1930s Iran. The Berlin interval allows us to peer into the contemporary process of assessing Iran’s place in the world. This discovery allows us to sweep aside older conventional interpretations that have overlooked the creativity and importance of the early 1930s. It is against this backdrop that we come to recognize the innovativeness of Taghi Arani, who founded Donya, Iran’s first Marxist magazine. This book makes the case for Arani as a pioneer of “civic nationalism” in modern Iran. The orthodox depiction of Arani as an inflexible Marxist materialist is superficial at best, based as it is upon routinely incomplete studies of his thought and writing. Against this persistent but misleading perception of Arani, the present study showcases his most innovative works on language and culture. It argues that he purposefully articulated a transnational and self-­consciously modern social imaginary in response to contemporary challenges to encourage Iran along a path amenable to democratic political change and cultural adaptation. Despite his break from the nationalist mainstream, Arani arrived at his ideas in the intellectual climate of the broader Middle East, which took Kemalist authoritarian modernism as the predominant anticolonial template, while he drew political lessons from countries such as Soviet Russia and post-­Meiji Japan. He was also acutely

32 Introduction

aware of the political hazards of antimodernism, manifested in the thought of figures like Henri Bergson but spread equally among those groups who perceived in modernization a threat to their social dominance. In pioneering fashion, Arani reinterpreted the democratic socialist tradition according to the needs and material reality of his country. Arani’s writings provide an opportunity to reflect on the struggle faced by formerly occupied and colonized countries as they imagined a future for themselves that was at once emancipated and enlightened. If Arani faced a political predicament, Iran experienced at the same time an existential crisis. Imperial powers had occupied most of the country, and some neighboring countries were questioning the very validity of Iran as a nation. Given the global and regional threats to Iran’s stability, Arani’s understanding of the world and of the Iranian nation bears the distinct mark of anticolonial struggle. He self-­consciously rejected a pathos of hatred and revenge, championing the cause of human equality despite the colonial predicament. For him, the nation was a unified geographic community that ought to recognize that its interests were congruent with other nations seeking to realize universal humanity. Arani conjoined the concepts of “education,” “political freedom,” and “social freedom” in a tripartite imagining of progress. His thought therefore partakes of a broader multicultural tradition, including the ethic of reconciliation, which we associate with the Indian independence struggle. We have much to learn from Arani’s thought today, as the world faces recurrent turmoil generated by entrenched extractive systems that leave millions with neither political nor economic liberty, nor even the minimal hope of breathing.

1 Transnational Cosmopolitanism Arani’s Life and Times One hundred and forty years before our time, the first group of Iranian students sent off by the Iranian Government to Europe arrived in England. These students, to the extent allowed by their potential, harvested the grapes of European civilization and knowledge. And when they returned to Iran, they spread the seeds of progress and modernization in the land of their ancestry. Mojtaba Minovi, “The First Caravan of Knowledge,” 19531

Traveling with a Cause: Tabriz, Berlin, Tehran Why do people travel and what happens when they do? What comes to pass when individuals from the so-­called developing world encounter Western metropolises, and vice versa? What might happen if we accounted for the modern movement of people not as a by-­product of modern technologies but as a serious intellectual experience? Thinking about travel and transnational mobility as outcomes of either the colonial enterprise or globalization does little to help us understand how transcontinental movements shuffled individual sensibilities to far-­reaching effect.2 Travel was a critical component of achieving transnational cosmopolitanism, and the internationalization of ideas about liberalism, Marxism, and radical conservativism is best understood in light of their transnational itineraries. And to do so, a double focus is required: on the places where travelers and ideas go, as well as on what transpires when they come home.3 The events and encounters most formative to Taghi Arani’s intellectual maturation and political growth were forged in the crucible of travel. The following pages offer an overview of Arani’s life, from his boyhood in Tabriz to his university days in Berlin and his eventual and untimely death as a political prisoner in Tehran. The aim is to offer the reader an anchor into Arani’s biography while highlighting the centrality of travel to his intellectual and political life experiences. It has been remarked elsewhere that “transnationalism precedes nationalism,”4 and Arani’s life is a testament

34

Chapter 1

to the transnational thoroughfares some have traveled before arriving at an understanding of their home’s specific needs. The evolution of Arani’s nationalism, away from ethnic chauvinism toward a universalist understanding of human progress grounded in Marxist materialism, similarly demonstrates that an attachment to cosmopolitanism does not vitiate nationalist allegiances. Indeed, as this chapter demonstrates, it was in Berlin and in dialogue with leading scientists, Orientalists, and diasporic Iranian activists that Arani developed his critique of nativism and arrived at a vision of Iranian identity inclusive of the nation’s material reality of linguistic and ethnic heterogeneity. The formative encounter between East and West is restaged in notable works of European literature that take as their protagonists peripatetic Westerners beholding for the first time the uncharted Orient. The popularity of accounts of European adventures abroad endured for centuries. One early example is Montesquieu’s The Persian Letters, which adopts the form of a travelogue.5 Except it is Montesquieu’s invented Persian travelers, Usbek and Rica, who leave their home in Isfahan for France, where they come to know and praise the advances of secular democracy, and critique premodern values and institutions. Montesquieu invented these two travelers to affirm the values of the French secular Enlightenment and to showcase the horrifying similarities between everyday life in an illiberal Orient and in a premodern France still under the sway of church and monarchy. In a way, Usbek and Rica’s voyage to France represents a journey backward in time for Europeans. Travel is possessed here of such magical power that no sooner do the two Persians leave Isfahan than they are overwhelmed by the horror of their own cultural practices, thus realizing how unacceptable their “old” ways of life were. It seems Montesquieu’s larger point is that to know oneself one must leave home and acquire the distance necessary for critical self-­reflection. But of course Montesquieu, never having been to Persia, does this at the expense of Persians, with whom he deals only in the crudest stereotypes. More recently, international travel has opened up to Europeans of diverse class and occupational backgrounds. Journalists and other regional “experts” travel to centers of conflict and disseminate their firsthand encounters with these regions. Filmmakers and human rights and environmental activists reproduce in films and reports these often remote areas. This is a departure from the earlier European gentlemen’s quest for so-­called Eastern wisdom in cities such as Baghdad or Cairo, as we used to know them via Agatha



Transnational Cosmopolitanism 35

Christie’s novels, such as Murder on the Orient Express (1934), On the Nile (1937), Murder in Mesopotamia (1936), Appointment with Death (1938), and They Come to Baghdad (1951). And of course American popular culture had its own version of “transnational travelers to the East,” brought to life by Hollywood “road” pictures, starring luminaries like Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour. The film series includes Road to Singapore (1940), Road to Zanzibar (1941), Road to Morocco (1942), Road to Utopia (1946), Road to Rio (1947), Road to Bali (1952), and The Road to Hong Kong (1952). These Orientalist comedies transported the Western film viewer to an archaic and “mysterious” East. What have cultural producers hoped to gain by transporting their readers and viewers to far-­flung places? Montesquieu’s Persian Letters expressed the uncertainty of the prerevolutionary French bourgeoisie. French society, under the twin influence of Catholicism and monarchy, was for the French bourgeoisie not too different from the “East,” an arbitrary and superstitious universe of unchecked power prepared to extinguish them as an upstart social class. Post-­1688 England was their “bourgeois” utopia, Bourbon France was purgatory, and the “East” the embodiment of the worst excesses of premodern hell. Montesquieu’s message to the French, then, was: “Do not fall back with the brutes!” The fictional travels of Agatha Christie express the twilight of empire, the blurring of industrial into managerial capitalism, and the unmistakable upsurge of new Eastern power as a result of decolonization, the Russo-­Japanese war, and European decline. The third stream in American cinema represents America’s postisolationist “awakening” to new global power and hegemony, in narratives of foreign “discovery” that affirm the superiority of American origins and the burden of America’s responsibility for shepherding lost tribes in a troubled postwar world.

Transnationalism and the Circulation of Ideas It should be noted that classical Persian literature has its own rich tradition of travel literature. Persian scholars and mystics saw virtue in knowing the world, discovering new ideas and ways of living, and reflecting along the way on oneself.6 We know that travel as a practice of awakening and self-­ enlightenment was crucial for Sufis. A prominent example of such travel writing is Farid al-­Din Attar’s book of poems Mantiq al-­tayr (The Conference of the Birds), written in 1175 in Nishapur, which narrates the journey thirty birds take to the abode of Simorgh, a legendary winged creature.7

36

Chapter 1

In Attar’s account, travel forces us to confront new challenges, from which we arrive at a heightened sense of self-­knowledge and empowerment. It is in the unknown that we reach a consciousness unachievable within the confines of home. Classically trained religious scholars like Ghazali also extolled the virtues of traveling. For Ghazali, travel could even supersede certain religious rituals. In Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya-­ye Saʿadat), he argued that human happiness requires balanced attention to matters of this world (donya) and the other world (din). Appreciation of both implies that in the ordinary (profane) world, the spiritual and material have an interconnected relationship.8 With scholarly zest, Ghazali delineated five types of travel: “First, travel is the quest for knowledge. This kind of journey is a religious duty, because seeking knowledge is a matter of faith. . . . Second, there is travel for worship [ʿebadat], such as pilgrimages, development [gazev, developing raw or vacant land] and visiting the prophets’ shrines. . . . The third journey is to escape from something that is entangled with religion, such as place and wealth and region and guidance and worldly vocation.9 The fourth type is travel for commerce and worldly gain.” Finally, the “fifth reason for traveling is for tourism and enjoying oneself. This is permitted because it happens occasionally.”10 That a twelfth-­century scholar had such a broad and expansive view of traveling, seeing immense privilege in taking journeys and seeing unfamiliar parts of the world as one element of reaching saʿadat (human happiness), suggests how limited are some of the current discussions about cosmopolitanism, which reduce the act of travel to a function of class privilege or colonialism. In a more recent Iranian context, travel took on multiple forms. During the Constitutional Revolution, Iranian constitutionalists traveled to centers of political activity and agitation in London, Paris, Istanbul, Caucasia, Cairo, and India, while during the interwar period many Iranians traveled outside Iran, often for political reasons. At the same time, and even earlier, the state began to sponsor certain students’ travel to Europe, where they participated in educational initiatives backed by colonial powers. These students were sponsored with the expectation that they would absorb European scientific technological know-­how and return to Iran to assist with developing its military and other industrial sectors. For the British and French governments, such initiatives contributed to their mission to mold and modernize the Iranian elite in their own image, and deepened the colonial rivalry between them in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. However,



Transnational Cosmopolitanism 37

there was high hope and excitement about these groups of young Iranians traveling to Europe and bringing back the “gifts” of modern civilization. This sentiment is echoed by the Iranian historian Mojtaba Minovi, who concludes that while reformist Iranians did attempt to sow and safeguard the seeds of modern progress, their cultural landscape was not primed to reap their benefits, and so their efforts perished.11 Minovi seems disappointed that travel, programs of student exchange, and the foreign education of Iranian politicians happened for the sole purpose of national development and progress. While his complex allegories render judgment of his analysis of Iran’s failed modernity difficult, he makes one important point in his article: For a nation such as Iran, the transnational exchange of ideas is critical to the project of progressive political change. Nations and cultures that prefer intellectual and political isolation deprive themselves of the positive potential wrought from a global exchange of ideas. Although Minovi’s analysis may today seem dated, his emphasis on the value of travel is still integral to achieving a transnational and cosmopolitan modernity, albeit with a more contextual perspective. Only then can we historicize the impact of more than two hundred years of transnational travel and intellectual exchange on Iranian’s modern conceptions of self, home, and the world. Looking at Taghi Arani’s life as a transnational traveler at the center of revolutionary circulations in intellectual ideas offers enlightening insights into how one individual made sense of this triangle.

Tabriz and Tehran, 1902–­1921 Taghi Arani was born around September 5, 1902, in Tabriz, then the capital of Azerbaijan province.12 His father, Abolfath, known as Amin Hazrat, was a middle-­ranking civil servant in the finance ministry in Tabriz. Arani’s mother, Fatemeh, was his father’s paternal cousin. Arani’s ancestors had migrated to Tabriz from north of the Aras River in Turkey—­more specifically, that is, from the region in eastern Transcaucasia historically known as Arran, located between the Kuru and Aras Rivers.13 Arani was the first of six children, three boys and three girls. His younger brother Hashem died during infancy. Arani’s three sisters were Irandokht, Kowkab, and Showkat. Showkat was the youngest in the family, and the only child born in Tehran. The others were all born in Tabriz, where they lived a life of material comfort. Arani entered primary school in 1908, at the Fiyouzat School of Tabriz. The school had been founded that same year by Abolqasem Fiyouzat (1888–­ 1970), a journalist and writer who served as Tabriz’s representative in the

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Fourth National Assembly. Arani’s mother, likely hoping to keep alive the legacy of her children’s grandfathers, who were religious scholars, insisted that young Arani supplement his education with Qurʾanic classes and enrolled him in religious school, where he was introduced to Islamic studies and the Arabic language.14 In 1912, when Arani was about ten years old, his family relocated from Tabriz to Tehran. It is unclear what prompted this move. The turbulence following the Constitutional Revolution and the foreign occupation of Tabriz likely contributed to the decision. The 1911 financial reforms introduced by the new constitutional parliament subverted Russian and British interests, prompting Russia to attack and occupy Tabriz and other northern cities closest it.15 The Russian occupation of Tabriz overturned the city’s economic stability and prosperity, turning everyday life into a struggle for survival. With the depravations of occupation acutely felt there, Tabriz became a haven for constitutional revolutionaries and freedom fighters. While the city was an axis of progressive politics, Tabrizi intellectuals and activists were connected to a transnational network of dissidents that reached beyond Tabriz and connected Iran to the Middle East and Europe. Iranian intellectuals and political figures based in Tabriz, Tehran, and elsewhere traveled to Istanbul, Paris, and London to publish newspapers and other political materials and send them into Iran via Tabriz. Arani was not the only Tabrizi of his era to later become a well known Iranian political figure and intellectual. His many Azeri and Tabrizi role models included Hasan Taghizadeh, Ahmad Kasravi, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, Ali Akbar Dehkhoda, and many others.16 It is not difficult to conceive of the personal and cultural shock the environmental change from Tabriz to Tehran must have caused young Arani. Tabriz was and remains the cultural and political heart of Iranian Azeris, and the site of the crown princes of Qajar rulers; so as a child, Arani spoke Turkish at home. Moving to the Persian-­speaking parts of Iran may well have jolted his cultural sensibilities. Arani’s family was still living in Tabriz in 1909, when Howard Conklin Baskerville, a Princeton graduate who had traveled to Iran as a Presbyterian missionary and schoolteacher and ended up a champion of the constitutionalist cause, was killed by the royalist forces supporting Mohammad Ali Shah. “Mr. Baskerville, a young American mission-­teacher, defended the Constitutionalists but was killed in the last desperate sortie on April 21.”17 In that April attack, “Baskerville was given command of a contingent of 150 men whose job was to defend the city’s



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fortifications.”18 At “24 years and 9 days old,” Baskerville was another person who had traveled to Iran to join its secular and democratic forces, only to be killed by the anticonstitutionalists. 19 Arani completed his two remaining years of primary education in Tehran at Sharaf Mozaffari Primary School. The school, which initially opened under the name Sharaf School, had been founded by the Education Association in 1898. Its students tended to come from low-­income families who without the school’s assistance would have been unable to procure needed school supplies for their children. The first principal of Sharaf School was Mirza Ali Akbar Khan Nazem al-­Taba (1924–­47), a writer, scholar, and private doctor to Mozaffar al-­Din Shah. In 1903, low student numbers and insufficient revenue precipitated a partnership between Mozaffari School, named after Mozaffar al-­Din Shah, and Sharaf School, leading to the latter being renamed Sharaf Mozaffari. The school continued its educational work until the 1960s, when its previous status waned and it was dissolved. Upon completing his primary education at Sharaf Mozaffari School, Arani studied at Dar al-­Fonun, established in 1851. He continued his high school education between the years 1914 and 1920, and studied for an additional two years, 1920 to 1922, at the Higher School of Medicine, established in 1918 and overseen by Dar al-­Fonun. Arani graduated a distinguished student in his class.20 Arani’s years at Dar al-­Fonun coincided with World War I (1914–­18). The dust of the Constitutional Revolution of 1906–­11 had barely settled when the war broke out, entangling Iran into another devastating conflict that resulted in yet greater foreign latitude in its domestic affairs. The wartime occupation of Iran disrupted chains of trade and communication vital to Iranians’ daily well-­being, culminating in food shortages, widespread famine, brutal economic suffering, illness, and death for countless Iranians, and widening an already long-­standing political rift. The central government was conflict-­ridden, besieged with internal and factional divisions. As Ervand Abrahamian argues, “By 1920 Iran was a classic ‘failed state’—­to use modern terminology. The ministries had little presence outside the capital. The government was immobilized not only by rivalries between the traditional magnates and between the new political parties, but also by the Anglo-­Persian Agreement.”21 Although many Iranians experienced the war as a period of widespread immiseration, Arani’s family managed to shield themselves from the worst ravages of the conflict. During the war they lived in the Sheikh Hadi

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neighborhood of western Tehran, an enclave of middle-­class civil servants and government workers.22 They managed to retain a domestic worker: a young man named Reza Damavandi, who, while caring for his own family, also tended to the needs of the Arani family for more than twenty-­five years.23 Although the Arani family enjoyed favorable economic status, Arani’s strained relationship with his father limited his share of the family’s fortune. “During my later years at Dar al-­Fonun, despite a relatively wealthy and aristocratic father, I lived in poverty and exile due to my father’s lack of concern,” Arani wrote. “I lacked even the means to buy a single book throughout the entire period of my studies. I had to borrow books.”24 Anvar Khameʾi (1917–­2018), too, recalls in his diaries that Arani always spoke poorly of his father and well of his mother. In one discussion Arani said, “My father was a real Casanova.”25 Arani’s decision to continue his studies in Germany was in line with the trajectory of many Dar al-­Fonun graduates in those days. In August 1922, at the age of twenty, Arani left Tehran for Berlin to continue his education. In the midst of institutional decay, economic dilapidation, and mass discontent, Reza Khan had seized power over Iran in a military coup in February 1921. A Cossack commander, he arrived in Tehran with three thousand men and eighteen machine guns, and together they made short work of their takeover. With this coup, Iran entered new era of modern statehood. 26 In December 1925 the Iranian Parliament voted to depose Ahmad Shah Qajar and install Reza Khan as ruler. “The hallmark of the era was to be state-­building. Reza Shah came to power in a country where the government had little presence outside the capital. He left the country with an extensive state structure—­the first in Iran’s two thousand years. It has been said of Stalin that he inherited a country with a wooden plough and left it with the atomic bomb. It can be said of Reza Shah that he took over a country with a ramshackle administration and left it with a highly centralized state.”27 The Iran that Arani would return to after his Berlin sojourn was a radically different one.

Berlin, 1922–­1929 For Germany, despite its losses during World War I, the interwar era unleashed a tide of political exuberance and, in Berlin especially, the flowering of artistic, political, and cultural activities. The veritable intellectual and creative center of Europe, Berlin was the site of pioneering work in modern



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literature, theatre, and art, and of revolutions in psychoanalysis, sociology, and science. Germany’s economy and political affairs were suffering gravely, but its cultural and intellectual life flourished, so much so that this chapter of its history is often referred to as the Weimar Renaissance. This period provided a rather hospitable environment for non-­German intellectuals and political individuals and groups to live in. In the early decades of the twentieth century, few Iranians lived in Germany. The journal Iranshahr estimated in a 1922 report titled “Oriental Students in Germany” that the total number of Iranian students in Germany did not exceed a mere seventy individuals, whereas Egypt boasted of two hundred students studying in Germany, and China four hundred.28 Only four months later, however, the same journal reported: “We are delighted to see that lately the number of Iranian students in Germany is growing. As we reported in issue number three of this journal, there were only 70 [Iranian] students in Germany then [in August 1922]. Now [in December 1922], there are more than 120 students.”29 While most Iranians may not have come to Germany with the idea of making a home there, they were not untouched by its excitement, either. Arani’s six years in the Weimar capital were foundational to his political and intellectual maturation. Major natural and social science breakthroughs were happening in Berlin and on the campus of its university, where Arani walked the same halls as Max Planck and Albert Einstein.30 Artistically, the city had inherited the blossoming German-­speaking Central European scene, a cultural effervescence associated with Kafka and Kokoschka that had been disrupted by the 1914 outbreak of World War I. Politically, Berlin was the site of massive and recurrent clashes between left and right, which spilled out from the Weimar parliament and into the streets. The Weimar capital was a source of hope for socialists worldwide, who envisaged a German revolution as a central to the making of a new socialist world order. Lenin and Trotsky believed the victory of the German left was the only effective means to guarantee the survival of the young Soviet Socialist Republic. The Communist International, founded at a 1919 Moscow congress, funneled abundant resources to the German cause. More Soviet agents were stationed in Berlin than in any city outside the Soviet Union. Finally, Berlin was the center of a compact Iranian intellectual diaspora, some members of which enjoyed intermittent financial support from the German government. Arani developed his vision for Iran’s future at the intersection of Weimar modernism, Soviet socialist geopolitics, and the Iranian intellectual diaspora,

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a conjuncture that indicates the depth of his linkages to transnational anticolonial struggles and his role in the radical Iranian left. This context illuminates Arani’s political and intellectual innovations, which dynamized the politics of nation-­making. Both Arani’s theoretical voice and public action partake of a transnational circulation of intellectual ideas and were produced through the important experience of travelling, an act which exceeds the physical movement from one place to another and which confronts the traveler with new, unknown, and even conflicting realities. Arani’s unrelenting promotion of the sciences and his social-scientific analysis of Iranian culture indicate the influence of his Berlin experience on his political trajectory. Travel opened new intellectual horizons for Arani, and this freedom to maneuver may explain his critical perspective on ʿerfan, or mysticism, a subject perhaps too taboo to reproach then. Arani financed his studies in Berlin through a government scholarship. During World War I, Iranian officials suspended the entry of European technical and military specialists into the country. Normal practices of student exchange did not resume until the Fourth Parliament (1921–­23) approved funding to send sixty Iranian university students to Europe for the 1922–­23 graduation year. While Hamid Ahmadi lists Arani among those who went to Germany on a state scholarship, Anvar Khameʾi, a student of Arani at Dar al-­Fonun, claims he departed for Germany at his own expense, earning the minimum needed to survive and complete his studies by working as a proofreader at a Persian-­language press in Berlin.31 Arani informed Khameʾi that during those years that he subsisted on simple cheese sandwiches, which he consumed between class and laboratories or at the university library. At nine or ten in the evening he then proceeded to the publishing house, where he would proofread until midnight. The arduous work weakened his eyesight, and the years of strain nearly blinded him.32 Years later, Arani offered this account of his exact working hours: From eight to five he studied in the laboratory, and from five to nine he proofread at the publishing house.33 Hossein Boroujerdi rejects the suggestion that Arani attended the Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin on a state scholarship, pointing to an absence of corroborating documents. Like Khameʾi, he maintains that Arani traveled to Berlin at his own personal expense. During his last two years in Berlin, spanning December 1926 to December 1928, however, Arani did manage to secure a scholarship from Iran’s Ministry of Defense.34 What is not disputed is that Arani began his foreign education as a visiting student at the university during the winter semester, which began on



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October 16, 1922, and ended on March 15, 1923. Upon his admission to the university’s College of Philosophy in April 1923, he began advanced studies in organic chemistry. By the end of his time in Germany, he had completed eleven semesters of study at the university, one as a guest student and the other ten as a student in the College of Philosophy.35 With no government support to buoy him until the end of 1926, Arani was forced to work to cover his own living expenses. Although relatively few Iranians resided in Berlin at the time, they formed a tight-­knit and active community, with many members hailing from Arani’s hometown, Tabriz. These commonalities helped Arani find work. He began proofreading classical Persian texts at Kaviani Press, which Abdolshakur Tabrizi founded in 1922. The job introduced him to a network of elite Iranian contacts, including cultural producers and political activists who were concentrated in Berlin but spread across Europe. Arani soon developed working relations with high-­standing Berlin-­based Iranian intellectuals and activists, many of whom occupied key positions in the Million Committee, established in 1915. The German government conceived of and offered vital financial and logistical support to the Million Committee at the outbreak of World War I as a front for fighting Russian and English incursions into Iran. The German consulate in New York invited Hasan Taghizadeh,36 then a resident there, to travel to Germany and chair the committee.37 With Taghizadeh’s arrival from New York in 1915, the committee was launched. Taghizadeh sought to collaborate with multiple Iranian groups.38 Upon his invitation, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr (1884–­1962), a colleague of Edward Browne at Cambridge University, traveled to Germany. Mohammad Qazvini and Ebrahim Pourdavoud, also at Taghizadeh’s invitation, abandoned their research in Paris to join the committee in Berlin.39 Morteza Ravandi, a historian of modern Iran, arrived in Berlin from Switzerland, and Mohammad Ali Jamalzadeh came from Dijon, France.40 The poet, journalist, and literary scholar Mahmud Ghanizadeh traveled from Istanbul to join the committee, as did Mirza Mohammad Tarbiyat, an educator and former mayor of Tabriz, as well as several others.41 Of the Million Committee’s activities, perhaps the most important was its publication of newspapers such as Kaveh and Rastekhiz. Kaviani Press, the Persian-­language press that employed Arani as a proofreader, oversaw the production of the committee’s papers and contributed to expanding the canon of printed Persian. Edward Browne considered Kaviani Press, which aspired to elevate Persian by printing affordable and high-­quality

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books, crucial to reviving Iran’s literary life. In his opinion, no other existing publishers paralleled Kaviani.42 These developments explain how young Arani, a chemistry student and part-­time proofreader, came to be imbricated in a network of prominent Iranian scholars. His association with Kaviani Press facilitated his access to a group of German Orientalist scholars and the Oriental Languages Institute (Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen). Founded in 1887, the Oriental Languages Institute taught Turkish, Arabic, and Persian as well as a number of South Asian, Chinese, and other Asian languages. The student body consisted largely of personnel from the Foreign Ministry or the military, and also included the occasional businessman. Arani’s acquaintance with Friedrich Rosen, a retired German diplomat and Orientalist, resulted in a literary collaboration. Rosen was head of the German Oriental Society. He met Arani in 1924 while Arani was working at Kaviani, where their friendship and collaboration began. Rosen’s activities at the society included the publication of several books on the Persian language, as well as the partial German translation of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat in 1909.43 Rosen was preparing to print an updated and expanded edition of the Rubaiyat in Persian. The young Arani had a good grasp of classic Persian literature. Together with Mohammad Qazvini (1877–­1949), a prominent scholar of Persian literature working with Kaviani Press in Berlin, Arani helped Rosen proofread and publish his revised Persian Rubaiyat. Rosen, using his influence, also published a rare mathematical treatise of Khayyam’s, hitherto held at the Leiden library in Holland, titled Risala fi sharh ma ashkala min musadarat kitab Uqlidis (A commentary on the difficulties concerning the postulates of Euclid’s Elements), which presented a critique of Euclid’s geometry. With aid from Arani’s expertise in classical Iranian literature and Arabic, the volume was edited and published at Kaviani. Collaborating with senior scholars such as Qazvini and Rosen, Arani was integral, in his capacity as a proofreader and editor, to the production at Kaviani Press of various works of classical Iranian literature, from Saʿdi’s Badaye to Naser Khosrow and Obeid Zakani, in 1924 and 1925. With these publications, he cemented his claim to mastery of Persian, Turkish, and Arabic, qualifying him to teach at the Oriental Languages Institute in Berlin. Arani proposed two courses he might teach there, one in comparative Oriental literature and another in classical Persian literature. The institute agreed to both suggestions. A report of his interview for the position reveals that Wilhelm Litten, a scholar of Iranian culture and literature and



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the Persian instructor at the institute from 1924 to 1926, presided over the interview. Litten’s notes testify to Arani’s linguistic and literary acumen: Taghi Arani is a student from Persia, studying natural sciences at the University of Berlin, majoring in chemistry. He speaks a pure Persian with a Tehran accent. His father is a civil servant working on the board of the tobacco tax department. He proposes two lecture series in German for advanced students. These do not compete with the courses we offer; rather, they complement them. First is a series of lectures on Oriental rhetoric, style, and logic derived from his knowledge of Persian, Arabic, and Turkish literature. Second is a series of lectures on Persian literature based on samples from prominent figures with unique styles. Given that the lectures will be delivered in German, it can interest a wider circle than those studying these languages. He has left a fine impression on me.44

Arani thus assumed his new role as a teacher at the Oriental Languages Institute, Berlin, in the summer of 1925. He simultaneously taught two courses, in Oriental rhetoric and Persian literature, as mentioned in Litten’s notes. Arani’s classes were well received by the institute’s directors and students, and he was asked to teach them in future semesters as well. As a result, he taught them from 1925 until 1928, when he left Berlin for Iran. In a few years, Arani had worked his way from being a part-­time proofreader to a lectureship at Germany’s premier center for Oriental studies, and had cemented his status as an active member of Berlin’s scholarly community. Indeed, in his introduction to Saʿdi’s Badaye, Arani introduced himself to readers as an “Oriental literature teacher in Berlin’s Dar ul-­Fonun.”45 In addition to his frequent collaborations with specialists of Oriental literature and languages, Arani’s multifaceted scholarly output retained a scientific streak, true to his background as a chemist. While continuing to teach at the Oriental Languages Institute throughout the Berlin period, he began in 1926 to compile a series of Persian books on the modern sciences. His goal was to familiarize Iranians with major scientific concepts and principles. The project resulted in the publication, in Persian, of Series in the Exact Sciences, which included two volumes related to physics, and Scientific Theories. In December 1927, Arani’s ventures into the field of psychology culminated in the publication of Principles of the Science of the Soul, General Psychology by Kaviani Press. In his introduction to Science of the Soul, he situated psychology firmly within an existing corpus of scientific knowledge,

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explaining that unlike the natural sciences, it offered humans a systematized view into the immaterial and disorderly world of the mind: “Psychology is one of the topics constituting today’s modern scientific framework. In physics, chemistry, and biology (the natural and logical sciences), mental labor studies the transformations visible in nature; and, in psychology, [it] studies the changes in oneself. The science of the soul, therefore, complements the natural sciences and the theoretical foundations of the rational sciences.”46 Arani saw psychology as an essential and complementary component of scientific reasoning. He hoped that his introductory works might facilitate the fuller realization of each individual’s mental faculties, a process that would at the societal level eventuate in a more dutiful citizenry: The teacher, the doctor, the judge, the politician, the parents throughout the child’s life, the patient, the wrongdoer, the child, and so on, must know [themselves] completely. Only such self-­knowledge can render civic populations capable of enacting their duties with accuracy and precision. Gaining adequate capacities and specialization without the study of this science is impossible. This publication should therefore prove useful in the development and evolution of civic thinking among Iranians. This civic education is precisely the author’s intention.47

Arani’s incipient interest in leveraging scientific insights for social change, which would mark the rest of his life, are discernible even in such early iterations of his thought.

Political Activities in Berlin Despite his many engagements as a student, proofreader, and eventually teacher in Berlin, Arani always set aside time for political work. He developed and disseminated his political analyses in various Berlin-­based Persian magazines, like Azadi-­ye Sharq, Iranshahr, and Nameh-­ye Farangestan, more on which later. The editor of one publication that gave frequent outlet to Arani’s musings, Azadi-­ye Sharq, was Abdolrahman Seif Azad (1884–­1971), who was well-­connected to German politicians and held an affinity with German National Socialist ideology. In June 1922, several months after the magazine Kaveh stopped publishing, the first issue of Iranshahr was released under the eponymous editorship of the nationalist Kazemzadeh Iranshahr.48 Between 1922 and 1927, the editors of Iranshahr published forty-­eight issues, which they distributed in some



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forty Iranian towns. Like most other modernist reformers, contributors to Iranshahr uniformly endorsed the importance of public secular education; the necessity of dismantling cultural and legal barriers prohibiting women’s advancement; the adoption of modern agricultural, infrastructural, and communication technologies; and the political insights of modern and Western worldviews. While Iranshahr’s remedy to Iran’s political and economic stagnation imbibed the cornucopian possibilities of modern educational, legal, and technological practices as other reformers did, its diagnosis of the source of the nation’s woes differed from theirs. The publication’s brand of ethnic nationalism glorified pre-­Islamic Iran while denigrating Arabs as an alien race whose conquest of Iran hindered the “creative abilities of Iran’s talented Aryan population.” Iranshahr went so far on some occasions as to encourage the elimination of local sects, customs, and dialects.49 There is no evidence to show that Arani had any serious affinity with the journal’s racialist ideas, since his contributions to the magazine focused on showcasing the positive cultural qualities of Iran and Iranians. Arani also contributed to Nameh-­ye Farangestan, which was first published in 1924 in Berlin by an Iranian students’ association and alternatively referred to as Omid-­e Iran or Majma‘-­ye Iran (Iran Council). The students’ association printed twelve issues of the journal between May 1924 and April 1925. Farangestan’s opening editorial argued that Iran had freed itself from royal despotism, but that the country required a “revolutionary dictator” to liberate the ignorant masses from the grips of the reactionary clergy: “In a country where 99 percent of the population is under the electoral sway of the reactionary mullahs, our only hope is a Mussolini who can break the influence of the traditional authorities. The dictator may thus create a modern outlook, a modern people, and a modern nation.”50 The magazine’s stagiest thinking and arguments paralleled its rudimentary understanding of European history and political thought. In another article, “Social Revolution, The Need for a Dictator,” another Nameh-­ye Farengstan writer repeated the argument that only through dictatorship could Iran’s problems be solved. The publication celebrated strongman Reza Shah’s arrival onto Iran’s political scene, declaring that “the great leader has emerged and taken the country’s fate in his hands.”51 Arani’s writings during the years 1922 to 1925 focused on the function of the Persian language in cohering the Iranian nation. In his earlier Berlin years, Arani had embraced an uncompromising nationalist ideology. One statement of his earlier nationalism is the 1922 essay “Scientific Questions”

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in Iranshahr, which he authored at the age of twenty-­one, and which celebrated the Aryan race, the monarchy, and the glory of ancient Iran.52 While Arani’s nationalism was not out of step with that of other Iranian modernists and intellectuals, or with views espoused by publications like Iranshahr and Farangestan, he came to distance himself from those ideas and evolved into a critic of monarchy and ethnonationalism. Arani become the advocate of an Iranian republic. He documented this period of his life in a Donya article: “Due to youthful age and the limited information of my surroundings, in Iranshahr and Farangestan articles I became a follower of narrow and chauvinistic nationalism. I corresponded with my friends in a special Persian language.”53 According to Ervand Abrahamian, as he transitioned away from “chauvinistic nationalism” after 1925, Arani organized a discussion circle with some of his former Tehran classmates who had also relocated to Berlin. While no documents exist to date his transition to socialism, the atmosphere of revolutionary protest and possibility pervading Berlin and Iranian student debates was surely a contributing factor. With this shift in Arani’s political leanings, he embarked on an intensive study of Marx, Engels, Kautsky, and Lenin as his interest in European socialism grew.54 The first signs of dialectical and materialist thinking in Arani’s writings might be dated shortly afterward to 1926, when he published his book on physics in Berlin. According to Hamid Ahmadi, it was Arani’s studies in the natural sciences and practical experiences that planted the seeds of materialism in his thinking. It was this tendency toward materialist analysis that grounded his subsequent studies in Marxist theories and philosophy. Arani’s philosophical, social, and psychological writings show that he gradually studied the history of Eastern and German philosophy, reading the likes of Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, and Feuerbach as well as the works of Marx and other radicals.55 During this time, Arani befriended an activist by the name of Ahmad Asadi, who studied economics at the Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin. Through Asadi, Arani became friends with Morteza Alavi (1901–38), another economics student at the university.56 Asadi and Alavi were personally funding their own studies in Germany, and had arrived there two years before Arani. The three students together founded the Revolutionary Iranian Republic Faction (RIRF), a moment of great significance for Iranian politics.57 Years later, while under interrogation for his involvement in supposedly communist activities, Arani explained how the growing numbers of Iranian



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students in Berlin had united to form the Iran Association. Paralleling the public-­facing branch of the association was a clandestine group founded by Morteza Alavi, a member of the association’s board of directors. Members of the covert group included Dr. Ali Ardalan, Foroohar, Mahmud Purreza, Ibrahim Mahdavi, Morteza Yazdi, Mohammad Bahrami, Ahmad Asadi, Ahmad Farhad, and Arani. In his future correspondences, Arani emphasized that the group was not communist in orientation; its purpose was to protect democratic rights and Iranian national interests. The group eventually fragmented as a result of internal disagreements.58 With its disbanding, a smaller and more intellectually cohesive group was formed, the RIRF. Arani did not mention this group during his eventual interrogation in 1938, nor did he speak of its activities. Arani depicted the faction as insignificant, and his own membership as inconsequential. Under pressure to offer a clue to the group’s leadership, he referred his interrogators to Morteza Alavi, who was abroad at the time and therefore beyond the reach of the Pahlavi regime and its police apparatus.59 The establishment of the RIRF in Berlin in autumn 1925 may be considered the dawn of Arani’s political activism in Germany. The group’s slogans invoked a defense of the liberal ideals of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution and of republican politics. Its five central members were also involved in the original Iran Association. Its official correspondences and announcements bore an oval-­shaped seal.60 Its members included Asadi, Alavi, Farhad, Purreza, and Arani. The RIRF’s inaugural statement was published in December 1925, following the fall of Ahmad Shah Qajar (1898–­1930). This first official statement, addressed to the entirety of the Iranian people, proposed the formation of a new regime against dictatorship and for republican freedoms. Shortly after its dissemination, the head of the Berlin police reported the organization’s existence to Prussia’s Interior Ministry. An antimonarchy assembly coincided with the day Reza Shah took his imperial oath. It featured public talks and analysis of the general state of the Iranian population, with criticisms of ruling government policy in German.61 The thirty-­nine page “Statement of Truth” (Bayan-­e Haqq), published in the fall of 1927 in Berlin, was likely the most important publication by the RIRF.62 It coincided with the journey of Abdolhossein Teymourtash (1883–­1933), Reza Shah’s minister of court, to Berlin and France. Protesting Reza Shah’s autocratic regime, the “Statement” identified Teymourtash as instrumental in suppressing democratic freedoms in Iran. The document

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was translated into French and sent by Iraj Eskandari (1908–­85) to the French press and political parties. Teymourtash promptly called the German ambassador to request a meeting with the statement’s authors.63 Upon returning to Iran, Teymourtash ordered the Ministry of Court to revoke Eskandari’s academic scholarship.64 Meanwhile, Asadi, the Iranian ambassador to Germany, requested that the German Foreign Ministry expel Asadi. The Prussian police, pressured by the country’s Foreign Ministry, consented. Arani, who led the Iranian Students’ Union in Berlin, turned to Rudolf Breitscheid, a Social Democrat elected to the German parliament, for counsel in hopes of having Asadi’s expulsion repealed. On December 19, 1928, Breitscheid agreed to lend his voice to their cause and wrote an article in Vorwarts protesting the German government’s summary expulsion of Asadi. The British government became involved at this point, charging the RIRF with fomenting anti-­British propaganda, since, much to its chagrin, the “Statement” had been circulated in India. Under this pretext, the British government insisted that the German government continue with its plans to expel Asadi. Under considerable pressure, the Prussian police prepared to expel Asadi.65 The Iranian ambassador became aware of Arani’s visit with Breitscheid and the efforts to prevent Asadi’s expulsion and requested, in a letter to the German government (November 29, 1928), that Arani also be expelled.66 Arani’s sudden move from Berlin to Tehran, and the abrupt termination of his teaching at the Oriental Languages Institute, very likely resulted from this situation. While the RIRF may have inspired the Iranian student movement, Hossein Boroujerdi argues that with a membership of no more than ten people, its mark on Iranian politics and the opposition to Reza Shah’s rule was negligible.67 Despite government awareness of the group’s activities, the state did not bother to contact its main members (Asadi, Dr. Imami, Dr. Bahrami, or Yazdi) after their return to Iran.68 Some of the members, like Arani and Iraj Eskandari, were even permitted to assume government jobs upon their return to Iran. Arani, for example, worked at the Ministry of War and later at the Ministry of Education. Eskandari, upon the recommendation of a judge who had helped enact a 1931 bill prohibiting communist activity, was promoted to the position of Tehran’s assistant prosecuting attorney.69 Eskandari recounted that the judge hinted at his Berlin political activities, suggesting that working in the judiciary would somehow be safer for him.70 Why then the unexpected expulsion of multiple RIRF members from Germany?



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Boroujerdi believes that the Iranian state’s sudden decision to confront the political activity of Berlin-­based activists, especially Morteza Alavi, was motivated by the publication of Paykar, a magazine that represented the culmination of Alavi’s political activities and published materials critical of Reza Shah. During its one-­year existence, this publication provoked such concern among Iranian governing officials that they urged the German government to seize its copies by any means necessary and to expel Alavi. Iranian authorities eventually identified almost everyone who had collaborated with Alavi to publish Paykar, or who was otherwise connected to him through the magazine. By that time, Arani had returned to Iran and was no longer residing in Germany.71 On May 13, 1937, Arani explained to his Iranian interrogators, who had arrested him and fifty-­two others for communist agitation, that he had first heard the words “Marxism” and “communism” when they were uttered in 1923 by Ahmad Asadi, who was known as “Darab” in Berlin. Arani’s familiarity with communism had deepened as a result of his association with Alavi, another Iranian student at Friedrich Wilhelm University, but it was not until 1927, he asserted, that he had acquired from Alavi his first piece of communist literature, the Communist Manifesto, and read it.72 Anvar Khameʾi, another group member, recalled Arani’s introduction to Marxism slightly differently: he explained that Morteza Alavi—­who was the older brother of Bozorg Alavi, the well known Iranian novelist, and was an experienced communist organizer—­had gathered numerous Iranian students in Germany to form a student organization. The organization’s stated goal was to fight for unions and student interests, but in practice it existed to agitate against Reza Shah’s dictatorship. It was as a result of this student group, as Khameʾi had it, that Arani had encountered the principles of Marxism. From then on, Khameʾi reported, Arani had developed a distinct interest in Marxism and surpassed other group members in his consumption of Marxist philosophy.73 Despite his dedication to activism, Arani continued to work diligently as an editor of classical Persian literature, an instructor of Persian language, and a doctoral student in chemistry. In the winter term of 1924–­25, Arani completed the Verband exams, and in 1926 he passed his doctoral exams. With his exams out of the way, in the summer of 1926 he began compiling his doctoral thesis, “The Reductive Effects of Hypo-­Phosphorous Acid on Organic Compounds.” In a formal letter to the university, dated May 1928, he announced the postponement of his defense, due to a health problem

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impeding his physical movement. One month later, in June, Arani requested that his doctoral defense date be fixed again, this time citing state pressure to return to Iran. Although the precise date of Arani’s defense remains unclear, it was approved for publication by his advisors Herman Thomas and Carl Mannich on December 19, 1928, with the caveat that its German language be revised. Arani, busy teaching at the Oriental Languages Institute, was forced midway through the term to return to Iran. In a letter to the university director dated December 19, 1928, he apologized for being absent at the graduation ceremony due to an unanticipated “emergency trip.” The reasons for this “emergency trip” remain unclear, although they were likely connected to his political activities. Friedrich Rosen intervened, requesting that the institute be understanding of Arani’s emergency and offer him a few months to stay in Berlin. The institute agreed to this, permitting Arani’s immediate departure for Tehran.74

Tehran in the 1930s In January 1929, after seven years in the city, Arani left Berlin for Tehran. A scholarship from Iran’s Ministry of War had subsidized his studies in Germany for two years and stipulated that he serve in the Iranian army upon the completion of his degree. During his tenure in the army, Arani worked in various teaching capacities, sometimes as an instructor of chemistry and technology and at other times as a German-­language teacher.75 Despite engaging in other publishing and political activities over the following years, Arani continued to teach at the Nezam High School (a military school) until his imprisonment in 1937. He eventually applied for exemption from compulsory military service, and started working at the Ministry of Education, where he taught at the Iranshahr school and Dar al-­Moʿallimin (Teacher’s College). In 1936 he transferred to the General Administration Bureau as head of the Learning Department.76 Khameʾi, who also taught physics at the Nezam High School, described Arani’s “face as distinguishable from the teachers at the high school. His behavior was different from that of other teachers.”77

Writing Sciences Although Arani spent his days teaching physics and chemistry in Tehran’s high schools, he was principally preoccupied upon his initial return to Tehran with completing the series of books and articles on the modern sciences that he had begun in Berlin in 1926. In Berlin, Arani had published with



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Kaviani Press his Series in Exact Sciences, which included two volumes on physics and one on psychology. He continued the series while in Tehran, bringing the series total to six books.78 It included Scientific Theories, a slim 1931 volume.79 Three years later, in 1934, he published a thirty-­eight-­page booklet called Theory of Relativity, an analysis of Einstein’s theory. Arani included in Theory of Relativity some of his previously published articles from Donya. The introduction to the volume advances an analysis of relativity theory that foregrounds its social significance. Arani eyed with suspicion “reactionary classes” who instrumentalized the theory to advance scientific spiritualism—­that is, using so-­called scientific method to explain or rationalize religious or mystical ideas. Arani sought to recuperate the theory’s materialist basis: The theory of relativity has received more credit than it deserves. In contemporary science, more important issues, including quantum theory and atomic models, are plentiful. Nevertheless, this work expands two aspects of relativity theory: first, how this hypothesis has a social and popular component. The reactionary classes have employed it incorrectly in arguments to secure reactionary results favoring their interests. . . . Second, by publishing this article, Donya magazine wants to convey to its readers that science—­that is, information that men themselves obtain from the external environment influenced by their needs—­is neither mysterious nor spiritual. This theory [and] other scientific theories have no great significance beyond human understanding.80

In his conclusion to the edition, Arani confronted the mystical inferences some drew from Einstein’s idea of matter’s conversion into energy: The foundations of materialist thinking grow stronger daily. The principle of matter and energy gains steadily in both scientific accuracy and power to clarify nature. There are wretches who fail to distinguish physical matter from the general concept of matter. They believe that, since matter is converted to energy, the world must be spiritual. They neglect to note that the similarity between physical matter and energy extends from the advancing theory of matter, which has no relation to notions of spirituality.81

Arani’s primary pedagogical purpose, in addition to offering readers a materialist digest of Einstein’s theory of relativity, was to outline the social

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consequences of pseudoscientific and mystical applications of it. This confirms Arani’s concern with clarifying a materialist theoretical approach. The critique of mysticism, of which more later, remained a guiding principle for Donya. Arani also republished Psychology of the Soul in Iran, with an additional section titled “The Psychology of Different Social Groups in Iran.” Principles of Realist Philosophy and Methodology, by Sayyed Mohammad Hossein Tabatabaʾi (1904–­81), was published several years later in 1953, with substantial footnotes from Morteza Motahhari (1919–­79) that referenced Taghi Arani’s books, including Psychology of the Soul. Motahhari’s introduction states: “An effort is made in this book to clearly display the divergences of dialectical materialism. . . . In the footnotes, we present the ideas and opinions of materialists, citing the writings of Dr. Taghi Arani. Dr. Arani is an advocate of the dialectical materialist school, and among its best scholars. A February 1949 article of Mardom magazine, the theoretical publication of Iran’s Tudeh Party, states: ‘Arani is unparalleled in terms of the breadth of scientific knowledge and social understanding.’”82

Tehran’s Radical Intellectuals in the 1930s By the time Arani returned to Iran, Reza Shah had consolidated his power. The political climate was oppressive, and freedom of expression had reached a nadir. Political groups like the Iranian Communist Party organized surreptitiously and in restricted capacities. Beginning in 1929, Pahlavi officials worked to eliminate the Communist Party entirely, an effort that reached a denouement toward the end of 1931, when the party’s organizational networks were discovered and dissolved, and most of its leaders arrested and imprisoned. In concert with these new restrictions on political expression, Reza Shah prompted the Majles (parliament) to pass a law safeguarding national security. Effectively outlawing any criticism of imperial rule, the internal security law threatened prison terms of up to ten years for members of organizations that either endangered the “constitutional monarchy” or propagated a “collectivist ideology.” The document used the Arabic term ishtiraki, which translates literally to collectivism, to include socialism, communism, and anarchism in its camp of corrosive ideologies.83 Although pressure on political activists was considerable, with formal oppositional parties such as the Iranian Communist Party curbed severely or disbanded outright, small bands of dissidents proceeded with covert



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activism. This included Arani, who pursued “quiet” political work, like participating in university groups, for years following his return to Iran. Upon arriving in Iran, he obtained copies of the Communist Manifesto, Ludwig Feuerbach’s The Essence of Christianity, The Extinction of Classical Philosophy, and Imperial Criticism. According to Arani: Between 1929 and 1930, I read these books and some issues of Journal de Moscau and Rundschau, which Alavi sent me. In 1930, I thought I had become a communist and gleaned information from their books and ideas. . . . Essentially, I had found some information on communism. I wanted to become involved [in radical politics] through a trip to visit Dehzad and Ladbon. I found myself without means. I resolved to undertake personal research. Between 1930 and 1934, I took up my own studies. I published books on physics, chemistry, psychology, and scientific theories. I believed myself to have been implementing a degree of communist thought in psychology and scientific theory, but that turned out to be ridiculous. That is, I found out later that I was mistaken in many places regarding the real nature of communism.84

Ervand Abrahamian, however, believes that Arani returned to Iran from Berlin already convinced of Marxism’s merit, though he concedes that Arani was probably not a member of any Berlin communist parties.85 In the time that Arani was not publishing scientific books, he tried to connect with prominent Iranian intellectuals, leftists, and others. He corresponded with Ladbon Esfandiari (1897–1942),86 writer, communist activist, and younger brother to the originator of modern Iranian poetry, Nima Yushij. There was also Ahmad Kasravi (1890–­1946), a prolific scholar and activist, as well as Mirza Taher Tankaboni (1863–­1941), a politician, scholar of jurisprudence, and teacher of philosophy. Arani had continued meeting with Iraj Eskandari, a founding member of the Tudeh Party, and Bozorg Alavi (1904–­97), novelist and fellow founding member of the Tudeh. Morteza Alavi, his younger brother, was also present. These networks indicate the breadth of Arani’s political and social engagement even within the restricted public spaces of early Pahlavi Iran. Prior to publishing his 1932 supplement to Psychology of the Soul, Arani sent “Psychology of Different Social Groups in Iranian Society” to Ladbon Esfandiari for comment, setting off their acquaintance.87 Arani sent his most famous article, “Mysticism and Materialist Principles,” to Ahmad Kasravi

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through a third party. Kasravi, a well known modernist, appreciated Arani’s critique of mysticism, Sufi tendencies, and anti-­intellectualism.88 Yet Arani’s relationships were not limited to well known figures. Through his teaching, he came into contact with teachers and students.89 Arani gifted republished editions of physics and chemistry books first released in Berlin to struggling students who lacked the means to afford them. Young people with an interest in science and politics gravitated toward the Tabrizi teacher. Anvar Khameʾi, himself an impoverished student, related that “Arani sometimes financially helped poorer students without them even knowing it.”90 These cumulative and at times convergent networks gave outlet to Arani’s political activity in the form of intellectual circles and magazine publications. The nucleus of the “Arani group,” as well as of Donya, was formed through these relationships. Iraj Eskandari and Bozorg Alavi, Arani’s friend in Berlin and founder of the RIRF, were among the first and most notable people to join Arani’s expanding network. In his memoirs, Bozorg Alavi recounted the many hours he spent with Arani reading and debating Marx’s Capital in 1931: On summer afternoons, I would go there [to Arani’s home] and read our German copy of Marx’s Capital. Once we became tired, Dr. Arani, a neat and organized person, would say, “Now we rest for half an hour.” Of course, I would fall asleep. Half an hour later, Dr. Arani would awaken me with tea and we would spend another two or three hours a day reading Marx’s Capital. Then, Iraj Eskandari came to Iran to fight for the reinstatement of his father’s pension, cut off by the government, before continuing his education in France. He participated in these study sessions as well. We read the ABCs of fervent communism together.91

With Bozorg Alavi and Iraj Eskandari, who visited Arani in Tehran two years later, a three-­person nucleus of European-­educated intellectuals was formed with Arani at its center. Historians have treated this group as a Marxist core whose activities chiefly consisted of theoretical investigations of Marxism and the promotion of Marxist knowledge and social awareness among public intellectuals.92 The magazine Donya provided a suitable institutional space for intellectuals interested in scientific, cultural, and political issues. In addition to Eskandari and Alavi, others gradually joined Arani’s circle of intellectuals. The group met on Monday afternoons at Arani’s home. Khalil Maleki



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(1901–­69), a political activist and founding Tudeh member, and Abdolhossein Nushin (1907–­71), a playwright, theater director, and activist who had known Arani in Europe, both joined this group. Like the “core” of the Marxist contingent, Maleki and Nushin had studied in Europe as well, Maleki in Germany and Nushin in France. A number of students from the University of Tehran followed suit, including Khameʾi, a writer, activist, and Tudeh member, and Taghi Makinezhad (1914–­96), an activist and later a Tudeh Party member. Donya gradually drew in many intellectuals, political activists, and European-­educated individuals who shared a commitment to social and political activism. Khameʾi recruited a large number of leftist students, using his connection to the student groups of Tehran’s technical and medical schools. These various networks were linked through Donya and gradually integrated into Arani’s circle.93 While Arani espoused a Marxist-­materialist approach, people with divergent ideas and politics participated in these meetings, which were not conceived of as formal gatherings serving the interests of a specific political faction. Rather, the organizers aimed to cultivate a space where the bonds binding intellectuals and students might be fortified. Aside from contributing to Donya’s publication and distribution, the meetings served to educate participants and expand public discourse.94 Khameʾi believes that it was thus that a group that became known as the Fifty-­Three, which included those involved in discussions and publication efforts around Donya, was able to forge an expanding network. He writes: “It was Dr. Arani who gave shape to the ‘Fifty-­Three.’ Anyone denying this would be lying. Without the publication of Donya magazine, the ‘Fifty-­Three’ would not have existed. Donya magazine would not have been published without Dr. Arani. The founder of the ‘Fifty-­Three,’ it follows, was Dr. Arani.”95 It seems that Khameʾi conflated the “Arani group” with the Fifty-­Three. We now know, and Ahmadi also argues, that that the title “Fifty-­Three” simply refers to a group of individuals arrested and prosecuted by Reza Shah’s government between 1937 and 1938 in one of Iran’s most sensationalist trials, for the supposed crime of Marxist sedition. However, it is true that Arani played a pivotal role in a distinct “Arani group.” Ahmadi correctly distinguishes the Arani group from groups assembled by Kamran, Kambakhsh, and others. Members of the latter groups, Ahmadi claims, infiltrated the Arani group to advance an alternative Stalinist framework, leading to the collapse of the group’s independence.96 There is, however, no hard evidence suggesting that Kambakhsh “infiltrated” the Arani group. Among

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the fifty-­three imprisoned individuals, three received more recognition than others. Khameʾi writes: “Arani was the founder and most prominent figure. Abdolsamad Kambakhsh was responsible for the arrest of 90 percent of the group, resulting in its disintegration. Thirdly, Mohammad Shoureshian made mistakes which alerted the police to the group’s existence, giving the authorities significant leads to annihilating it.”97

Donya In December 1933, Arani obtained a permit to publish the monthly magazine Donya from the Ministry of Education. He had suggested two other names, Tondar (Thunder) and Materialism, both of which were summarily rejected by authorities, before settling on Donya, which finally garnered official approval. Among documents housed at the Iranian National Archives we find a letter from the Ministry of Education, Heritage, and Fine Arts, dated October 19, 1933, which states: “Dr. Taghi Arani, a physics teacher at public secondary schools, has requested permission to print and publish a magazine titled Tondar [Thunder], to be published monthly in Tehran, with scientific, economic, artistic and social subject matter.”98 What the ministry found objectionable about the word “thunder” remains unclear. Sent back to the drawing board, Arani next submitted for approval the name Materialism. The second document, dated October 29, 1933, states: “Dr. Taghi Arani, physics teacher at public secondary schools, has requested permission to print and publish a magazine entitled Materialism, to be published monthly in Tehran, with scientific, economic, industrial and social subject matter.”99 The council opposed the name again, this time citing the objectionable choice of a European word for its title. Finally, on November 28, 1933, in a letter to the council, Arani proposed Donya (World) for the magazine’s name. The Head Council of Education approved it, issuing a permit for the magazine’s publication. The name Donya apparently had been suggested by Iraj Eskandari as a Farsi equivalent to the title of Le Monde, the well-­known French newspaper.100 The council’s letter continues, “Dr. Taghi Arani is the director of Donya magazine.” The office was located, “for now, in a private home at the intersection of the Ministry of War, in Entekhabieh Alley, on a monthly basis.” The printing permit for each issue was limited to one thousand copies, with four copies reserved for the Ministry of Education and the library.101 In January 1934, the first issue of Donya was published under Arani’s editorship. The cover of the inaugural issue, printed on thirty-­two pages of



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diamond-­shaped paper, announced that the magazine would henceforth be published on a monthly basis. The cost of an annual membership was twenty rials, with “a single issue at two rials.” The green cover depicted an atomic explosion and the radiation of high-­velocity atoms, over which the issue number was printed. Beneath ran the message: “Science breaks down the indivisible component.”102 Arani’s lead article boldly declared: Donya magazine uses materialist principles to address scientific, industrial, social, and artistic issues. This principle will clarify the historical role of science. The world and Iran are deeply integrated. They are constantly evolving together through transitions of civilization and change. Throughout the course of this development, Iran has followed Europe (and the United States). This, itself, manifests a historical compulsion. It must be, and so it is. No matter if opium smokers, obsoletists, and idolizers of the dead scream, “We don’t want this Europeanism! We promote regression, elevating ancient Iranian and Indian civilizations above all others.” . . . Modern sciences and theories, such as relativity or the dialectical method, the automobile, the airplane and other [things], have entered this land. These revolutionary changes will relegate their idols to behind the windows of museums. . . .103

The dearth of independent newspapers and magazines during this high point of Pahlavi censorship made Donya, unashamedly progressive in its outlook, popular among young readers and intellectuals. Arani, Eskandari, and Alavi managed the magazine’s direction and printing expenses, and produced much of its writing. Iraj Eskandari explained their writing method thus: “Our work was divided. Dr. Arani would write certain scientific articles under his own name, because he was the magazine’s editor-­in-­chief. The rest of us wrote under pseudonyms. All three of us had pen names: Dr. Arani’s was Ahmad Ghazi, Alevi’s was Fereydun Nakhoda, and mine was Alef Jamshid.”104 The magazine’s editorial board consisted of Arani, Eskandari, and Alavi, and the three members collectively covered the costs of paper, printing, and so on. Arani, however, assumed the largest share of financial responsibility. He explained: “When the magazine first went to print, Iraj Eskandari and Bozorg Alavi helped me as well. . . . These individuals helped me with both finances and articles. The magazine’s monthly expenses came to about forty

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toman. We had decided that each month, Eskandari would contribute eight toman, Alavi five toman, and I would cover the remaining expenses.”105 The magazine’s independent finances made regular publishing something of a challenge, as Arani admitted: “Donya could not be published regularly due to lack of adequate funding. Its twelve issues were published over a two-­year period, instead of one, because we lacked the required amount of money. I still owe forty toman to the printer. My debt was much more than that, but I gradually paid back the printers with my salary.”106 The magazine could not uphold its promise of monthly printing. After six issues of regular publication, the seventh issue was published after one month’s delay in August 1934. The eighth issue appeared after two months’ delay, due to a two-­month trip Arani took to Europe, in November, and the ninth in December of the same year. Several other interruptions obstructed publication. The final three (tenth, eleventh, and twelfth) issues of Donya were printed simultaneously. The final ninety-­six-­page issue was printed in September 1935 following Arani’s return from a second Berlin trip. Although changes to the magazine and special articles were announced for future issues, Donya was not published again.107 Because its readers were primarily students, and censorship was a factor, Arani resolved to “mainly recount basic philosophical ideas in the magazine. The censors would create obstacles to discussing current political issues. And so it was—­I wrote down the basis of my philosophical ideas. Neither readers nor police were aware of these ideas. Only those who had studied abroad picked up on this.”108 And indeed the twelve issues of Donya magazine published from January 1934 to May 1935 were not subject to government censorship. The question then becomes: How did the magazine endure for as long as it did, and what caused Donya to cease publishing? Some have explained that Donya stopped publication because a new law barred publication of all nonstate magazines and newspapers. Others believe that financial difficulties and Arani’s multiple commitments left him with neither the time nor the funding to continue publishing the magazine.109 Boroujerdi argues that Donya managed to continue publishing over two years because it was outwardly ideologically consistent with the regime on important issues, such as religion and the necessity of limiting clerical influence in governance. Moreover, to deflect the attention of censors, the magazine purposefully avoided discussing overtly political issues, and never came into direct conflict with state policies. The Pahlavi state therefore did not consider it a danger.110 The reality of its survival, however, seems more



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complicated than the binary of ideological consistency or conflict suggests. Arani’s vision of Donya combined modernist and secular qualities to which the early Pahlavi state was easily reconciled. The intellectuals and political figures surrounding Reza Shah, as well as Arani, were deeply influenced by constitutionalist and secular discourse. Reza Shah’s calculated tolerance of certain intellectual and cultural debates, however, gave way to overt suppression in the second period of his rule. It may be that both Donya and Arani fell victim to this oppressive turn of events.

Back in Berlin, 1934–­1935 Six years after his return to Tehran, Arani traveled to Europe for two months, from September to October of 1934. He visited associates he had met during his Berlin years. There is little available information on Arani’s precise activities in Berlin. During the trip, Arani intended to see Morteza Alavi, who had been expelled from Germany a few years earlier and was then working in a printing house in Tashkent. On his way back, he stopped in Moscow hoping to see Alavi, but Alavi was apparently unable to reach him. Arani therefore returned to Iran without having seen him.111 In March 1935, five months after his Berlin trip, Arani received a message from Soghri Dehzad, the wife of Abdolhossein Hesabi Dehzad, Arani’s childhood neighbor and a leader of the Iranian Communist Party who had fled to the Soviet Union following the state’s forceful suppression of communist activists in 1929. The message stated that Nesratollah Aslani, a Comintern official who operated under the pseudonym Kamran, had traveled secretly from the Soviet Union to Iran and would like to meet him. During the trial of the Fifty-­Three, Arani stated to his interrogators that Kamran had “expressed his desire to work within the scope of the Communist Party.” Over the course of several meetings, Kamran implored Arani to “write more political materials in Donya magazine,” and sought his financial support. Arani opposed reorienting the direction of Donya, but agreed to collect money to assist Kamran.112 Several months later, Kamran planned a visit to the Soviet Union. Arani and two friends accompanied him to Gorgan, Bandarshah, by car until he reached Russia. In the spring of 1935, Arani became acquainted with Abdolsamad Kambakhsh, a loyal Comintern officer in Iran, who had been living in Russia for years. Despite Arani’s sympathies for international socialism, he was more of an independent radical. There is no hard evidence for Arani’s leanings toward the Soviet Union or its brand of Marxism.113 Arani was a

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radical cosmopolitan with a sense of “civic nationalism.” Khameʾi recalled that during a discussion with Arani on the eve of World War II, this precise question arose: What should our plan of action be, were Soviet government forces to attack Iran during the war? Should we follow our ideology and join the Soviets in battle against the Iranian government? Or defend our homeland and its independence? . . . Arani’s response was immediate and clear: “We will fight against any invasion, including a Soviet one, and we will defend Iran’s independence.”114

In the summer of 1935 Arani returned once more to Berlin, for a period of several months. The trip was commissioned by Iran’s University of War, for Arani to do research and participate in a physics convention there. Arani covertly visited Moscow on his way back to Tehran. Kambakhsh had given him Kamran’s Moscow address, and had asked Arani to arrange a meeting with him. Arani remained in Berlin except for one week in Paris and London. He explained under his later interrogation that his goal had been “to conduct new research and marriage.”115 Unable to find an appropriate marriage partner, Arani was able to work “for some time at the Berlin Police Lab on criminal, dietary and medicinal chemistry.”116 During his three-­day stay in Moscow in early September, Kamran asked him to deliver some messages and a sum of money (650 French francs) to Kambakhsh. Arani later recounted: One message was understandable, while the others were coded. The decipherable message voiced the Seventh Congress decision to form a people’s front (composed of workers’ and democratic parties) in such industrialized countries as France and so on, while organizing national fronts in countries such as Iran. The impetus was that, hereafter, one can no longer be simply a communist but, rather, Iranian communist groups must assist the national government in resisting external imperialist influence. Iranian communists should fully support the government’s progressive actions in bringing modernity to Iran. That is, each communist faction must systemically form a coalition with all other factions and governments that are not fascist.”117

Arani maintained that after returning to Tehran, he delivered Kamran’s messages to Kambakhsh undeciphered.



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In the summer of 1936, Arani was appointed general manager of Iran’s Arts Training and Art Schools by General Amanollah Jahanbani, then the minister of industry. This new direction yielded a handsome increase in Arani’s wages and in the volume of his administrative work.118 Despite the steady advance of his professional and public standing, misfortune awaited him. The network of political confidantes and intellectual companions he had cultivated since returning to Iran in 1929 was soon to be enmeshed in a police trap.

Prison and Death, 1937–­1940 “He said, ‘We’re here to arrest you.’ I thought they were joking, so I told them, ‘Well, you can sit down and have some tea and then arrest me.’” Taghi Arani

The Pahlavi state’s summary arrest of a group of fifty-­three supposed communists in 1937, canonized as the “Group of Fifty-­Three,” or more simply “the Fifty-­Three,” began with Mohammad Shoureshian’s detention on February 12, 1937, in the southwestern city of Ahvaz.119 The arrest of Abdolsamad Kambakhsh and several other radicals followed shortly after. Kambakhsh was arrested sometime between April 5 and April 27, 1937.120 It is alleged that after his arrest, he agreed to cooperate with the police and provide them with information regarding the activities and whereabouts of several individuals whom the police swiftly proceeded to arrest. Many of those arrested had visited Arani’s home.121 Kambakhsh’s confession “disclosed” the existence of a “communist organization” in Iran. Under interrogation, he named Nasrollah Aslani (aka Kamran Aslani) a representative of the Iranian Communist Party in the Comintern, which had sent Kamran to meet Arani, the leader of this arrested “communist organization,” to revive and reorganize the Iranian Communist Party.122 Kambakhsh’s controversial confessions unleashed a police dragnet which soon encircled the Fifty-­Three. The group was charged with organizing a communist cell and promoting “collectivist ideology,” an act made criminal by Reza Shah’s national security law. Anyone found to have any relationship to or contact with Arani was automatically detained.123 Little evidence exists to support the spurious allegations that the fifty-­three individuals genuinely belonged to a coherent organization, or were committed communists.

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On May 8, 1937, several weeks after Kambakhsh’s arrest and confession, Arani, then thirty-­four years old, was placed under arrest. He described the day as being like any other spent at home when suddenly Mohammad Shoureshian, one of the Fifty-­Three, accompanied by two others, arrived at his door. Initially, Arani thought Shoureshian had dropped by for a visit: Shoureshian said, “We’re here to arrest you.” I thought they were joking, so I told them, “Well, you can sit down and have some tea and then arrest me.” The officer said, “Sir, it’s all over, your friends have confessed. What do you mean, sit down?” That’s when I realized that Shoureshian had betrayed us.124

The police inspected Arani’s home, seized his books and documents, and began the interrogation process.125 Several months earlier, his father had died, and now Arani, still unmarried, was living with his mother. The arrest tore him from the comforts of his mother’s home to a putrid prison cell with neither rug nor bed, where he endured three months of solitary confinement, cut off from contact with other inmates. He had only his undershirt and underpants to wear.126 The Fifty-­Three remained in custody for more than a year of repeated interrogations until the “Group 53” dossier was completed, at which point the trial commenced. The trial was scheduled for November 2, 1938, in a historic courthouse. The courthouse, an ornate edifice of blue bricks topped with a tall dome, had once been the property of one of Fath Ali Shah Qajar’s wives and the living quarters of his harem, but had been conferred to the Ministry of Justice after the Constitutional Revolution. Gone were the women, servants, singers, and dancers. The building was now occupied by judges, defendants, lawyers, and reporters. Seyyed Hashem Vakil provided Arani with legal counsel, while Ahmad Kasravi, the aforementioned noted scholar, represented Mohammad Shoureshian.127 Prosecutors made their final arguments against the defendants on November 13. The prosecuting attorneys insisted that Arani had a history of using his pen to subtly but seriously subvert the political balance of things. The prosecutor portrayed Donya as a magazine “seemingly made up of philosophical articles—­but in actuality a publishing vehicle for sectarian ideas, intended to divide Iran’s population by introducing them to materialistic principles.”128 Arani’s defense occurred on November 12. In his interrogations, he averred that he had not pledged allegiance to any organized



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political cell or group. His interest in materialism was strictly philosophical.129 He hewed closely to the answers he had given interrogators during his 1938 oral defense in court: Here, with the exception of Kambakhsh and Shoureshian, whose situations, unbeknownst to me, would require further information for clarification, the majority of the people, including myself and Dr. Bahrami, have been completely unaware of a supposed group [of fifty-­three individuals].

While denying his membership in an antiregime political group, Arani knew that the main accusations against him were derived from the false confessions of Shoureshian and Kambakhsh.130 Unable to combat their confessions, he instead affirmed in court that his interest in materialism was purely scientific, and that such an interest did not necessitate adherence to communism.131 At the conclusion of his defense, he announced: “I personally have never known about any collectivist group, have never established such a faction. As far as I’m concerned, no such faction has existed. I would therefore like to be acquitted.”132 Even with the state’s awesome policing power at his heels, Arani remained fearless, rational, and candid throughout his defense. At its opening, he proclaimed that the trial would go down in history. Future generations, he presciently predicted, would be the final judge of the trial’s merit: Before commencing the defense, let us note the historical significance of this court of law. This is the first time in Iran’s judicial history that a group of fifty-­something intellectuals and commoners, from among the Iranian people, have been called in for a criminal trial, merely for holding a political belief. By issuing a “not guilty” verdict, the impact of this court and corresponding courts will glow throughout Iran’s history. The prosecution statement, this defense, and the verdict will provide historical documents for the Iranian people. My duty here, more than a personal defense, is a collective defense. I have hope that the result of this trial will favor the world, favor history, and favor justice.133

Arani rejected the contradictory and imprecise charges brought by the prosecuting attorney, concluding: “First, the occurrence of this crime is impossible; second, the evidence supporting its occurrence is nonexistent; third, strong evidence indicates the absence of a crime. With respect to

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proof of crime, there are no definitive or implicit confessions, no evidence or witnesses, even in the illegal dossiers of the police.”134 In closing, he declared: “I acknowledge that, after all the controversy surrounding this trial, the exoneration of all or most [defendants] would be difficult. However, if you courageously concede that the law permits acts of free expression, you will have done a great service to the constitution of Iran, the Iranian people, and to your own names with this act of justice.”135 Even though twenty years had passed since the enactment of Iran’s constitution, Arani’s invocation of it demonstrates the extent to which it remained a powerful idea and an evocative symbol of the rule of law. The Fifty-­Three’s court-­appointed lawyers offered a tepid defense in comparison to the forceful performance of the prosecution. As Khameʾi recalls, they even “confirmed the allegations against their clients before requesting their pardon.”136 Kasravi, Shoureshian’s attorney, argued similarly in his defense of the accused: “These men were playing make believe. They had no party while merely acting as if they did. . . . They’re delinquents, not born criminals. . . . They need a firm talking to, not a sentence. . . . The time already served in prison should suffice.”137 The lawyers included Vakil and Alexander Aqayan, representing Mohamad Bahrami. Aqayan delivered the most forthright defense, baldly stating: “You’ve brought these young people here on the charge that they’ve read books, pursued research, discussion, and learning. All of this, despite us seeking students in the university who read books and finding few. You should be awarding these individuals, instead of dragging them into court.” After the conclusion of Aqayan’s defense, Arani and other defendants thanked him.138 Finally, on November 15, 1938, the verdict for Arani was issued alongside the “group 53” dossier. Arani and nine others of the accused received the longest sentence: ten years of solitary confinement. The remaining members of the group were given prison terms ranging from three to ten years. Tehran’s criminal court read Arani’s sentence thus: Dr. Taghi Arani may be sentenced to ten years of solitary confinement for membership in a collective organized group in Iran. The government has used an article in an anticommunist law passed in June 1931, in consideration with two appendages to the principle of criminal trials, the act of encouraging the participation of others in sects. In accordance with article 5 of the law and appendage 2, Dr. Taghi Arani is sentenced to three years’



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punitive confinement, and for the publication of the statement on May 1, 1936, under section B of article 269 of the general penal code, sentenced to two years of punitive confinement.139

Bozorg Alavi recollected that the chief of police, Rakan Al-­Din Mokhtari, had wanted to transfer the trial to the military court, claiming that the defendants had formed their group at the Soviet Union’s instigation. If proven, the crime would amount to no less than espionage, a capital offense. Apparently, the mediation of individuals such as Matin Daftari, minister of justice and an acquaintance of Arani, Eskandari, and other group members, influenced the case to be sent to the judiciary rather than the military court, with a maximum sentence of ten years imprisonment.140 Arani remained in prison for thirty-­three months, most of which he spent at the detention center, unlike the other prisoners who were sent to the notorious Qasr prison after a few months in detention. In one instance, Arani was transferred to the detention center after falling sick. A prison report from February 3, 1940, claims that Arani had “fallen ill with an infectious fever and is being treated at the detention center hospital . . . his illness is potentially dangerous.”141 Only one day later, another report announced that “Taghi Arani, inmate number 740, hospitalized due to an infectious fever, has died at the detention center hospital. The prison hospital doctor recorded and reported Arani’s death at the age of thirty-­eight, at 13:30 on the fourth of February 1940.”142 Witnesses, including those close to Arani, eyed his death with some suspicion. It was not precisely clear whether Arani died as a result of illness, torture, or deliberate infection with a fatal disease inside the prison. A 1943 report published in the newspaper Ajir, by Sayyed Jafar Pishevari, a formerly imprisoned communist and leader of the Democratic Party of Azerbaijan, suggested foul play: Dr. Arani was placed in a room where a number of former patients infected with typhoid had stayed. Despite insistence from relatives and friends, they were not allowed to bring him medicine, food or even fruit. Then, with a 40-­degree fever, they finished him off with a “Kenin” injection. . . . Everyone knew that they deliberately planned and executed his murder. By doing so, they wanted to deprive the freedom-­loving people of Iran with a leader and protector.143

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Some prisoners have testified that during Arani’s last months, they witnessed him being beaten, tortured, and returned to his cell unconscious. Yusef Eftekhari, a leader of the 1929 oil workers’ strike who had been imprisoned for twelve years (1929–­41), claimed that Arani’s death had been planned. Eftekhari was in a prison cell adjacent to Arani’s, when the prison guard “brought a number of people with typhoid to the ward to get rid of us. It was Abdolqadir Azad, writer for Azad newspaper, Dr. Arani, and I who were there.”144 Apparently, Eftekhari and Azad were transferred to different wards with the help of friends among the police guards and outside the prison. Only Arani remained in the supposedly typhoid-­infected ward and fell seriously ill. Another testimony suggests that in the days leading to Arani’s death, the prison medic, one Dr. Hashemi, despite knowledge of Arani’s severe illness, refused to offer the patient relief, insisting that “the prison bureau has ordered me not to administer medication to Dr. Arani.”145 Dr. Imami, a childhood friend who had crossed paths with Arani in Europe, inspected his corpse and reported detectable traces of poison in his body. Imami wrote: “In Berlin and in Tehran, and all throughout the twenty years of my contact with him, he never had a major illness. When I examined him after his death, his corpse had completely changed in appearance. . . . An extraordinary yellowness pervaded his skin, with small and large black spots partly covering his body. A nosebleed had partly bloodied his face.” Imami concluded that Arani’s death had resulted from poisoning, which had incapacitated his body’s ability to fight off an illness like typhoid.146 For months prior to his death, Arani had devoted himself to cataloguing the catastrophic abuses happening inside the prison. Prison guards, he detailed, encouraged illegal and inhumane behavior among inmates, and physically and psychologically tortured them often to the point of death. Prison officials were corrupt. Medical care either was nonexistent or was dangled before inmates by corrupt prison staff.147 Arani wrote to the court, “Based on these circumstances, our second demand is that these incidents of persecution and torture be strictly forbidden, and for political prisoners especially.148 The third demand is that the prison stand before the court for the calamities inside the prison, and for its laxity in addressing the given incidents. Our fourth demand is that suspended and illegal arrests be strictly forbidden. Those held in suspension must be immediately released or prosecuted.”149 In the same defense, Arani predicted that he was likely to fall prey to foul play in prison after his daring and candid speech against



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the police: “I myself, after cutting ties with the court by stating the truth, a necessity of dedication and a duty of conscience, will succumb as a result to the same troubles, but alas.”150 Arani was laid to rest in the Imamzadeh Abdollah cemetery in Ray, outside Tehran. Ahmad Kasravi expressed his respect and admiration for Arani in a 1941 article, “The Death of Dr. Arani Was a Great Loss,” which commemorated the anniversary of Arani’s death against the backdrop of Reza Shah’s forced abdication and a relative opening in Iran’s political climate.151

Conclusion One hundred and forty years before our time, the first group of Iranian students sent off by the Iranian government to Europe arrived in England. These students, to the extent allowed by their potential, harvested the grapes of European civilization and knowledge. And when they returned to Iran, they spread the seeds of progress and modernization in the land of their ancestry.”152 Mojtaba Minovi, “The First Caravan of Knowledge,” 1953

Mojtaba Minovi’s “The First Caravan of Knowledge,” quoted at the beginning of this chapter, was published on the precipice of perhaps the darkest chapter in Iran’s history of modernization: the overthrow of a popular and democratically elected leader at the hands of an American-­and British-­ backed coup which not only reinstated but expanded Mohammad Reza Shah’s dictatorship. With the coup’s forcible removal of the nationalizing Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddeq from power, a decade of inchoate but intensively creative Iranian politics came abruptly to an end. The core of Minovi’s vision of modernization was the exchange principle: an open space for the exchange of ideas and experiences, both within Iran and at the transnational level. Such an open space requires the pluralistic creation of autonomous public institutions through multiple agents, political parties, trade unions, newspapers, and so forth. Official closures of political debate resulted in a mistaken modernity. The 1953 coup not only foreclosed Mosaddeq’s plans to nationalize Iran’s oil industry but also destroyed this pluralistic modernization process to impose a top-­down autocratic state program. By undermining the exchange principle central to the well-­being of civil society, the Shah’s regime guaranteed that genuine modernity would not take hold in the decades following the coup. Despite the proliferation

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of the external trappings of modernity in the form of industrialization and top-­down reforms, the open process of exchange at multiple levels constitutive of modernity as a rooted mass experience had been foreclosed. Arani’s biography is a mosaic account of modernization as a personal and collective experience generated through creative, if chaotic, struggles. His complex interactions with transnational intellectual and political forces within and beyond Iran’s borders, the radical trajectory of his thought from nationalism to Marxism, the ceaseless struggle to define justice, and even his untimely death are parts of a complex modernization process larger than his individual destiny. Arani’s intellectual struggle raises provocative and perplexing questions. He was a nationalist committed to transnational solidarity and exchange. And at a time when Stalinism was crystalizing into a dogma, Arani devoted himself to imagining a Marxism that was open, creative, and pluralistic. The germ of these tendencies was planted during his travels abroad, setting in motion a lifelong struggle for intellectual and political freedom. Reflecting on these points, we immediately recognize a postcolonial bifurcation of the “universal” and “indigenous” as untenable. A tendency for cosmopolitanism cannot be reduced to colonial desire and class privilege. The process of populations moving from one space to another within a transnational reality has its greatest meaning in the creation of collective movements and commitments. Struggle and sacrifice are required to make this process just. At the same time, Arani’s life demonstrates that any society that closes itself to outside influences by suppressing public debate destroys the creativity that makes modernity possible.

2 Among the Nationalists in Berlin, 1922–­1929 We are told that a Persian civilization exists! But it is not so. This civilization is more Turkish than Persian. Persians are mostly employed in delicate and small tasks that rely on eyes and fingers, like wood carving and miniatures. But the eye-­catching tiles are made by Turkish genius. Roshani Beik, July 21, 19231

For some time now, the Ottoman papers spend their pages slandering Iran and Iranians, showing no aversion to the despicable behavior of savage nations with no civilization. Thinking and informed intellectuals show no interest in their nonsense, reacting to their words with a cold, mocking laughter because “If the bat desires not union with the sun / The beauty of the sun will not decrease.”

Taghi Arani, August 30, 1924 2

The Iranian Interwar Experience The dust of the Constitutional Revolution had barely settled when World War I broke out, quickly entangling Iran in what would be another devastating conflict. Despite the losses Iran sustained from the war, these years (1919–­45) were a period of political transition, nation-­building, and intellectual activity formative of modern Iranian nationalism. This chapter documents the emergence and fine-­tuning of the critical features of Iranian nationalism, in its many varieties, during this era of revolutionary upheaval. A detailed examination of the period’s most pivotal intellectual debates is required to appreciate the specificities of the trajectory of twentieth-­century Iranian nationalism. With definitional disputes over the historical, cultural, and linguistic borders of Iran abounding, intellectuals of the interwar era transposed Iran against “cultural others,” most frequently Arabs or Turks,

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in order to arrive at the nation’s quintessence. An Iranian imaginary was formed in part in reaction to the racializing discourse articulated by Turkish nationalists in the “new” Ottoman movement.3 Nehru’s Discovery of India offers a coherent narrative of the process of unifying the independent Indian state culturally and politically,4 but those seeking an analog in the Iranian context must look elsewhere for clarity. A narrative of the Iranian nation inclusive of its diverse ethnic and religious communities had not been written by contemporaries to twentieth-­century nation-­making. However, attempts to write such a narrative were undertaken. The struggle to write a “discovery of Iran” on par with Nehru’s opus started in the early 1900s and continued throughout the 1930s. Arani, whose later writing elaborated his vision of Iran as a modern cosmopolitan nation, figured importantly in this endeavor. There was hope that Iranian intellectuals and leaders—­individuals like Hasan Taghizadeh, Mohammad Ali Foroughi, Ali Akbar Davar, Isa Sadiq, Ali Asghar Hekmat, Teymourtash, Mohammad-­Taqi Bahar, Mohammad Mosaddeq, Ahmad Kasravi, Shariʿat Sanglaji, and others—­would craft a national narrative for a democratic Iran. The authoritarian turn in governance led by Reza Shah, however, foreclosed the possibility of finalizing a contemporary account of Iran’s maturation. The consequences of the sudden and violent suspension of this intellectual process cannot be overstated. Reza Khan’s 1921 military coup stifled intellectual dialogue and production in favor of a top-­down “official” nationalism dictated by the state and supported by a dependent group of nationalist intellectuals. The horizon of political pluralism thus receded for Iran. The groundbreaking debates about Iranian nationhood and identity initiated in Donya, Iran’s first major radical journal, were only briefly tolerated by the Reza Shah regime. Despite the abrupt end to Donya and to Arani’s life, the contribution of these essays to imagining a nonchauvinistic Iranian identity endures. The prevailing assumption about Iranian nationalism is that it emerged in the nineteenth century and culminated in the Constitutional Revolution. The central concern of nineteenth-­century Iranian intellectuals, however, was the reform of Iran’s political institutions to safeguard the rule of law (hokumat-­e qanun). While there was some discussion of Iranian identity in relation to the West, Islam, and its Arab neighbors, the construction of a parliamentary government in 1906 was the crowning achievement of this period. Of course, because parliamentary government presupposed a secular polity, the role of Islam in politics and Iranian history and culture



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assumed an outsized degree of attention. More substantial discussions of Iranian national identity awaited the establishment of a modern nation-­state in the interwar period. During this period, studies of modern Iranian identity were inspired by European Orientalists, and then by Iranian intellectuals’ reaction to pan-­ Turkish nationalism. The Orientalist reading of Iranian cultural history, picked up and popularized by Iranian nationalists, abetted the development of a distinctly anti-­Arab Iranian identity. Turkish nationalists’ irredentist ploys to claim Iranian Azeris as Turks further encouraged the articulation of a racialized Iranian identity. The exclusivist emphasis on Persian ethnicity partially explains why many social movements resisting the extension of Iranian state power, from this period to the present, emerged from minority quarters. The interwar period witnessed the transition of power from a frail Qajar empire and a fledgling constitutional state to the Pahlavi monarchy, which was centralized, modern, and authoritarian. During World War I, Iran attempted to stave off political divisions, economic hardship, famine, and foreign intervention and occupation. The already beleaguered Qajars (1789–­ 1925) thus were dealt a final blow, clearing the ground for the rise of Reza Shah and the establishment of a new Pahlavi dynasty (1925–­78). At the onset of World War I, the Iranian government decided to pursue the course of neutrality, issuing a royal decree to that effect in November 1914. Despite its official neutrality, Iran became a front for imperial rivalry, enduring British and Russian invasions and minority rebellions orchestrated by the Ottoman and German states. The Ottomans, allied with the Germans, “armed Ismael Khan Simku, a Kurdish chief, against Iranian authorities, as well as against local Assyrians and Armenians. The Ottomans then moved into Azerbaijan which they claimed as part of their Turkic world. In their brief occupation of Tabriz, they deported Sheikh Khiabani, the popular leader of the local Democrats, because he was helping Armenian insurgents against the Caliphate.”5 Germany also played a critical political role in destabilizing Iran’s peripheries: The Germans were also active. Wilhelm Wassmus was their “Lawrence of Arabia.” He instigated uprisings among Qashqaʾis, Khamsehs, Boir Ahmadis, Sanjabi Kurds, and, most seriously of all, Arabs who in 1915 were able to cut the main oil pipeline. The Germans also persuaded a number of Swedish officers in the gendarmerie to desert. One historian writes:

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“The Swedish-­officered gendarmerie, organized in 1911, had been as close as Britain could hope to come to a force in the south to maintain order; but that institution proved to be an unmitigated disaster during the war. Most of the force defected to the Germans, refusing even to obey instructions from the Persian Government.”6

The war resulted in a manifold increase in foreign interference in domestic Iranian politics, and widened an already long-­standing political rift. The central government was conflict-­ridden, besieged with internal and factional divisions. By the end of the war, Russia was rocked by a cataclysmic revolution of its own, allowing Britain to wield outsized influence over Tehran. The British foreign secretary, Lord Curzon, proposed an agreement. Britain would provide Iran with financial support in the form of a loan and military and economic advisers. The Iranian prime minister, Vossuq al-­Dowleh, and two cabinet members, who could scarcely imagine turning down such sizable financial inducements, agreed to Britain’s terms of support. The 1919 Anglo-­Persian Agreement, labeled the “Black Agreement” in Iran, was widely viewed as establishing a British protectorate over Iran. It aroused considerable opposition, and the Majles (parliament) refused to approve it. It was in this climate of political dilapidation and mass discontent that Reza Khan seized power as a military commander in February 1921. A Cossack commander, he arrived in Tehran with three thousand men and eighteen machine guns, and soon took power. With this coup, Iran entered a new era of modern statehood. 7 In December 1925 the Majles voted to depose Ahmad Shah Qajar and install Reza Khan king of Iran. The order of the day was henceforth state-­building. Reza Shah inherited a threadbare bureaucracy and left Iran, by the time foreign powers forced his abdication in 1941, with a strapping state structure.8

Iranians in Interwar Berlin Interwar Berlin was a flowering artistic, political, and cultural center. Its creative exuberance has caused this period to be referred to as the “Weimar Renaissance.” Yet before World War I there were very few Iranians living in Germany, about seventy individuals in 1922. In the span of a few months, however, the journal Iranshahr reported that the total number of Iranian students in Berlin had grown to 120.9 Berlin soon became an important center of political and intellectual



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activity for “freedom-­seeking” Iranian students.10 These students imbibed the political vigor of Berlin, and between 1915 and 1930 took to publishing a series of journals and newspapers formative to the development of modern Iranian thought. Two generations of Iranians resided in Berlin during this period: “The first generation were those who, after ‘the lesser autocracy’ [estebdad-­e saghir],11 occupation of Azerbaijan, and the defeat of the interim Government, left Iran for Istanbul. They subsequently founded the Committee of Iranian Nationalists assisted by the German government.”12 These individuals were well known political or literary figures, and tended to be older than the second generation of Iranians who would arrive in Berlin. Arani belonged to that second generation. Like most other members of that younger clique, he had moved there nominally to study. The underlying reasons for Iranian student and intellectuals’ choice of moving to Berlin remains under dispute. Some argue that “Germany was not the first choice of exile for most Iranian writers in Berlin during this period. On the contrary, it was the German government . . . which made major efforts to attract them to Berlin during the Great War.”13 Others have more convincingly pointed to unwanted intrusions by the British and Russians into Iran to explain the Iranians’ inclination toward Germany. Edward Browne, a British scholar of Iran, writes: Surprise has sometimes been expressed that during the War there should have existed in Persia a considerable pro-­German party, largely composed of prominent Democrats and Reformers. The explanation is simple enough. Imperial Russia was hated and feared, and with good reason, and any Power which diverted her attention from her victim and threatened her supremacy was sure of a large measure of popularity, while Persia had no reason to fear or dislike Germany, which lay remote from her borders and had at no time threatened her independence. Germany, of course, took advantage of this sentiment, and carried on an active propaganda campaign, of which the curious history remains to be written.14

Iranians, however, had their own rationale for supporting Germany during the war. Hasan Taghizadeh stated this unequivocally: “We were all very passionate about Germany. Iranians considered Germany as the Prophet David, who had come to save them. We were all rooting for the Germans, without necessarily having any contact with them.”15 Taghizadeh was among the central political figures Germany contacted to create an

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Iranian association in Berlin. He effectively exercised his influence to draw numerous well known political figures and scholars residing elsewhere in Europe to the German capital: As I said, it was during the war, and therefore difficult to reach Germany. However, I brought together everyone we knew from any place we could, Switzerland, Paris, London, or Istanbul. The late Kazemzadeh Iranshahr come from Cambridge. Pourdavoud, the late Qazvini, and the late Mahmoud Khan Ashrafzadeh, who was a very active young man, came from Paris. Several came from Switzerland: Ravandi, Sadallah Khan Darvish, and Jamalzadeh, with his new bride, also came.16

Taghizadeh acknowledged that the political organization he created, the Komiteh-­ye Melli-­ye Iran (National Committee of Iran), was funded by German government officials, who encouraged its establishment: “We arranged to work with the Germans. Of course, they were very generous in their financial support for us. Money was pouring in and they covered all of our expenses.”17 The Komiteh-­ye Iran, with Taghizadeh as its leader, began publishing the biweekly political journal Kaveh in January 1916. Initially, Kaveh unsurprisingly struck a pro-­German stance. From 1918 on, as Kaveh was published as a monthly periodical, its pro-­German angle softened, and it devoted its coverage to cultural, scientific, and literary issues.18 Iranian intellectuals and activists contributed to making Berlin a “cultural” center of debate. Yet their activities, though orchestrated from Berlin, always kept an eye on Iran, whose national politics and culture they sought to influence from afar: “The Iranians in Berlin during World War I and in the interwar period did not try to make a new ‘home’ in the adopted country; they were Iranian nationalists and they engaged in nationalist politics from abroad. They focused mostly on writing about Iran, its history, and their sense of Iran’s social and political course for the future. The homeland should follow a course reflecting its long and rich history, as well as its traditions.”19

Arani and the Question of Azerbaijan In 1924, two years into his stay in Berlin, Arani wrote two articles on the Persian language. Both articles argued that Persian was the cultural core around which an integrated, modern Iranian nation might take shape.20 These articles were polemical responses to Turkish nationalists, who were



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engaged in the not dissimilar process of fashioning the Republic of Turkey from the ashes of the Ottoman Empire. In doing so, they jettisoned the pan-­ Islamic posture of the late Ottoman empire to pursue a nationalist worldview that proclaimed the undying unity of all Turkish-­speaking regions. This supposed unity, of course, encompassed the Turkish-­speaking Azeri population in Iranian Azerbaijan. Arani, born in the capital of Azerbaijan province, took special offense to this proposition. Other Iranian writers, including Taghizadeh and Kasravi, also rejected, often in their capacity as Azeris, what they perceived to be “pan-­Turkish” propaganda.21 The ensuing debate between Iranian and pan-­Turkish nationalists was formative to Arani’s intellectual evolution and to the broader development of Iranian nationalism. Scholars of Iranian nationalism commonly trace its inception to a rejection of perceived Arab and Islamic hostilities, while others, drawing attention to Iran’s self-­professed Aryan origins, portray these tropes as the internalization of modern European and Orientalist ideas. These accounts give only a partial explanation of Iranian nationalism, more representative of a late-­nineteenth-­century iteration. During the interwar period, Iranian intellectuals encountered the prospect of Iran’s collapse, as various foreign powers entered the country, which the government lacked the wherewithal to defend. At the same time, the very existence of Iran as a historical idea was being seriously questioned by the new pan-­Turkish nationalism. In such trying conditions, Iranian political figures and intellectuals deemed it imperative to reimagine and restructure Iran in theory and in practice, as they deliberated the future of the nation in much greater depth. In this respect, notable Iranian Azeris led the effort to defend the idea of Iran as a response to pan-­Turkish nationalism. Early-­twentieth-­century Turkish nationalism emerged as a result of the formative frictions dividing Ottoman state and civil society. Proponents of top-­down modernization backed the Tanzimat (literally “reorganization”) experiment, a series of mid-­to late-­nineteenth-­century reforms modeled on Metternich’s “enlightened despotism,” meant to standardize governance in the model of a modern state while securing the territorial and political integrity of the Ottoman empire. This camp clashed with the Young Ottomans, who were committed to parliamentary democracy and an ecumenical Ottomanism. The 1882 Russo-­Turkish War, and the ensuing “Islamic revivalist” dictatorship of Abdulhamid II (i.e., the universal caliph as anticolonial beacon), established the ground for an authoritarian seizure of power and antiminority cultural discourse. In many ways, the nation-­making imaginary

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of interwar Iran developed in ideological and political reaction to the politics of the Young Turks, which empowered Kemal Ataturk, betraying the multicultural grassroots modernism of Namik Kemal and other major nineteenth-­century figures. Arani’s thinking about nationalism developed in the shadows of a new racialist discourse—­alien to prior Ottoman discourses, religious or secular—­ encapsulated in the Turkish nationalist claim that Iranian Azeris, “racially” distinct from Persians and therefore not truly Iranian, should join forces with the Republic of Turkey to create a pure Turkish nation. This kind of rhetoric was hard for Arani to accept, because he was himself Azeri. His encounter with the chauvinism of certain strands of pan-­Turkism, as the next section of this chapter will demonstrate, led him not to critique notions of racial superiority regardless of their source, but to develop his own defensive variation of those notions, and to disparage Turkish people, history, and culture.

The Roshani Beik Affairs “The Turks have shed so much of their blood for the glory of the Ottoman state, but those carrying the Iranian flag have not shed a single drop of their blood for their flag.” “The biggest ‘business’ [tejarat] of the Persian people is the selling of their motherland [vatan forush].” Roshani Beik, July 21, 1923

Here we will focus on an infamous talk given by Hasan Roshani Beik on July 21, 1923, at the Istanbul Association (Ojaghi). Roshani’s life remains shrouded in mystery. Despite scant biographical details, we do know that he was an agent of the Union and Progress Party for the Caucasus, a party that propagated the Young Turks’ racialist ideology. He may have been a member of the Ottoman secret service, Teskilat-­i Mahsusa. Roshani did work to foster Turkish influence in the Caucusus, and spent several years in Iran. He served as a deputy in the Turkish parliament after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire under the name Roshani Barkin and during that time authored the famous pamphlet Din Yok, Milliyet Var (There Is No Religion but Nationality). A full transcription of Roshani’s 1923 address, which reportedly lasted



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for an hour and a half, has not survived. Three different versions of the talk exist. One transcription in Ottoman Turkish is contained in an August 1924 newspaper article in Tanin, an Istanbul-­based paper affiliated with the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP). The article was also published concurrently in two other Istanbul dailies, Vatan and Ittihad. The Iranian newspaper Tajaddod published a Persian translation of the Tanin article in September 1924 (Shahrivar 1303). Another translation appeared in Setare-­ye Iran (Star of Iran) at around the same time.22 Setare-­ye Iran printed alongside the translation an exposé of Roshani: a man from the Balkans with a dubious past, the newspaper claimed, who had been sentenced to death before fleeing to Iran. Another Persian translation, published in Mihan, was adapted from an article in the Ottoman newspaper Ileri. Yet another Persian version appeared in Iranshahr; it was translated from the longest available Ottoman account, released in Yeki majmu’a. Iranshahr supplemented its translation by drawing on the Ottoman Ileri version for additional quotations and footnotes, thus making it the fullest available account. For this reason, and because Arani was working for Iranshahr in Berlin at the time of Roshani’s speech, this section of the chapter relies on the longer Iranshahr version. Roshani opened his talk by mapping the ethnic geography of Iran, stressing the abundance, in his view, of ethnic Turks in the country: [Iranian] Azerbaijan, with Khamseh and Kurdistan, are completely Turkish and their population is about 3.5 million. Gilan, meanwhile, is inhabited by Persians. Extending from Estakhrabad to the Pamir plains, there is another Turkmen area. These Turkmen—­in their beliefs, habits, and influences—­are just like us. Northern Iran is Turkish in its entirety. In the Khazar [Caspian] Sea, all boats, boatmen, and captains are Turkish. A bit to the south lies Kurdistan and Kermanshah. To the south of Savojbalagh, there is a Turkish area. Slightly further to the south lies Lorestan, inhabited by Kurds, who number 2.5 million.23

The most agriculturally productive, naturally endowed, and attractive parts of Iran, he implied, owed their success to Turks, since they had been either historically inhabited by ethnic Turks or strongly shaped by Turkish history and culture. Roshani Beik described the first waves of Turkish migration to Iran through the lens of his own nationalist narrative. While he correctly claimed that Turkish tribes and frontier people had migrated to Iran during

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the Seljuq Dynasty in the tenth and eleventh centuries and during a separate Turkish expansion, he elevated these disparate and unconnected tribes to the status of Turkish “nations”: What is the Turk doing here, and from where has he come? To answer this question, we require recourse to history. Since the earliest of times, Seljuks, and other Turkish nomads, have settled their nations in military hubs. This explains why Turks reside there.24

In order to reduce the idea of Iran to nothing more than a nationalist fabrication, Roshani appropriated history to construct an immutable Turkish ethnic identity. We find a similar discourse used in colonial contexts to legitimize foreign occupation, and by Zionist ideologues who dismiss the very notion of “Palestine” as a fantasy in favor of subsuming Palestinian territories into the Israeli state. This same mechanism underlay Roshani’s message, which was intended to debunk the validity of Iranian nationhood. Most supporters of the new Turkish republic did not necessarily hold such an extreme position, but it is revealing that Roshani likely spoke on behalf of Ottoman power. We know that Ataturk limited the geography of Turkish nationalism to the territory recognized at the time of the republic’s foundation, and was critical of those who advocated for a greater Turkish nation. In a 1904 Cairo publication, the Young Turk Yusuf Akcura argued for a pan-­Turkish politics of “Turkish nationalism based on race.” In 1905–­6 the Ottoman Committee of Union and Progress endorsed a “union of Turkish peoples from the Adriatic to the Chinese seas,” and took to propagating that idea among intellectuals in Azerbaijan. With the 1908 Young Turk revolution, the public profile of pan-­Turkism was elevated. Ziya Gokalp urged his countrymen to aspire for a future Turanian state comprising all Turkic peoples. As late as 1918, he likened the future state to a classless communist society of perfect justice. German war propaganda also spread pan-­Turkish ideas in Central Asia. However, with the end of World War I and the ascendency of Kemal Ataturk, the Turkish Republic embraced an anti-­irredentist and anti-­imperial ideology. The Soviet Revolution also fostered the decline of these expansionist ideologies, even though some cadres of the CUP continued to embrace pan-­Turkism. However, Ataturk forbade internal dissent, and pan-­Turkish ideologues receded from the frontlines of



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public debate. Instead, elites hewed close to Ataturk’s definition of Turkish nationalism, the mission of which he elaborated thus: Within our national frontiers, to work for the real happiness and development of our nation and our country, relying above all on our strength for the preservation of our existence, to refrain from inducing our people to pursue deleterious aims, and to expect from the civilized world humane treatment and friendship based on reciprocity.25

While Kemalists rejected the Young Turks’ project of ethnic unification, Roshani was not a Kemalist. His ideas were congruent with those of the earlier Young Turks, who had traced Turkish-­Iranian enmity to the Ottoman-­ Safavid rivalry. Roshani’s description of Persians as a “primitive” people void of cultural or civil traditions endorsed a civilizational understanding of nationalism. Because the achievements of “Persian civilization” were culled from the contributions of an ethnically and linguistically heterogenous population, ethnic Persians, he reasoned, could not be credited for their success, and this disbarred them from modern statehood. He explained to readers, “We are told that a Persian civilization [madaniyat] exists! But it is not so. This civilization is more Turkish than Persian. Persians are mostly employed in delicate and small tasks that rely on eyes and fingers, like wood carving and miniatures. But the eye-­catching tiles are made by Turkish genius.”26 Roshani extended his dismissiveness to Shiʿism as well, which he derided as a lesser form of Islam invented by Iranian court officials at the time of the Ottoman Empire’s ascendancy, to undermine it. Persians, he maintained, knew that the Ottomans represented the true guiding spirit of Islam: When the Ottoman Empire was undergoing formation, Iran stood against us as an opposing force. The Shia religion, which had just come into existence, took a political form, shedding much blood. The difference between the two religions led to much acrimony. But what is the difference? To love Ali and his sons? But is this not shared by all Muslims? Do we prefer Abubakr (May Allah be pleased with him), Omar or Othman (May Allah be pleased with them)? No! It is just that they were able to fulfill their duties in their right time and place. History has thus given them due respect and sanctity. We are therefore bound to fulfill our religious duty out of respect.27

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While Roshani did not go so far as to argue that Iranian states were also of Turkish origin, stating that “all Iranian governments have always been Persian creations,”28 he sought to undermine the legitimacy of recent Iranian governments by insisting that in recent years they had conspired to advance Western imperial interests: Throughout history, the Iranian state has been a Persian government. Sometimes, due to politics, or prevailing mood and events, it is pretended that something exists where it doesn’t. This applies to the Iranian-­Persian kingdom, which has been nonexistent for a century.29 Even if it does exist, it is but a toy for the Russians and the British. The biggest trade of the Persian nation has been the selling of their homeland. Those whom we call Ajam are pure Turks. It is probable that, in the embassy building opposite the road [that of Iran], not a single Persian exists. Currently, four million Turks live under Persian administration. They are doing much worse than the Turks of the Caucasus.30

Roshani then mounted a denunciation of Persians for their supposed lack of patriotism: “The Turks have shed so much of their blood for the glory of the Ottoman state. Those carrying the Iranian flag, meanwhile, have never shed a single drop of blood for their flag.”31 Iranians, he continued, had no genuine commitment to their own nation, and lacked patriotism: “The biggest ‘business’ [tejarat] of the Persian people is the selling of their motherland [vatan forush].”32 Roshani extended his scorn to ordinary Persians as well, whom he called dishonest, deviant, and inept at caring for their own personal well-­being: Tehran has a population of 200,000. Based on the statistics of foreign doctors and those of municipal hospitals, 30,000 people in Tehran suffer from syphilis and half of the city’s population have contracted infectious diseases. Many are caused by immorality.33 Persians are known to be liars and thieves. A father steals from his sons, the sons from the father, and the wife from the husband. Even the American whom the Persians hired to reform Iranian finances said the following to a journalist upon returning to the US: “How can you reform a country with 10 million thieves?”34

Roshani attributed the perceived problems plaguing Iran society—­a dilapidated economy, the mistreatment of women and girls, and so on—­not



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to poverty, illiteracy, or other sociological and structural hardships. Rather, he posited ethnicity as their fundamental cause. To complete his fantastical narrative, he contrasted the character of Azeris (in his view, Turks), with that of ethnic Persians in Iran. The Turks, in Beik’s world, were a productive and capable people, while the Persians wasted their lives idling: The Persian man is a master of continuous sleep. Sleep means death. But our Turkish brothers are an exalted and noble people. They are not Persian, and it is a great crime that we call them Ajam. They are our very own brothers, hardworking and able people. The Turks of Azerbaijan weren’t born there by accident.35

The only problem Roshani Beik seemingly spotted in the Turkish regions of Iran occured due to Persians migrating into them, infesting Turkish culture with their unpleasant qualities: The city of Tehran is more akin to a Turkish city. Very few Persians live there. From Tehran we go to Azerbaijan. The Turks of Azerbaijan are merchants. Jews cannot compete with them. But the part near the Persian area is very much broken and demolished. The city of Tabriz, which didn’t have a single opium addict 15 years ago, is today poisoned in a myriad of ways.36

Convincing evidence exists indicating that Roshani Beik was a member of the Committee of Union and Progress but was not affiliated with the Republic of Turkey. The hostility he displayed toward Iran in his 1924 address confirms this. Iran was undergoing massive transitions with the formation of the Pahlavi state. Reza Shah was inspired by Ataturk’s will to reform modern Turkey, and he maintained positive relations with the nascent republic, the only country he visited upon becoming Shah. Roshani Beik, however, saw Reza Shah as yet another lackey of British colonialism. He was equally dismissive of the 1906 Constitutional Revolution. He saw little positive value in establishing either a constitutional monarchy or a secular parliamentary political system in Iran, since “Iran is nothing but a British possession.”37 Roshani Beik deployed a discourse that asserted ethnic identity as both a starting point and destiny, not the sociological accident of geography and history. His writings, a compound of neo-­Ottoman and European racialist narratives, exhibit an expansionist vision that limits the outcome

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of nationalist politics to the violence of irredentism. Even more tragically, the very utopianism of this vision—­claiming populations as belonging to one group, regardless of their preference—­makes coercive violence against “insiders” and “outsiders” inevitable. The consequences of this ethnic nationalist discourse were catastrophic wherever it took root in the interwar period. This fervent anti-­Iranian rhetoric of interwar pan-­Turkism conjured a similarly harsh response by the Iranian nationalists. However, racialized nation-­making in both places was moderated, and declined in a short period of time. There is little doubt that Arani’s nationalism was acutely forged through his encounter with the racialist politics of Turkish activists who claimed that Iranian Azeris were “racially” distinct from Persians. We see the ascendency of a new racialist discourse—­alien to prior Ottoman political discourses, religious or secular—­in the new Turkish nationalist claim that Azeris should join the newly emerging republic of Turkey, envisioned as their own racially pure nation. This kind of rhetoric was very hard to accept, for Arani was himself an Azeri. This is, of course, not to justify Arani’s own ethnonationalistic replies to Roshani, or his offensive commentaries about Turkish people, history, and culture. It is, however, important to remember that these antagonisms emerged not in a vacuum but in explicit response to pan-­Turkish writings that demeaned Iranians, as the next chapter will examine.

3 Arani’s Early Writings A Racialized National Narrative

Arani’s Berlin Encounters Arani’s Berlin encounters shaped his earliest writings on Iranian nationalism, and these writings call out for contextualization, since they are often treated as the most representative examples of his thinking. Yet too often the work of contextualizing the intellectual output of Arani’s Berlin years has been limited to identifying him as one member among many of a community of émigré scholars known as the Berlin Circle, or to generalizing that as a young man his early thought was little more than a recapitulation of the crude ethnic nationalism he encountered among Iranians in 1920s Berlin. The nationalism of Iranian Berliners was more diverse than either depiction suggests, and the leading members of the émigré community did not subscribe wholesale to the formulaic nationalism associated with the period, as some historians presume. To move beyond these easily gleaned generalizations and reassemble the intellectual environment that nurtured Arani’s thinking, it is necessary to identify the specific figures and institutions with which he most closely associated. Who among the many renowned Iranians gathered in Berlin did Arani meet, and how did their relationship set him on a new trajectory of thinking? How did his thinking parallel or diverge from that of his Berlin interlocutors? And lastly, how did the discourse of Aryanism shape the nationalist outlook of Arani and, more broadly, the Iranian community in Berlin? This chapter attempts to piece together the intellectual-­political milieu Arani inhabited as he produced his early writings. It focuses on two particular individuals and one institution which together played on outsized role

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in shaping his initial ideas about nationalism, and which later facilitated his transition from ethnic nationalism to socialism. Chief among these institutions was Kaviani Press, a Persian-­language publishing house where Arani worked as a proofreader during his doctoral studies. Also important are the Institute for Oriental Languages, where Arani instructed German students in Persian language and literature, and Friedrich Wilhelm University’s Department of Chemistry. The two individuals we might credit for most shaping Arani’s thought are the Iranian journalist and historian Kazemzadeh Iranshahr and the German diplomat and Orientalist Friedrich Rosen (1856–­1935). While a complete reconstruction of Arani’s social and political contacts is beyond the scope of this introductory framing, what this exploration makes clear is that the diasporic spaces Arani navigated in Berlin were characterized not by a homogeneity of nationalist thought, but by profound tensions, divergent ideas, and opposing political perspectives. Perhaps Arani’s short-­ lived stint as an ethnic nationalist can be attributed to his exposure to a diversity of ideas during these early Berlin years.

Berlin’s Kaviani Press Kaviani Press was a premier Persian-­language publishing and printing house founded in 1922 by Abdolshakur Tabrizi, an Iranian entrepreneur from Tabriz, with the help of associates like Mohammad Qazvini and Mahmud Ghanizadeh, both scholars of Persian literature.1 Kaviani Press attracted an assortment of intellectuals and scholars who collaborated on, among other efforts, editing and annotating Persian classics for Iranian readers and German Orientalists. In between his doctoral studies, Arani worked at Kaviani Press as a proofreader, and it was there that he met the Orientalist Friedrich Rosen, who was working at Kaviani on an edited volume of Khayyam’s poetry.2 Arani and Rosen’s relationship soon led to collaborations on a number of Persian editions published by Kaviani Press.3 The journal Iranshahr, which Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, founded and edited and which would publish several of Arani’s early essays on language and nationalism, was also printed at Kaviani Press. Arani also met Mahmud Ghanizadeh (1879–­1935); and together, he, Ghanizadeh, and Rosen edited and annoted translations of canonical Persian texts by the likes of Saʿdi, Omar Khayyam, and Naser Khosrow:



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Then, during 1924–­1925 came his [Arani’s] trilogy, which was a revival of rare works of prominent figures of Persia’s literary renaissance (movement peaked from the tenth to the fifteenth century, after the Arab invasion of the seventh century), which showed not only the diversity but also the polarity in the thought universe of medieval Persia. Erani chose three literary figures from the eleventh, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries and annotated one work from each to give a vista of the intellectual landscape of this period. It is in the midst of this project that he stumbled on Friedrich Rosen.4

While Kaviani Press was the conduit for Arani’s introduction to the nationalist concerns of a community of diasporic intellectuals, it was at the Institute for Oriental Languages that he was exposed to German Orientalism. In 1925, Arani started teaching at the institute, which had been founded in 1887 as a German colonial and language school at Friedrich Wilhelm University. He remained affiliated with the institute for most of his time in Berlin. His collaborator at Kaviani Press, Rosen, was instrumental in arranging a teaching position for Arani. Rosen contacted the German culture minister, Carl Heinrich Becker, in 1925 to make the arrangements necessary for Arani to teach a course in “Oriental Rhetoric and Logic” there.5 In addition to his teaching responsibilities, Arani gained the opportunity to widen his network of collaborators and interlocutors to include a number of German scholars of Iran and Persian literature.

Hossein Kazemzadeh Iranshahr One can safely say that Arani’s first mentor was Hossein Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, a fellow Tabrizi and the editor of the Berlin-­based Persian journal Iranshahr, after the founding of which Kazemzadeh became popularly known as Kazemzadeh Iranshahr. His nephew said, “I should note that Iranshahr was known as Mirza Hossein during his studies; he later took Kazemzadeh Iranshahr for his surname, and later when he published Iranshahr magazine he became known as Iranshahr.”6 Kazemzadeh Iranshahr’s mother died when he was four years old; and he lost his father shortly afterwards, at the age of seven, at which point his older brother took charge of his care.7 Kazemzadeh Iranshahr studied a traditional curriculum of Arabic and Qurʾanic studies in Tabriz.8 Over time, he came to regard his teachers’ traditional pedagogy as closed-­minded and parochial. In 1904, at the age of twenty, he traveled to Istanbul to continue his studies and stayed there for six years. In 1910 he left Istanbul to visit France, England, and Belgium.

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In 1915, shortly after the outbreak of World War I, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr joined the Iran Committee (Komiteh-­ye Iran), which the pro-­German modernizer Hasan Taghizadeh had founded alongside his influential political periodical Kaveh in Berlin. Soon afterward, Taghizadeh asked Kazemzadeh Iranshahr to report to Iran for a political mission. In Iran, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr was arrested and jailed for anti-­British and pro-­German agitation and was compelled to leave Iran for exile in Basra, Iraq, before returning to Berlin in 1917. After Kaveh ceased publishing in 1922, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr launched a new publication, Iranshahr, in Berlin. This was done with the help of a community of scholars and nationalists residing in Berlin who had earlier been associated with Taghizadeh and Kaveh. Among them were Mohammad Qazvini, Gholam-­Reza Rashid Yasemi, Abbas Eqbal Ashtiani, Morteza Moshfeq Kazemi, and Ebrahim Pourdavoud. Arani happened to arrive in Berlin in the same year that Kazemzadeh Iranshahr founded Iranshahr, 1922. Although Iranshahr published what would, because of a dearth of financial resources, be its last issue in 1927, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr continued to live in Berlin before relocating to Switzerland in 1936, where he lived until his death in 1962.

Iranian Spirit Soon after his arrival in Berlin, Arani, thanks to his connections with Kaviani Press, was given outlet for his ideas in the pages of Iranshahr, and the pieces he published for the magazine consolidated his reputation among the Iranian community there. Arani’s Iranshahr writings explored questions of national consciousness, of the possibility of forging a unified Iranian identity through Persian-­language education, and of the very feasibility of a Persian nation, which had been called into question by pan-­Turkists like Roshani Beik. Arani’s initial thinking in these areas bears the discernible influence of Kazemzadeh Iranshahr’s ideas about Iranian nationalism. Kazemzadeh Iranshahr had published a series of essays in Iranshahr on Iranian identity and later published a collection of them as Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani (Expressions of the Iranian Spirit).9 Kazemzadeh Iranshahr arranged the elements of Iranian nationalism into a coherent vision disseminated by Iranshahr in the 1920s: a mix of Persian culturalism, Aryanism, and Iranian Shiʿism. As we will see later in this chapter, Taghi Arani’s 1924 writings on the centrality of Persian language to Iranian identity were inspired by Kazemzadeh



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Iranshahr’s notion of Iranian cultural exceptionalism. Iranshahr’s nationalism was in keeping with articulations of it typical of the constitutional movement, particularly the idea of Iranian racial-cultural superiority. For example, in 1922 he wrote, “Over the course of its history, the spirit of Iran, like a dazzling mirror, has embodied all the distinct qualities and virtues of the Aryan race. The Iranian spirit has always projected the qualities of the Aryan spirit.”10 For Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, the virtues of the Indo-­ European race were “high intelligence, good judgments, prudence, open mindedness, productive mind, analytical faculty, and the gift to enlighten other cultures.”11 Kazemzadeh Iranshahr’s repeated invocation of an essential “Iranian spirit,” which for him brimmed with the best qualities of the Aryan race, makes evident that he was influenced by a tradition of German romanticism and Orientalism. These themes were sustained throughout his writing and burrowed their way into Arani’s early essays as well. In these essays, Kazemzadeh Iranshahr frequently quotes European racial theorists, such as Joseph Arthur de Gobineau (1816–­82). His view on Islam, however, departed from the conventions common to other nationalist intellectuals. Rather than reject Islam as alien to the so-­called Iranian spirit, he contended that the inviolable superiority of Iranian culture enabled it to refashion the Islam of Arab origin and quality into a uniquely Iranian tradition: “It is because of this spirit that the Iranian nation, after accepting the religion of Islam and being its spiritual captive, reformed it and made it congruent with their own ethical and spiritual beliefs.”12 Iran’s encounter with Islam gave way not to a distinct but otherwise equal Iranian variant of the tradition, but to one that was for Iranshahr “a progressive and higher form, that now is known as Iranian Islam.”13 While Iranshahr was convinced of Iran’s cultural excellence, he proposed that Iranians should adopt elements of modern Western culture, albeit while sustaining their cultural autonomy. Iranshahr preempted possible critiques of these seemingly contradictory statements by situating the Iranian spirit first within the pantheon of Aryanism, rendering it distinct from but reconcilable to European identity: The Iranian spirit is the finest kind of Aryan spirit. In addition to enduring in its own [cultural] autonomy, it has succeeded in transforming a few other minor cultures into Iran’s own worldview, and they are akin to a familiar

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culture. And it has enlightened several other occupying nations, and has helped them flourish and mature.14

One can see in Arani’s early arguments for the sui generis spirit of Persian language a continuation of Iranshahr’s thinking that Iran, on the one hand, was culturally distinct from and superior to its Semitic neighbors but, on the other, reconcilable to Western tradition. The two thinkers’ close association could be extended to explain Arani’s relative tolerance for the constitutive significance of Islam to Iranian culture. One area in which the two diverged, however, was in their philosophical framings. Arani, unlike Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, did not write in romantic or semispiritual fashion about Iran and its culture. He showed little interest in apprehending the supposed spirit of the nation and, in keeping with his training as a chemist and his commitment to materialist principles, he couched the arguments he made during his twenties about Iran’s cultural and racial particularities in more “scientific” terms.

Friedrich Rosen In a rather rare historical coincidence, love for Persian literature and for the work of the eleventh-­century Nishapuri poet Omar Khayyam (1048–­1131) made it possible for two individuals, twenty-­two-­year-­old Taghi Arani and forty-­seven-­year-­old Friedrich Rosen to collaborate closely at Kaviani Press in 1925. Friedrich Rosen was a German diplomat and Orientalist whose work took him the world over. He was born in Leipzig but raised in Jerusalem. He lived in Iran for eight years in the 1890s, and his son was born in Tehran. He also lived in Baghdad, Beirut, and India, among many other places. Rosen studied in Germany and France, and worked with Edward Granville Brown, a renowned scholar of Iran and Persian literature, at Cambridge. The empowerment of anti-­Semitic fascists ultimately compelled Rosen to leave Germany for China, where he lived with his son until his death in Beijing in 1935. Rosen’s interest in Iran and in Persian literature emanated from his family background. His father, George Rosen, was himself a diplomat and scholar of Islam. The elder Rosen had studied Persian in Tbilisi, Georgia, in the 1840s.15 Friedrich Rosen, like his father before him, entered the diplomatic corps, which led him to live in various places: Over a course of thirty-­five years (1887–­1921), [Rosen’s diplomatic positions] had taken him to Beirut, Tehran (where his son was born), Baghdad,



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Jerusalem (where the young Rosen had learned Hebrew, Turkish, and Arabic when his father had been consul of the Prussian legation), Addis Ababa, Tangier, Bucharest, Lisbon, The Hague, and finally Berlin: the latter as Foreign Minister during May-­October 1921.16

Rosen’s linguistic and literary expertise made him a well known figure among a circle of Iranian scholars in Berlin. After his death in 1935, Saeed Nafisi, a prominent Iranian historian, eulogized the Orientalist, praising his dexterity with Persian: “Friedrich Rosen . . . had an excellent command of the Persian language and he was one of the persons who spoke Persian better than anyone in Europe.”17 Arani’s first year in Berlin, 1922, coincided with Rosen’s resignation from Germany’s Foreign Ministry. Soon after his arrival in Berlin, Arani found outlet for his writings in Iranshahr and Nameh-­ye Farangestan. At the same time, Rosen retired from the civil service and resumed his work translating Persian literature. He collaborated with German Orientalists and Iranian scholars, including with several individuals at Kaviani Press. It so happened that Arani was working at Kaviani Press as a proofreader, and the two met for the first time there in 1924 or 1925. According to Jalali, it was when Rosen was working on Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat that he came to know Arani: “It was this work on the original Persian (analysis of provenance) [of the Rubaiyat] that preoccupied Rosen for the better part of 1924, when he stumbled on a young man by the name of Taghi Erani at a Persian print shop called Kaviani Press in Charlottenburg on Leibnizstrasse.”18 Arani’s association with Rosen opened his world to other German Orientalists and their perspective on Persian literature and culture: Through Rosen, Taghi Erani came to know prominent figures of German Orientalism: Eugen Mittwoch, master of Amharic ([a] Semitic language spoken in Ethiopia) and a notable Hebraist, head of the Oriental Languages Institute at the University of Berlin, Erani’s prospective employer, and, unbeknownst to him, a member of German intelligence (and later British intelligence, as the Nazis banished those of Jewish origin, Mittwoch switching sides); Carl Heinrich Becker, the Minister of Culture of Prussia, a noted Orientalist (Arabist), surpassing Mittwoch in professional reputation, whose archives contain correspondence from Taghi Erani; Wilhelm Litten, a diplomat and Persia scholar, author of several works on contemporary Persia (an oddity among Orientalists). . . .19

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Arani’s introduction to Orientalist perceptions of Iran, which analyzed the nation through a philological paradigm of language and literature, and his work with cultural nationalists like Iranshahr led him to similarly foreground the cultural-­linguistic specificities of Iran in his conceptualization of national identity and consciousness, as can be seen in his 1924 essays (more on which later in this chapter) “Zaban-­e Farsi” (The Persian Language), published in Iranshahr, and “Azerbaijan: Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran” (Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran), published in Farangestan.20

“Aryan Spirit in Semitic Vest” Rosen’s scholarship on Iran adhered to a conventional cornerstone assumption of European Orientalism—­namely, that Persians were culturally distinct from their Semitic neighbors. Orientalists like Rosen considered Persians to be members of a family of Indo-­European races, and tended, for the sake of preserving the racial superiority of “Indo-­Europeans” writ large, to characterize Persians as possessed of superior intellectual faculties. This, needless to say, represented the European’s privileging of Persian culture as being superior to those of all other non-­Aryan races. Orientalists writing prior to World War I explained the opposing characters of Persians, Arabs, and Turks subtly. They avoided openly racial language in favor of other essentialist concepts such as “culture,” “character,” and national “spirit.” Rosen was no exception to this trend, and in his 1908 work on Khayyam he opined on the author’s “Aryan spirit.”21 Rosen’s argument was that Khayyam’s critical skepticism of authority and dogma was a characteristic feature of the Aryan race. He contrasted Khayyam’s creativity with that of intellectually inert “Semitic Arabs,” whose dedication to intellectual preservation, as opposed to creation, aligned them with “dogmatic Islam in the Orient.”22 Arani’s early writings on the Persian language and national identity, characterizing Iranians as racially distinct from and superior to Semites, harbored many of the assumptions common not only to Orientalist scholarship but the thinking of his Iranshahr colleagues. However, when Arani met Rosen in 1924 or 1925, Rosen’s view on the myth of Aryanism had changed. With Nazism on the rise in Germany, the discourse of Aryanism assumed a more sinister pall: “After the war these words had taken on a different, vitriolic meaning. Antisemitism was on the rise, with Jews blamed for the loss of the war and all other hardship.”23 Rosen’s Jewish origins left him vulnerable



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to political attack; he was soon forced to resign from his post as foreign minister of Germany, and to return to scholarly work. While Arani’s extant corpus bears out the claim that after 1924 he refrained from referencing Aryanism in his writings, it is hard to explain why he did so. Some have suggested that his Jewish colleagues at the Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin, who likely saw the corrosive ends to which Aryanism could be deployed, may have swayed his thinking. Others have argued that his socialist turn better accounts for his revised views on race. Both experiences may partly explain the change in Arani’s thought, but 1924 was also the start of his collaboration with Rosen, and we know that Rosen, whose career had been cut short by the rise of Nazism, opposed it, and that Arani worked with him throughout his years in Berlin.24 Rosen, himself likely wary of Aryanism’s politicization after his resignation from Germany’s Foreign Ministry, may have encouraged Arani, however indirectly, to conceive of Iran in supraracial terms. An article Rosen wrote defending the Iranian government’s decision to have foreign governments refer to the country as Iran evidences the plasticity of his own understanding of Iranian identity. In it, he argued that Iranians were acting within their right to ask to have their self-­understanding externalized, since they “had been conceiving of themselves and their country as Iranians and Iran for over a thousand years, and had falsely and inaccurately been labelled Persia by Europeans.”25 And earlier in 1933, on the occasion of Ferdowsi’s millennial festival in Berlin, Rosen, again suggesting an understanding of identity larger than race or religion, argued that “it was not language and religion that formed the basis of a people, but a commonly experienced history.”26

Arani’s Early Writings Arani arrived in Berlin in August 1922, at the young age of nineteen. Only two years later, in 1924, he wrote two articles on the Persian language: “Zaban-­e Farsi” (The Persian Language),27 and “Azerbaijan: Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati Bara-­ye Iran” (Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran).28 During this period he also published other pieces extolling Iran’s history and culture.29 His 1924 articles investigated the relationship between language, race, and national identity. As explained in the second chapter of this book, Arani’s early Berlin writings can be explained in part as a response to the Ottoman nationalist Roshani Beik, who regarded ethnicity as the essence of nationality, and ethnic purity, as a corollary, as the measure of

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national unity. In response, Arani delivered an evocative defense of the Persian language as the principal facet of a unified and integrated Iranian nation. While it is reasonable to suggest that Arani’s early thought was not radically different from that of contemporary Iranian nationalists, it is misleading to accept the handful of articles he produced in his first few years in Berlin as representative of his entire corpus, a judgment that can only be made tenable by excluding from consideration the considerable writings he produced in his later years.30 Most scholars who have written about Arani have overstated the supposedly ethnic contours of his nationalism on the basis of what he wrote in his early twenties. The reality is that after the mid-­1920s, he was preoccupied with criticizing the crude nationalism of Iranian nativists and revivalists. A less denunciatory mode of analysis would also appreciate that reading Arani’s early Berlin writings grew in large part out of an interwar confrontation between Iranian and Turkish intellectuals. Scholars commonly portray modern Iranian nationalism as a reaction to Arab-­Islamic hegemony borrowing on Orientalist ideas about the supposedly Aryan nature of Iran. Yet during the crucial interwar period,, Iran’s modern national imaginary was in fact defined in relation to the new Turkish nationalism. Arani’s first response to this line of thinking was the 1924 article “The Persian Language,” which was written when he was twenty-­one years old. In order to repudiate Roshani, who thought Iran too ethnically heterogenous to constitute a tenable nation, Arani, rather than questioning the premises of the debate, which treated nationality and ethnicity as one and the same, doubled down on the historicity of Persians’ putatively Aryan origin. In arguing for the actuality of an Iranian race, he replicated Orientalist arguments that distinguished Persians from Arabs and other “Semitic” races by way of their linguistic particularity. For Arani, the Persian language was proof of an Iranian racial origin: one that associated Iranians with Europeans, providing convenient proof of their superiority to Arabs and Turks. There is, of course, a broader history of power interwoven in the Orientalist discourses Arani adopted. Europeans had sponsored and spread racialist discourses to maintain control over the colonies, distorting the world’s conception of history. This was the classic divide-­and-­rule strategy that pitted populations against one another, thereby undermining nationalist mobilizations against empire. Arani’s Persian-­language article was written a year after Roshani’s talk in Istanbul. In that essay, Arani alluded to Turks and the Turkish language,



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and seemed to respond to Roshani’s lecture about Iran by defending the centrality of Persian language in formation of Iranian identity. However, his main argument concerned racial issues related to Iran, and he did not directly respond to Roshani. Arani’s argument, which began by announcing, “The Persian language is an Aryan language; its grammatical rules and basic word roots closely resemble other Aryan languages,” bears the influence of contemporary Orientalist and Iranian nationalist ideas.31 The racialization of Persian as an Aryan language was a conventional feature of European Orientalism and, subsequently, Iranian nationalist discourse. The argument was derived from German nationalist thought, which aimed to differentiate Persians from Semites in order to underline the former’s shared heritage with Indo-­ European or Aryan races. Arani attempted to offer independent proof for this argument, and used an outwardly technical argument to do so: “. . . In all Aryan languages, the plural conjugation of every verb applies to two or more people. . . . In other languages, for example, the Semitic ones, this isn’t the case.”32 He compared Aryan word patterns with those in other languages before arriving at the conclusion that Aryan languages more “naturally” captured the actual order of reality. In this light, language was recast as a fundamental ontology: The word “mother,” for instance, is based on how a child expresses his need for milk and food from the mother, making the same lip movement as when sucking on her breasts. The lips press on one another and the lip muscles draw back to create the sound of the letter m. This letter exists in the word “mother” in many languages. However, Aryan languages have a distinction investing the word “mother” with a special bent. The children of the Aryan race, for instance, start by pressing their lips together and then move to open them, creating the syllable “ma.” In Semitic languages, like Hebrew, Jewish [sic], or Arabic, the mouth opens first, and the lips are pressed subsequently. In the former, therefore, the word “mother” starts with an “m” (madar [Persian], mutter [German], mother, etc.). In the latter, the “m” comes at the end of the word (umm [Arabic], imma [Hebrew], etc.). These changes are due to external effects like environmental and racial factors.33

Proceeding from this example, Arani confidently placed Persian within the pantheon of Aryan languages: “As we can see, the word ‘mother’ in Aryan languages has the same properties as the word in Persian.”34 Despite the

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essentialism of his synchronic approach, Arani used a different, diachronic reasoning in the same text. He explained that language embodied the unique cultural and social qualities of differing human contexts, and so developed dynamically relative to the lived experiences of those using it: Aryan languages have found independent forms due to differences in the ways of life, environment, and natural surroundings of different peoples. The Persian language was created in a similar process. Before the arrival of the Arabs, it was spoken in several varieties (Pahlavi, Dari, etc.).35

This reasoned analysis, however, is inconsistent with Arani’s primary contention that something “pure”—­hence unchanging—­inheres in the Persian language, marking it authentically Aryan. If Persian evolved according to the sociocultural conditions of pre-­Islamic Iran, then logically, the advent of Islam in Iran introduced significant changes to the environment in which Persian matured. These new changes, a cultural and political infusion, would have constituted not a regression but an enrichment of the language. Arani very nearly implies precisely this idea: The Arab invasion affected the Persian language just as it influenced other aspects of Iranian civilization. Due to the prejudices of the Arabs, many ancient Persian words were destroyed. Here, the Iranian lack of caution and foresight also helped to damage the Persian language. Every Iranian writer considered abundant use of Arabic words, terms, tales and poetry as signifying erudition. The Persian language was thereby virtually destroyed, to be replaced with a new language (the New Persian) containing many Arabic words and Persian influences.36

Arani, however, did not consider postconquest changes to Persian a “natural” outcome of Islam’s centuries-­old presence in Iran, nor did he regard Arabic’s influence on Persian as a potential source of linguistic or cultural fortification. Instead, such changes were portrayed as a harmful assault on the integrity and quality of the Persian language. Arani’s argument erects a normative hierarchy of languages, where the post-­Islamic New Persian language sadly lacks the purity of Old Persian: The language that became common following the Arabs differed significantly from Old Persian. It is known as New Persian. Iranian emotions



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have failed to purge our tongue of other languages. Alien words were, to Old Persian, what thorns are to a garden of flowers. Even worse, they took an ax to the roots of our own national heritage. We have failed to prevent our language from becoming eclectic and nonindependent.37

Arani explained that, in contrast to their forebears who kept the garden of Old Persian free from foreign thorns, in post-­Islamic Iran “Persian men of letters not only inserted Arabic into Persian but toiled in the production of Arabic literature. They wrote their words, sentences, prose and poetry in the Arabic language. It was so much so that many important Arabic scholars are originally Persian-­speaking and of Iranian stock.”38 To Arani, the contribution of Iranians to a canon of Arabic literature was a historical blunder. This viewpoint prevented Arani from seeing proficiency in Arabic letters as a prerequisite for participation in the altered cultural and political life of Islamic Iran. For Arani, this was an intellectual fiasco, even a national betrayal. Persian is not just a language, he suggests, but the heart of Iranian identity. Against this light, writing in other languages is tantamount to a collaboration with alien cultures. Arani overlooked the new reality that had emerged over centuries of Arab rule and Islamic influence in Iran, a process that facilitated the gradual intermingling of the Arabic and Persian languages. Nor did he seem to accept that Iran had experienced a spiritual conversion to a new religion, Islam, which spoke then and now to believers in Arabic. Arani apparently believed that the “superiority” of the Iranian race should have overruled every other element of social and political life: This proves the intelligence of the Iranian race, as well as its weakness and carelessness. Without their own language for daily use, Iranians went on to create literature for others. This has always been the way of things until recently. But we now see that, fortunately, numerous intellectuals understand that opaque words don’t much improve one’s prose. They are taking the first steps in avoiding the use of alien words.39

Yet there are hints of Arani’s materialist perspective in his discussion of the Persian language even in this early essay.40 One can observe that Arani’s ahistorical optic gave way in time to a more measured approach as he offered a rationale for reviving Persian as the cultural basis of the modern Iranian nation. He conceded that changed conditions in people’s social

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and material realities necessitated fresh reflection of our understanding of Persian: “On the other hand, Iranophilic euphoria has overtaken many of the youth today. They’ve come to consider nationality as having precedence over everything else. This is truly one of the surest routes Iranians can take toward perfection.” 41 Arani proposed a major transformation of the Persian language: Our language today is flawed and nonindependent. We must make Persian perfect and independent. Today, no one can fully explain himself without using alien words. On the other hand, one can use wide varieties of Arabic and European words. Those who don’t understand this ever-­changing, colorful language are considered ignorant.42

According to Arani, transforming Persian into a perfected and independent language suitable as the base for a national imaginary required two principal projects. First, it would be necessary to cleanse the language of Arabic words for which Persian equivalents existed but had fallen out of fashion: “For the ordinary words, we need to collect Persian words. Where we lack a Persian word for something, we must inevitably accept the Arabic equivalent. But we should make these Arabic loanwords limited and clear.”43 Second, Iranians would be required to be judiciously open to the strategic adoption of European terms and words: “For scientific words, we are to accept international terms. We are bound to accept the new sciences from the Europeans. Common terms for these sciences don’t exist in Persian or Arabic. We are left with three ways.”44 Taking these views into account, Arani’s purist understanding of the Persian language corresponded to his desire to “racially” purge Persian of its “Semitic” vestiges. He was eager to excise Arabic words from Iranians’ daily lexicon while retaining an attitude of optimistic pragmatism about adopting European words. Arani even advised Iranians on the historical precedents of borrowing linguistically from Europeans: “I should note, however, that civilized nations have themselves taken all these terms from Latin or Greek. They then made changes according to their own languages. We should do likewise, or we shall be faced with abundant problems.”45 Arani’s essay concluded by calling for a pan-­Persian movement not unlike Roshani’s program for pan-­Turkish resurgence. He delighted in envisioning the recovery of “pure” Persian. Beyond this, he voiced a larger design for spreading Persian beyond Iran’s borders:



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From the city of Shirvan, for instance, Khaqani Shirvani emerged. His Iranophilia [Irandusti] is obvious to any sharp reader familiar with the ode he has written to the Archway of Ctesiphon ruins. If the wind carries the message of Jamaloddin Esfahani to the city of Shirvan today, however, there is no one to either understand or respond. The same holds for the city of Ganja, which nourished great men of letters like Nezami Ganjavi, among our first-­rate poets and the first romantic poet of the Persian language. But in those areas, no trace remains of the Persian language today. Similarly, in the cities of Turkestan, like Merv [Mary] or Bukhara, which produced our many great poets such as Rudaki, no trace remains. In Afghanistan it is likewise, for the propaganda of other nations has virtually destroyed our language.46

Arani thus proposed an expansionist project to Persianize what he considered historically Iranian regions: “Our sacrificial and patriotic men should do everything possible to propagate the Persian language. They should send Persian-­language teachers, with free and cheap teaching materials, to these areas.” 47 It is interesting to note that the Republic of Turkey, under Ataturk, used similar arguments to purge Turkish of Arabic and Persian influence. Arani, however, did not go so far as to suggest banning other languages in Iran, nor did he speak about those languages disapprovingly.

Arani’s Encounter with Pan-­Turkism He [Roshani] counts the Dome of Soltaniyeh, near Zanjan, and Tabriz’s Blue Mosque as among these treasures of Turkish creation. But if these are fruits of the Turkish spirit and the Mongol race, why is it that they haven’t created such masterpieces in their blessed homeland, Mongolia? Taghi Arani, 1924

In his second early essay on the Persian language, “Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran,” Arani took on Roshani Beik explicitly, naming him several times—­writing, for instance, “One writer who spreads such mistakes through publishing his reflections is Roshani Beik, who claims to have traveled in Iran and observed the fruits of the Turkish spirit.”48 Arani vehemently rejected the validity of Roshani’s claims on Iranian Azerbaijan, attacking him and other Ottoman writers who, in his view, falsely claimed Iranian Azeris to be Turks. While Arani continued here, as in his other

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article, to pronounce on the centrality of Persian to Iranian national identity, he focused on articulating an argument for the existence of an Iranian race by differentiating it from a Turkish one, which he disparaged as “primitive” and “inferior.”49 Arani may have encountered the rumor, circulating in Istanbul, that Roshani Beik was himself of Azeri origin. He combined this insight with Roshani’s own logic to cast his ethnic identity into doubt: “Just because of the Blue Mosque’s name [Goy Masjid], Beik says that it is a Turkish work. By this logic, he himself should be regarded as Iranian, since he has a Persian name.”50 Arani’s polemic used Roshani’s own logic to challenge him and argue that Azeris in fact positively identify with Iran. Yet he contradicted his earlier insistence on the centrality of language by arguing that Azeri participation in Iranian political and cultural life offset their primary use of Turkish, as opposed to Persian, thus rendering them authentic Iranians: Let us ask this gentleman: In all fairness, consider that most Azeri people, who speak no Persian, are brought up in the land of Turks. They see the Ottoman world and Iranian backwardness. Is it not because of a pure heartfelt emotion that they persist in their zealous love for Iran, and in their self-­sacrifice for homeland?51

The young Arani was clearly offended by the Ottomans’ attack on Iranian national identity, and responded bitterly to them. However, he admitted that Roshani’s views on Iran were not entirely shared by his own government: “Mr. Roshani is surprised that the Young Turkish government has closed all foreign schools in the Ottoman state, but that the Iranian primary school in Istanbul, run by Azeris, is busy propagating Iranian language and civilization.”52 Unlike in his article on the Persian language, Arani here aggressively demeaned the Turks, their history, and their culture. He evoked the Central Asian and, more particularly, the Mongol origins of Turks to describe them as primitive and savage. This rhetorical maneuver allowed Arani to evade referencing Ottoman history and acknowledging the empire’s cultural contributions. Arani described Turks and Mongols as a benighted race, implying that Azeris rejected association with them. Alongside this argument for Azeris’ preference for Iran, Arani also made the claim that the some Azeris were in fact ethnically Iranian, but, because of the vicissitudes of history, had simply lapsed in their knowledge of Persian:



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Unfortunately, after the brutal attack from the East, and the bloodthirsty Mongol domination, whose villainous actions cannot be erased from the pages of history, most native Azerbaijanis forgot their language. This was because Hulagu Khan had made Maragheh the capital. They had to speak Turkish.53

Crucially and somewhat counterintuitively, Arani deployed racial rhetoric inclusive of linguistic differences when discussing Azeri Iranians to portray a unified nation. The idea of Iran’s affinity with Europeans was of course part of Iranian nationalist discourse in this period, and the racial identification of Iran with European civilization also influenced Arani’s racial resentment against Turks. He did not hesitate to use offensive language: “For some time now, Ottoman newspapers have devoted pages to slandering Iran and Iranians, showing no aversion to the despicable behavior of a savage nation with no civilization.”54 With the possibility of reasonable argument thwarted, Arani wrote with uncontrolled fury: “Since people in certain areas of Iran speak Turkish, some ignorant observers fall into clear error. Without studying the history to reach the truth, they quickly claim that these people are Turkish, of the same race as themselves.” 55 Despite his insistence on the centrality of language to identity, Arani had difficulty admitting the possibility that for Azeris a causal relationship may have existed between speaking Turkish and identifying as such, at least in theory. After all, he likely knew that Azeris living in Iran had spoken Turkish for several hundred years. The idea that this connection rendered them functionally Turkish was to Arani an unacceptable lie that erased the supposed history of coercion undergirding Azeris’ use of the Turkish language. His nationalism rendered him incapable of acknowledging that for Azeris Turkish was an everyday tongue that did not conflict with their identification, legal or cultural, as Iranian. Azeris had fought repeatedly to defend themselves and Iran against the powerful Russian and Ottoman armies, losing their lives in the process. Arani confessed several pages later that “the Azerbaijani sacrifice during Iran’s Constitutional Revolution was clear to everyone.”56 The conclusion he drew, however, was that Azerbaijanis are located within Persian-­speaking Iranian history: Yes, even if Azerbaijanis don’t speak the Persian language, like a child who doesn’t speak his mother’s tongue while yet having spiritual attachment to her, they are ready to sacrifice themselves for the pure soil of their dear mother, Iran.57

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For all his vitriol, Arani’s diatribes must be comprehended as polemical products of a polarizing political atmosphere that prevailed when Turkish and Ottoman organizations were spreading anti-­Iranian propaganda and encouraging Azeris to migrate from Iran to join an emerging pan-­Turkish nation. While this context of competing nationalisms may explain Arani’s racializing discourses, it also shaped Iranian nationalist discourse along similarly intolerant and racialist lines. We must keep in sight this critical conjuncture in the history of modern Iranian nationalism. Well known Iranian intellectuals and political figures also participated in crafting Iranian national identity along these lines, emotionally invoking it is as an antithesis to Turkish nationalism.58 Most of these writers were of Azeri origin and spoke Turkish. Arani’s concerns ultimately extended beyond Roshani’s assertion that a large number of Iranians were in fact Turks who ought to jump ship and join the new pan-­Turkish nation. Arani was uneasy about how others perceived Iran’s ethnic divisions, and he made every effort to narrate the ethnic origin of Azeris as historically Persian, albeit Turkish-­speaking. This preoccupation highlights the limited horizons of Iranian nationalism, since it failed to articulate a vision of a unified Iran comprising multiple ethnic identities. Arani fell into the trap of conceiving the modern nation as a monolithic and homogeneous identity, a revolutionary French and colonial divide-­and-­rule discourse: Upon settling in different areas, due to their small population Azeris would assimilate into other nations. However, the dominant language was adopted by the people. This explains why the people of Asia Minor, who claim to be Turkish, are in fact not. They are Iranian, Greek, Arab, Armenian, or Roman. They only like to think of themselves as Turkish.59

However, Arani, like other proponents of what might be labeled mainstream Iranian nationalism, was careful not to antagonize Turks beyond Iranian borders: The number of true Turks in Turkey is, in fact, very few. Despite this, we don’t deny the Turkish nation the right to self-­government. Nor do we contend that it should be dissolved. The world today does not require racial commonality as the prerequisite for forming a government or a state. There are political and economic circumstances involved. Thus, two nations who



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share the same race might oppose each other politically and economically. Two nations with different races, similarly, can be allies. It follows that, in carefully examining the above claim, we can see why it is wrong, even ridiculous.60

Arani even calls for the Iranian and Turkish nations to unite on the basis of the unity of their goals of progress and national independence. Arani at times tempered his anti-­Turkish rhetoric, calling for unity with the Turks as good neighbors within a Muslim nation: “As we previously pointed out, all Iranians, except for the Azerbaijani people, have a positive attitude toward Turks and consider them Muslim neighbors and coreligionists.”61 Arani noted that conflicts between Turks and Iranians furthered neither of their best interests, but would only permit outside enemies to take advantage: “Every patriotic Iranian and Turk should try to strengthen the ties of friendship between the two nations, to prevent foreigners from profitably abusing the situation.”62 He is even hopeful that the ideas expressed by Roshani are an isolated case, expressed by an outsider. Better-­established circles within Turkey should disagree: “If some ignorant people insist on calling a group of Iranians ‘Turks,’ they are acting against the policy of the Turkish government. It will lead to nothing but the creation of hate.”63 Arani’s anxieties about outsider perceptions of Iran’s ethnic fragmentation were rooted in his own family history. He had been born in Tabriz, the capital of Azerbaijan province, and as an Iranian of Azeri extraction he was troubled by Roshani’s claim that Iranian Azeris were Turks, and his corollary claim that territorial Iran ought to be identified with the Pars population (Persians). As an Azeri and as an Iranian nationalist, Arani regarded this thinking as an affront to his own sense of national identity. Moreover, participation in these debates, in his view, was not a matter of correcting ahistorical fact or clarifying definitional disagreements. It was a matter of defending the right of Azeris to stand alongside their compatriots as full-­ fledged Iranians: The Turkish nation has forgotten the lengthy strife that Iranians endured to help their Muslim neighbor, the youth sacrificed on this path. Now, instead of thanking them, they add insult to injury. They call the Iranians of Azerbaijan “Turks.” Do they not know that an Azerbaijani considers it an insult to be called a Turk?64

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For Arani, this question was not about semantics. Matters of national dignity and racial purity were at stake. Roshani’s attempt to make Turks of Iranian Azeris amounted, within this logic, to an erasure of the “Zoroastrian fire . . . visible in every corner of Iran, flowing in the blood of every pure Iranian.”65 Arani’s affection for Iran endured as his vision of the nation matured, evident in his writings in Donya and also in his trial, as we noted earlier. The problem, however, was that Arani failed to practice what he preached. His anti-­Turkish rhetoric left little room for reconciliation between the two nations or their people. However, this limited outlook underwent an important transformation a short time later. Arani’s new vision of Iranian nationalism embraced a balanced conception of Iranian national identity as related to Arabs, Turks, and the West. Arani devoted the final section of his essay to issues in state education, and it is here that he advanced suggestions for making Persian the unifying cultural domain for a new Iran: “And here, we should admit our own shortcomings in not having adequately spread and propagated our language and civilization. If we equivocate more, we will face further trouble.”66 He favored top-­down educational reform, particularly in areas of concentrated linguistic difference like Azerbaijan, which would introduce a cohesive and “compulsory” educational curriculum: “In my opinion, despite the probable impossibility of Culture Ministry enforcement of compulsory education on other parts of Iran, in Azerbaijan they should do so by any means necessary. This isn’t merely to spread culture in Iran, but also a crucial political necessity.”67 This was precisely what Reza Shah would subsequently do. By making Persian the official language of the country and establishing a central education system limited exclusively to Persian-­language instruction, Arani sought to achieve a second objective: curtailing the influence of Turkish and of alternative national affinities in contested areas of Iran like Azerbaijan: This explains why the good people of Iran should sacrifice and work hard to destroy the Turkish language in Azerbaijan, making the Persian language prevalent there. It is especially incumbent upon the Culture Ministry to send Persian-­language teachers to those parts of Azerbaijan. They should publish free and cheap books, publications, and newspapers there. The Azerbaijani youth should show devotion and commit themselves to not speaking the Turkish tongue, as far as possible, while letting every Iranian know the dire consequences of doing so.68



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Arani’s racial rhetoric belonged to a conventional discourse shared by many contemporary Iranian nationalists who racially disparaged Arabs and Turks in order to associate Iran with Europe. We must, however, concede that this race-­baiting iteration of Iranian nationalism was partly triggered by similar pan-­Turkish propaganda against Iranians. Ironically, even in its Iranian inversion, the Turkish language was portrayed just as Turkish nationalists saw it: as a major threat to Iranian national unity and identity.

4 For a Radical Cosmopolitan Iran

Iran in the 1930s In early 1929, after seven years in Berlin, Arani returned to Iran. He found work at Nezam High School in Tehran, teaching chemistry and physics, before relocating to the Ministry of War’s academy of military technology. In an interview, Bozorg Alavi reported that Arani had been appointed the director general of educational affairs in the Ministry of Industries.1 Arani, flush with the experience of writing and organizing in Berlin, returned to Iran prepared to spread his progressive program for shaping the country’s future. As before, his endeavors centered on the construction and dissemination of a modern and secular idea of Iran underpinned by a shared language. Arani now, however, expanded his program for reform to include a more sophisticated outlook on the significance of development to a modern nation. His later reflections and writings promoted three primary ideas. Arani regarded the promotion of scientific education among Iranians as fundamental to the broader project of cultural reform. He wrote on and sought to disseminate modern scientific thinking while introducing the public to the wonders of new scientific developments. Many essays and reports published in Donya concerned the modern sciences: “Atom va Bud-­e Chaharom (The Atom and the Fourth Dimension),”2 “Ajsam-­e Radioaktiv-­e Masnuʿi (Artificial Radioactive Elements),”3 “Farziyeh-­ye Nesbi (Theory of Relativity),”4 “Takamol-­e Mojudat-­e Zendeh (Evolution of Life Species).”5 In addition to educating Iranians in the sciences, Arani believed that a new, modern Iran would require placing the Persian language at its ideological center. He continued to theorize the possibilities of social cohesion



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through language, despite his conversion to Marxism, about which he wrote little. Some of his most important essays in Donya interpreted Persian language and culture as against the “traditionalists,” who opposed modernity in the name of religious values and preferred Arabic to Persian, and against the zealous modernists who were ready to accept European ways unconditionally. Arani pointed to traps lurking beneath certain antimodern ideas and cultural elements, such as mysticism or the idea of ʿelm-e hozuri ʿ (intuitive knowledge), which the like of Henry Corbin and Ahmad Fardid have defined as central to Iranian history. He perceived these ideas as having the potential to derail Iranian modernization, steering it from an embrace of reason and science to nativism and “reaction.” Arani also sensed the influence of European antimodernism on Iranian nativist intellectuals. These concerns prompted him to write a series of critiques of ʿerfan, or mystical thought, and he especially engaged Henri Bergson’s then popular philosophy of the existence of a realm of ineffable experience beyond scientific objectivity. To shed light on Arani’s conceptualization of the importance of three cultural mediums—­the Persian language (a secular and national vehicle), scientific and rational thinking (for the development of the modern state and civil society), and sociological materialism (a critical encounter with the past and embrace of the future)—­the pages of this book that follow will foreground his own articulation of them. In order to provide the reader with a sense—­rather than a second-­hand filtration—­of the creative power illuminating Arani’s analysis of these and other topics, this chapter quotes frequently from his writings in Donya. Not only is extensive quotation necessary to demonstrate the extent of Arani’s intellectual evolution away from the brash chauvinism of his university years, during which he responded to the derogation of Iran by Turkish nationalists with racial tropes of his own, but quoting from Donya serves a second, perhaps more important purpose: uncovering the analytical gems buried in Arani’s understudied archive. Although Arani is best remembered for founding Iran’s first Marxist journal, Donya is, oddly enough, among the least studied of his writings. By synthesizing the recurring themes Arani treated in Donya, this chapter illustrates the essential components of what we might call Iranian cosmopolitanism in Arani’s view. In the process, it stumbles across other curious oddities. Despite his unshaking conviction in scientific materialism, Arani expended considerable energy dissecting the role of language, something rather immaterial, in making a modern Iranian state. And despite his intellectual

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opposition to the Pahlavi state, Arani was pleased to see Reza Shah initiating the institutional transformation of Iran. By unpacking the archive of analysis that is Arani’s contributions to Donya, this chapter demonstrates that common characterizations of Arani as an ethnic or racial nationalist, an ideological Marxist, or even an opponent of Reza Shah’s rule all belie a more complex reality. Iran in the early 1930s was a colorful place that should not be confused with the Iran of that decade’s latter half, shrouded by the grey cloud of Reza Shah’s “one-­man rule.” The formation of a centralized state, commonly attributed to Reza Shah, was no one-­man process. Although Reza Shah steered the state as a strong military figure, other intellectuals and politicians—­ including Teymourtash, Davar, Hekmat, Forughi, and Taghizadeh—­played important roles in originating the ideas that underpinned legal reform, modern education, and the overall restructuring of the state. This historic interval also closely followed the constitutional period, such that many of Reza Shah’s allies, such as Teymourtash and Soleyman Mirza Eskandari, were well-­known constitutionalists. In the first decade of Reza Shah’s rule, between 1925 and 1934, a swell of constitutionalist, reformist, and modernist ideas brought intellectual and political vibrancy to Iran, and reformers like Davar, Teymourtash, Sadiq, and others spearheaded public discussions about the ideal configuration of a modern secular state. Reza Shah was happy to appropriate and implement elements of this reformist discourse conducive to state expansion, without treating their originators particularly kindly.

Donya Arani is best remembered for publishing Donya, Iran’s first Marxist magazine. Arani launched the monthly periodical with Bozorg Alavi and Iraj Eskandari in February 1934. Together, they published twelve issues in about two years, after which the government refused to renew the magazine’s printing license and subsequently banned it.6 There is also reason to believe that finances may have impinged upon its continued publication.7 The journal’s run, however short, along with the process of monthly writing and curating a collection of articles matured Arani intellectually and personally, and expanded the parameters of public discourse. It was no accident that Arani chose for the magazine’s name the word donya, or “world.”8 Contemporary Iranian publications opted for patriotic



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names like Vatan (Homeland), Sharqi (Eastern), and Iran in a full-­throated expression of their founders’ nationalism. With Donya, however, Arani hoped to transcend the nationalist conventions of Iranian journalism to advance a cosmopolitan vision of Iran inclusive of both the local and the global. The word donya, which in Persian, according to the lexicographer Dekhoda, refers to “the material world,” “being in the world,” and “worldly existence,” and which in Arabic means “this world,” or the “material” world, thus embodied the core of Arani’s cosmopolitanism. In The Alchemy of Happiness, the Persian philosopher al-­Ghazali used “donya” to refer to all matters of human life outside of the faith (din). For Arani, Donya thus projected a materialist, secular, and cosmopolitan mode of thinking. All the issues produced during its eighteen-­ month run amplified this materialist and cosmopolitan vision of Iran’s future. There is no reliable evidence for Donya’s circulation. Arani, Alavi, and Eskandari stated that its readership mostly consisted of intellectuals and students. There is evidence that high school students were excited about Donya and posted news of its publication in school buildings.9 In the original letter submitted to the government requesting a license to publish the journal, Arani proposed printing one thousand copies of each copy of Donya.10 But Iraj Eskandari later suggested that the circulation was around two hundred. It is impossible to ascertain where the actual circulation of Donya fell within this range. In the inaugural issue, Arani clarified that the journal would cover important contemporary issues, national and global, through a social and scientific optic: Donya will feature a systematic series of scientific, industrial, social, economic, and artistic articles. It aims to seriously familiarize the reader’s mind with the progress taking place in contemporary human civilization. The journal aspires to show this civilization’s continuity and evolution.11

Donya thus laid bare its aim of promoting secular, modern, and sociological thinking to its readers. Despite the centrality of Marxist materialism to Arani’s thinking, the language and discourse he deployed in Donya endeavored to introduce not Marxism outright, but the principles of scientific materialism and cosmopolitanism to its readers. The specific substance of Arani’s cosmopolitanism as presented in the pages of Donya, however, requires a more precise investigation.

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Radical Cosmopolitanism In the opening editorial to the inaugural issue of Donya, Arani, in clear and forthright fashion, articulated the journal’s progressive mission. For him and his colleagues, progressive analysis required situating Iran in an ongoing global movement for cosmopolitan transformation fashioned in the historical interaction between Iranian and global cultures. According to that view, progressives in Iran should not limit their analyses or actions to the national sphere, since conditions in Iran were linked to those that existed globally. This historical interconnection demanded of activists an ongoing exchange of ideas and political experiences with their global counterparts. This vision of progress through coordinated global interaction underpinned Arani’s ideal of Iranian cosmopolitanism, and was worked out in the pages of Donya. While reporting on scientific innovations, it critically covered international and domestic politics and culture: Arani and his colleagues were crafty and astute in introducing progressive and forward-­looking scientific, philosophical, and social ideas in unpretentiously accessible language. They succeeded in accomplishing this against the backward and closed conditions of their time. This was the era where political tyranny was choking everyone, and journals such as Vahid and Armaghan made any healthy person cough. Even the elementary school students were drawn to these ideas.12

In addition to outlining Donya’s progressive mission, the magazine’s first editorial, written by a thirty-­year-­old Arani, articulated his view of a modern and cosmopolitan Iran. This editorial and other writings in Donya’s first issues represent the beginning of his more mature thinking on Iranian modernity, its place in history, and its relations to the modern West. Sparks of originality illuminate this piece. Yet it would still take Arani some time to overcome his tendency toward mechanical materialist analysis as the rigors of publishing and writing pushed him to develop his ideas with more sophistication. An editorial penned for the sixth issue of Donya captures some of the steps Arani had taken toward intellectual maturation. His thinking in this issue, a special edition celebrating the journal’s six-­month anniversary, is more balanced and his analysis more thorough, if still radical and staunchly



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modernist. Despite major changes in Arani’s intellectual outlook since his arrival in Berlin in 1922 until his arrest in 1937, a familiar set of themes consistently commanded his attention. These included the vital role of the Persian language, Iran’s relations with the Islamic world and the West, its place within a global process of social change, and the critique of traditionalism. In his editorial for the sixth issue, having critiqued both the traditionalists who execrated the West and those who advocated for total submission to it, Arani proposed a materialist understanding of the West and Iran’s historically necessary relationship to it. The West was not a “completed whole” to be “imported,” but one part of a universal process of dynamic change. It was ensnared in a spiral of contradictions from which change emerged. For Arani, no individual or nation existed outside this dialectic of contradiction and change, and participation in it constituted the core of experiencing modernity. He encouraged Iranians not to resist but to participate fully in a dialogic culture of reason and in a universal process of change, which was dynamized with each scientific and technological advance. While Arani admitted the advantages of Westerners’ quality of life and freedom, recognition of this did not necessitate mimicry of Western culture. In his view this reactionary ideology, underpinning the old order, undermined the aim of building a progressive and modern Iran. The adaptation of certain elements of European modernity—­that is, the technological and scientific—­was thus for Arani not a matter of debate, but a necessity issued by the supranational dialectics of history. For him, social change in Iran, as elsewhere, was the product of a process of world development. Iranians could choose to resist this reality futilely, or they could influence its outcomes by choosing to march along the path to progress and the good life as active participants in this global movement: “The world, including Iran, of which it is a part, is in a state of permanent change and civilizational evolution. In this journey of progress, Iran follows Europe (and the US). This itself is a historical necessity. It must be, and it is.” 13 Arani reckoned that to welcome and reap the benefits of global social change, Iranians had to be open to new ways of life. They had to fear neither new ideas nor social and cultural change. For him, change, not stasis, was the fundamental dynamic of human history. Though somewhat deterministic in his thinking, Arani regarded modernity as a material and creative project. If it were achieved, it would not only herald heightened material well-­being for Iranians, but also usher in a superior ethical and cultural society. He

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believed this was Iran’s unescapable destiny, and saw futility in attempts to defy the natural course of history: Concerts of such figures as Beethoven; the perfume of Coty, Inc.; the scientific greenhouses; books like those of [Erich Maria] Remarque; the Latin script and the typewriter; new sciences and theories such as relativity; the principles of dialectics; and finally the automobile, radio, airplanes, and the like will enter this land, to drive all the traditionalists’ sanctities behind museum displays.14

Arani was aware of the widespread resistance to cultural modernization in Iran. Even those who welcomed economic modernization in Iran were wont to reject it. Arani’s later writings never underestimated the power of those forces opposed to the realization of a modern Iran. In fact, his understanding of antimodernism was more sophisticated than that of many other Iranian intellectuals. Ahmad Kasravi, for instance, also desired to reform Iran, but sought to superimpose hastily and uncritically Western ideas upon Iranian identity. Arani grasped that no nation could cherry-­pick from the garden of modernity, as Kasravi desired, as if it were a boutique of ideas and values. Rather than force these ideas upon Iranians, the pages of Donya sought to cultivate a less guarded view of Iran’s relation to the West by introducing readers to literary and scientific works germinating there alongside a radical critique of antimodern conservatives: On the other hand, another group advocates a revival of ancient religions. Another group pleads for the Persian of the current masters to be kept and preserved just the way it is. Some others claim that, because science ended with Molla Sadra, it should therefore go not a step further; to do so is ignorance and heresy.15

At times, Arani resorted to unrefined generalizations and simplistic arguments. However, he was careful to reflect on his conceptualization of modernity and progressive politics, allying himself with all those who sought to realize social change in Iran. We see little if any of the sectarian dogmatism or ideological rhetoric that became a feature of certain Marxist intellectuals later in Iranian political history. Arani’s definition of modernity also did not hinge upon categorically championing the modern West. Rather than invoke nostalgia for some imagined past or reference



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some ready-­made modernity, Arani offered his reader a measured argument for how universal change was localized: “We often see our youth unable to quench their curiosity with either the words of the old masters or the banalities of pretenders to modernity; they are thus left confused. The historical role of our magazine, Donya, is to guide this youth to the true path of evolution.”16 Arani conceived of the West through a complicated optic that imagined it as one of many parts in a global yet unrealized movement for social progress. For him, the path that modern Europe was taking was epoch-­making. It was, however, not a historical endpoint but a process still in the making, one which modern Western societies were also struggling to achieve and which Iranians should help realize: “European civilization itself is grappling with crisis and contradictions. The materialist principle in Europe aims to give harmony to sciences, industries, societies, and arts. It is only natural that this dynamic thought process, like other fruits of European civilization, will also enter Iran.”17 In his later writings, Arani criticized trivial and frivolous imitations of the West and remained attentive to the hazards of antimodernism, no matter its source. His critiques of traditionalism, though relentless, were in fact among his most measured writings. On this subject he was contemptuous of neither Iran’s history nor its culture. He did not dismiss tradition as hollow, nor did he suggest discarding cultural and moral norms outright. He was critical primarily of those who, in the name of “Iranian tradition,” whether religious or cultural, rejected the need to create a modern state. His radicalism targeted not culture, but cultural conservatives. Arani was acutely aware of the popular saliency of language and literature, and he proposed adapting them to the conditions of the contemporary world. This gesture was also defensive, since he recognized that the power of conservative traditionalists rested in their appropriation of culture and history in service of antimodernity. Arani’s writings on Henri Bergson and ʿerfan are important for precisely this reason: A load of opium addicts or worshipers of the old and dead might cry that they want nothing to do with European civilization. “We want to go back in time,” they say. “The old civilizations of India and Iran were the highest possible civilizations,” they say. They long after the song of the nightingale, the smell of the flower, the water of Roknabad and Saʿdi’s Rose Garden, the nastaʿliq script of Avicenna’s Book of Healing, traveling by caravan, etc. They

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regard all these precious experiences as superior to all civilization. Yet [their desires] don’t matter.18

It was in light of this rising reactionary trend that Arani reminded Donya’s readers that the journal’s aim was to affect change by correcting common misconceptions, promoting new modes of action, and decentering the ways of those who preferred stasis to change. Arani recognized that a break from past patterns of thought and analysis required a change not just in the content of ideas, but in their form as well. He called this the dialectics of social change: It follows that Donya won’t feature longwinded articles about the conquest of Joshaqan, the lovemaking of Joseph and Zulaykha, new research about the aunt of Abu al-­Muzzafar ʿAbd al-­Jabbar, [Alphonse de] Lamartine, the rich words of Gustave Le Bon, or the begging games of tasteless poets of flattery and the like. The pages of Donya do not belong to the pen battles of Heydari and Nemati factions, who settle scores with one another.19

Arani’s notion of “form” and “content” presented an immanent view of dialectics. He suggested that modernizing countries need not undergo a violent and permanent rupture with their so-­called traditional past. Instead, the process of modernization would negate some elements of tradition, retain others, and remold them through transitional dynamics, transforming tradition into something new yet contiguous with the past. This is distinct from the concept of modernization as a cultural rupture and rebirth, requiring something new to fill a vacuum where the old once stood. As a radical cosmopolitan, Arani cared for Iranian history and culture. He also considered himself a scientist, had spent eight years in the highly cosmopolitan cultural center of Berlin, and of course was a Marxist. He understood that social change and the making of modern Iran were incompatible with an insistence on preserving the past. He suggested that one could not desire change and new possibilities while adhering to rigid cultural conservatism. For Arani, it was not sufficient to welcome the introduction of new technology and sciences but at the same time refuse to accept change in cultural facets of the society: In language, writing style, and orthography, this magazine is not bound by any conservative principles. It will use European and Arabic words when



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necessary, while avoiding becoming Europeanized and Westernized. It will attempt to write in as simple and ordinary a style as possible. Donya aims to write so that the broad masses find the magazine accessible.20

Arani believed that for those aspiring to create a modern and progressive Iran, national culture and traditions were potential resources for critiquing and creating contemporary experiences. Donya’s pages are the best example of Arani’s approach to modernizing Iran. The journal paid substantial attention to world affairs, advances in science, technology, and the arts, and invited Iranians to view themselves within an ongoing global process while critically reinterpreting Iranian history and culture.

Donya’s Reception Arani’s editorial for the sixth issue of Donya not only articulated the journal’s principal aims but also auto-­analyzed its reception in terms of the sociology of 1930s Iran. The editorial was written after Arani and his colleagues had assessed readerly reactions to Donya and critiqued the journal’s conservative opponents, including cultural traditionalists (including the emergent Pahlavi nationalists) and secular nationalist Persian revivalists. For Arani, the traditionalists had appointed themselves the guardians of Iranian tradition. Some affiliated themselves with Islam and Sufism, while secular camps sought to revive tradition by returning to Iran’s Zoroastrian heritage. Arani charged both religious and secular traditionalists with rejecting the inevitability of cultural change, citing their hostility to introducing foreign ideas into Iran. Arani distinguished between “traditionalists,” enemies of progressive change whom he uncompromisingly criticized, and the wider world of Iranian traditions. Rather than regarding tradition as a discourse of counter-­Enlightenment, he equitably assessed its symbolic and syncretic significance. Yet an Iranian counter-­Enlightenment movement would gain popular and elite currency in the 1960s and 1970s and be welcomed by many secular and left intellectuals. With striking foresight, Arani anticipated that harmful ideological development. In the opening sentences of his editorial, Arani reiterated the fundamental mission of Donya, emphasizing a global vision for Iran: In the process of civilizational evolution, humanity has reached the stage of aspiring to organize society based on materialist and logical principles. Donya magazine represents the definite and necessary entry of this modern

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thought into the community of Persian speakers. Donya’s goal is to interpret and explain scientific, industrial, philosophical, social, and artistic questions from a materialist standpoint.21

He focused next on explaining the reception—­or lack thereof—­of Donya after six months of publication, and offering a sociological analysis of Iran’s class structure, distinct segments of which occupied different points on the spectrum of possible receptions, all while affirming Donya’s potential for impacting social change in Iran. The editorial thus provides a vista onto Arani and his colleagues’ understanding of Iran’s social and cultural reality. Arani reminded readers that “Iranian society should be viewed primarily as a peasant nation, which harbors tiny beginnings of industry. This can be both theoretically predicted and practically observed.”22 The editorial then mapped the class structure of Iran: “We can approximately divide the ten million who form this nation into the following classes: Six million peasants (and nomads), who form the principal mass of the people. Two million middle-­layer urban dwellers (shop owners, guildsmen, employees, merchants). One million wealthy urban dwellers. One million laborers (workers in construction and textiles, and a number in factories and mines).”23 Arani’s view of Iranian peasants followed the conventional Marxist view of the time.24 Marx himself had written about peasants’ inability to enact revolutionary change within capitalist relations of production, and Arani was in full agreement. In Arani’s view, peasants, geographically isolated and limited to a local political consciousness, lacked the capacities needed to exercise significant influence over national social change: The six million peasants are dispersed across the vast Iranian lands, physically distant from one another, mostly poor, illiterate, and yoked by prejudice and superstition. They farm with very simple tools, while spending their annual produce on land, seeds, water, cattle and labor (the peasant himself ).25

Arani considered Iranian peasants “reactionary and almost politically hopeless, . . . influenced by natural and social miseries, . . . generally cowardly, subservient, prejudiced, deceitful and deprived of the privileges of contemporary human civilization.”26 This poverty was mirrored in their cultural life:



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In the village, one finds virtually no books. In the arts, there is only the shepherd’s neylabak [pipe], and basic passion plays of taʾziyeh. The mullah is the only literate man in the village. The press, including Donya, is nonexistent to the masses. 27

Arani’s portrayal of the Iranian peasantry exemplifies his occasional analytical superficiality, resorting to prefabricated Marxist images rather than observing the genuine unfolding of events. During this same period, Iran had experienced the Constitutional Revolution, and several revolutionary movements in northern Iran (e.g., the Jangali movement), Khorasan and tribal revolts had subsequently erupted. Arani remained almost silent on these events even as he discussed class in Iran. Surely they spoke to Iranian peasants’ capacity for revolt, for their participation was crucial in shaping them and other nation-­making patterns.28 One explanation for Arani’s dismissive view of the Iranian peasantry’s political power and cultural acumen is his focus on potential Donya readers. There were no potential readers in the peasantry. Arani explained that even among the urban classes, “from the four million city dwellers, almost two million are literate (all of the wealthy class and a million of the middle class).”29 He further elaborated: “The other two million urbanites (shop owners, guildsmen, and also urban laborers and factory workers) are illiterate, thus paying no attention to the press.”30 Arani nevertheless proposed an interesting explanation for the contemporary Iranian cultural condition: “Of the two million literate urbanites, many are prejudiced, while the intellectuals are often ancient-­worshippers.”31 Here he offered an insightful analysis of ideologies permeating Iranian society, which explained their popularity in social and material terms: The material basis for the first group’s prejudice is their social position. Prejudice and worship of the ancient means a love for inertia, stability and proof of eternal self-­righteousness. When the fortunate one is worried that life may remove this accidental blessing, he will be forced to endure these reactionary thoughts. The fortunate one does not himself know the reason. The mullah believes science won’t progress, because all contemporary discoveries in fact derive from the old times. This is because belief in the new sciences will destroy the medieval science of speechifying. This is the basis of his livelihood.32

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Donya’s Antagonists Donya quickly garnered its detractors, and Arani explained his conservative opponents’ hostilities as an anxious rejection of new ways of thinking that would endanger their cultural values and mental habits. In Arani’s view, his adversaries offered little valuable criticism, but only a crass game of insults meant to discredit Donya’s message. Despite the frivolity of their criticisms, he argued, “Still, it is helpful to become familiar with the mode of thought of these reactionaries. One of their members said of us: ‘al-­dunya juthah wa talibuha [kullab]’ [The world is a corpse and those who are after it, a bunch of dogs].”33 He quipped to his readers: “We see that among the weapons of this class is to swear in Arabic.”34 Elsewhere, Arani referenced another insult to Donya while critiquing one detractor’s reference to an iconic figure in Persian classical literature: One opponent said that, when he read the name of a Donya writer, he noticed that—­upon removing a letter—­the name becomes that of an animal. Elsewhere, he realized that, if you remove a letter from the word sim (wire in Persian) you are left with sam (poison). He therefore knew that the writer was evil, with harmful things to say. Obviously, “nominalism” and playing with words is a fundamental method of reasoning for these reactionaries.35

Arani openly confronted the traditionalists, their ideas, and their icons. He pointed out the outmoded references and reactions they offered in the wake of intellectual disagreement: One of their masters, Naser Khosrow, frequently uses similar reasoning in Vajh-­e Din [The Face of Religion]; For example, he says that there are seven imams [as an Ismaili, Khosrow believed in seven imams] because there are seven openings in the human body. Another of this crew seriously seeks to harm the material means of Donya’s survival. After using the logical methods of analogy, induction and parable, they resort to their fourth method of reasoning, i.e. using brute force. It should be obvious that none of these tools will stop the progress of human society, or the influence and spread of materialist thought.36

Having clarified the sociological factors rendering Donya’s reception among the peasant masses impossible, Arani next explained why certain



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Iranian intellectuals opposed its contents and attempts at societal change. Their resistance, Arani claimed, boiled down to a material interest in preserving the current state of Iranian affairs: “Those whose illegitimate capital is to be destroyed by the progress of science and society will definitely oppose change and progress. . . .”37 Arani argued that the urban “educated” class in Iran were so duty-­bound to the status quo that a “thousand social chains wrapped around their minds.”38 The antimodernists then did not passively refuse to participate in change; they actively combated it. Their promotion of ideas based on a mythologized past made them hostile to the possibility of a new future: This class is distinguished by worship without reasoning, whether they are worshipping an idol, a spirit, a race, or anything else. Their current material power is enormous. Sometimes they also show signs of social activity. Some gather on a weekly or monthly basis. But what do they do, and what do they say? Lamenting the past, speaking of their deep pride in the past, and the vague standards of the olden days. They might be originally Turkish, Jewish, Arab or a mix of thousands of races due to the storms of history. Yet they consider the honors of the Aryan race as their own, while boasting about it.39

Arani, who had himself earlier been an avid Persian nationalist, now challenged ethnic nationalism and the selective glorification of the Aryan race as reactionary. He called this myth an impediment to progressive social change. He was particularly concerned with the consequences of luring a younger generation of Iranians into the stultifying revival of an imagined ancient Iran: “Their gatherings are akin to rituals. These gatherings are remote from any meaningful social action and are wholly harmful for the youth of our society. . . . One of Donya’s tasks is to warn the youth against falling into such traps.”40 The traditionalists’ negative reaction to Donya, Arani concluded, was little more than a defensive outburst: “Clearly Donya magazine, with its powerful logic and cutting intellect, hits these people like a lightning bolt.”41 For Arani, Iran’s youth were latent agents for change and “natural” readers and enthusiasts of Donya. The editorial gave forward-­looking advice to them: Our youth should know that genius, no matter how skilled, is the result and fruit of an environment. They might be able to predict the changes of

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the next few hundred years. Yet if a society has lived with the teachings of a certain genius for a thousand years, it has thereby been sunk in inertia for a thousand years, deprived of human progress for that entire time. Its people have fallen to the civilization of a thousand years ago.”42

Arani published a handful of positive commentaries received from readers to evidence the magazine’s positive, if limited, reception among a class of younger Iranians, bereft of the privilege that came with defending the status quo. One reader supposedly claimed, “I’ve hardly seen a more powerful reflection than this anywhere in the Persian press. This boldly stated article has shaken the basis of my beliefs, so I am convinced it has similarly effected hundreds of young people.”43 Another letter welcomed the new progressive ideas published in Donya: “Iran needs publications presenting beliefs like that of Donya. We are tired of reading marginal articles on scattered parts of history or unknown poets. We read so many cheap words on morality, human emotion, humanity, sensations, and the like in newspapers, books, and even theaters that we want to throw up.”44 For Arani, such comments affirmed the journal’s mission of disseminating an alternative future for Iran: “Your publication is like a breath of free-­flowing, fresh and exciting air that has flown into the dead of a tired night. It brings one to life. If we are to see an end to the sort of writings that I mentioned above, we need more publications like your magazine. . . .”Another reader opened his correspondence with Donya thus: The human is a philosophical and social animal—­i.e., he thinks and lives in society. The more an individual connects his personal life to his general beliefs, the more perfect he is. Showing no interest in general ideas is to come down to an animal level. 45

The editorial also reported the following letter by an Iranian intellectual: “. . . It would be a source of hope if this substantial, diverse, modest, and impartial magazine were able to continue its life.” 46 The dialogic dynamic envisioned by Donya sought to reconstitute social groups in Iranian society. For Arani, one way of doing so was by encouraging and expanding women’s education: “Young literate women have also expressed interest in Donya magazine. We consider this group, too, to be deserving intellectuals. We will explain the role of this important class in special articles.”47 Another reader wrote, “I read the first sentence of the



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editorial several times over because it so attracted me. . . .” 48 These reports likely bolstered Arani’s belief in the distinctive and beneficial role the intellectual class might play in influencing society, a notion he elaborated elsewhere in his materialist analysis of Iran’s class structure.

Class, Agency, and Intellectuals Continuing his analysis of Iranian classes, Arani argued that Iranian workers, laboring as they did in a predominantly peasant nation, were an untenable vehicle for revolutionary change. Iran’s supposed deviation from a Marxist scheme of class struggle provoked him to contemplate the role of the urban educated class and intellectuals in driving social change. Having undertaken an analysis of the modern intellectual in societies structurally distinct from Western capitalist ones, he concluded that the intellectual’s social role was not reducible to simple class interest. Intellectual production, with its critical posture and requirements of self-­awareness and at least a modicum of impartiality, was somewhat autonomous from state interests, and this instilled in the intellectual a revolutionary potential to educate the masses. While Arani, who had outlined intellectual tendencies common to 1930s Iran, saw that some intellectuals wrote in reactionary defense of the status quo, he maintained that other segments of the intellectual class could encourage progressive change in Iran: “Through this class of leader-­ intellectuals, the historical development of a society of civilized nations is bound to impact the growth of Iranian society. This is how Donya magazine is leading the thought of an increasing mass of people; and one day it will become generalized. “49Although Arani highlighted the sway that material interests had on the adoption of political and ethical positions in his assessments of dominant intellectual trends, he also recognized the significance of noneconomic factors to that process, especially that of education on intellectual orientations. In analyzing the political function of intellectuals, Arani accentuated not their middle-­class origins, but differential access to education as the source of their power to affect change: “. . . This class consists of people whose field of vision has expanded due to literacy, studies and schooling, accessible to them due to their special social position (mostly middle-­class).”50 While access to education distinguished and privileged intellectuals from most other Iranians, education did not produce a single ideological outcome. Arani warned that education offered only a path to becoming agents of positive social change, and that “a relatively high number

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of these intellectuals are corrupt.”51 In other words, for Arani, a vital element of intellectuals’ agency was their worldview. “Corrupt” intellectuals (i.e., the extreme nationalists of Reza Shah’s time) played, for Arani, a part parallel to that of timeworn “court intellectuals,” dressed now in secular disguise: “The corrupt intellectuals are the new generation of the same old prejudiced and ancient-­worshipping masses.”52 “Corrupted” by an “ancient-­worshipping” set of dogmas and their political backers, they resisted progressive ideas. This class of intellectuals was dominant in Iran in the 1930s, and many had befriended and mentored Arani during his stay in Berlin. Arani, however, was a different person by now. Instead of his earlier defense of Iranian and Aryan identity, he aspired to promote a progressive program of reform. His enmity for the “new intellectuals” was rooted precisely in a rejection of their resentment for social change: The new generation sees the innovative progress of the world and is attracted to it, but, the family environment, influenced by class and social interests, draws them back. Because this material action stops the new generation from adopting a precise scientific ideology for progress, they reach an intellectual and moral dead-­end.53

Despite their numbers, Arani explained that corrupt intellectuals, “devoid of moral or social power,” were in fact unable to foster social change.54 Corrupt and ancient-­worshiper intellectuals are ethically compromised: “Insecurity, lacking intellectual independence, lying, cheating, flattery, adulation, worshiping the self and money, and aimlessness are the main features of this group of intellectuals.”55 With no ethics or political commitments to guide them, Arani claimed, the members of this intellectual class occupied themselves with ineffectual mimicry: Their moral demeanor is so low that they merely follow the lead of others without having any effect on society. If they’ve started something, it has led to gambling houses and the like. All they do is pretension and showing off. Their knowledge, writings, and what they consider to be reform actions lack any roots or foundations. They are therefore without any genuine interest or sacrifice and condemned to failure.56



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Arani conceded the possibility that some of these intellectuals might accept certain of Donya’s ideas, but that would only reflect their ideological incoherence: “This motley band has no stable or reasoned opposition to Donya. They lack intellectual resources to withstand the logical reflections of Donya. Because they follow the trend of the day, based on whichever way the wind is blowing, they sometimes agree or disagree with our ideas. The agreement or disagreement of this band has no social value for us.”57 Arani regarded these imitators as unworthy partners in a movement spearheaded by intellectuals committed to radical change. His dismissal of reactionary intellectuals notwithstanding, Arani presented a positive portrayal of the Iranian intellectual class: “Donya, however, considers the remaining world of Iranian intellectuals to be an important group. These people are yet to be corrupted, and, based on their social position, contain progress and conflict. Donya magazine has a strong relation to this class, while they in turn are importantly linked to Donya magazine.”58 Arani was open to criticism from uncorrupted intellectuals, taking their reading of Donya seriously: This group has been heavily influenced by Donya. This class considers the publication of Donya as a factor in the progress of their thought and has followed it with utmost excitement. A section of this class has also spoken against us in the daily press on debatable matters. This opposition was largely free of vulgarities, being based on arguments, which is why we value it. We are convinced that a close and regular reading of an entire year of Donya’s publication will address their objections.”59

Arani considered intellectuals a vanguard for change capable of easing Iran into modernity: “The social role of uncorrupted intellectuals, which we call leader-­intellectuals, is to increase the degree and level of Iranian civilization, transferring the privileges of European civilization to Iran.”60 Arani, however, left unexplained what he meant by the European path. We do know that he was critical of intellectuals, such as Hasan Taghizadeh, who endorsed the wholesale imitation of European life. From fragmented comments, Arani’s references to Europe take it to represent a model of modern and secular governance, separate from a European way of life. Arani envisioned a future in which Iran did not submit to an international system, but participated in making it.

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Arani presented a history of native struggles for secular modernity in colonial and semicolonial contexts. A careful analysis of Iranian and other Asian and African intellectuals’ arguments for secularism is unfortunately lacking in existing scholarship, since it has become fashionable to dismiss such figures as West-­struck, in favor of valorizing the indigenous. Arani asserted that forging a cosmopolitan modernity would be a formidable challenge: “The leader-­intellectuals will clearly face difficult obstacles in realizing their ideas, yet because of three important distinguishing qualities, they will ultimately be successful in their aims.”61 Arani described the three “distinguishing qualities” of leader-­intellectuals as talent and intelligence, honesty and sincerity, and courage to act. Interestingly, in Arani’s view, intelligence and ethics are the supreme features of revolutionary intellectuals.62 A critical humanist sensibility pervaded Arani’s leftism. He depicted a certain portion of middle-­class Iranians as “humanists” who, desiring a good and ethical life for everyone, had because of their class interests succumbed to a limited horizon. Since they vainly wished to soften societal ills with good will, Arani excluded them from the category of revolutionary: Next to the ancient worshippers, there is a small group of literate guildsmen and shop owners. These, based on their material and social conditions, have ideas resembling theosophy, humanism, etc. They see the problems, but, since their material conditions stop them from adopting the correct path to a more perfect society, they vainly wish for all people to become brothers. They wish that all unemployed might be given jobs, for war to be abolished, etc. These weak nonpractical trends will remain insignificant in Iran, as they’ve remained elsewhere in the world.63

Arani’s socioeconomic analysis of society led him to the recognition that, though intellectuals might instigate modernization, various social classes must be involved in its implementation and realization: “But the leadership role of this group is also temporary, because, as we have seen, history is forcibly driving the peasants to the city, decreasing the gap between the village and the city. Literacy is infiltrating the large masses, who are illiterate today.”64 Arani recognized that restructuring society required both intellectual and manual labor. Certain groups were in the privileged position of being



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able to analyze the historically received structure of society from a distance. This perspective enabled them to imagine how society might be remodeled to favor equality. Social change, however, could not be imposed by intellectuals adopting the guise of autocrats. To be successful, it required mass participation. Arani’s Donya was an instance of collective activism which recognized intellectualization and mobilization as interlinked educational processes pervading society.

5 The Persian Language, Past and Present They want to eliminate Saʿdi and others who have written in a mixed Persian from history. Golestan is not a book of literature and has no value for Persian, they say. The idiocy of this claim is not less than those of their fascist comrades. When Donya spoke of progress, it is true that we negated the literature of the past, but this is a dialectal negation, as explained in the article “Dialectical Materialism.” We don’t eradicate the literature and history of the past. We negate them. This means that we destroy them and incorporate them in a more perfect state. The ancient worshippers didn’t understand what we meant by this and there was much ado about us wanting to destroy national monuments. Taghi Arani, Donya, 19351

The most noteworthy of Arani’s writings is arguably his 1935 essay “Changing the Persian Language,” fittingly published in the final issue of Donya.2 In it, Arani refined and restated ideas and themes that had preoccupied him since the inception of his intellectual career. This essay marked the integration of his ideas into a more developed framework for cosmopolitan Iran. It centered a dialectical analysis of the dynamics of modernization and their transformation of culture. The capacity for integration characteristic of Arani’s perspective outdid his contemporaries, who, like him, recognized the significance of the Persian language but rejected its “corruption” by Arabic. While retaining his opponents’ recognition of Persian’s significance to national culture, Arani perceived its viability for uniting Iranians through everyday interactions inclusive of Iran’s diverse whole. Arani’s vision expanded the Iranian intellectual and cultural vista on these matters in the 1930s. Arani’s argument hinged on understanding the materially rooted relationship between cultural production in Persian and everyday life in contemporary Iran. For Arani, in the Iranian case, the cultural space defining the national imaginary was the Persian language. The centrality of Persian had endured even after waves of Arab and Turkic conquests, when language



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was a vehicle for negotiating Arab and Islamic culture. This was equally the case in contemporary Iran, with the rise of modern nationalist movements clamoring for ancient revivalism and Persian purification. Arani brought together a cosmopolitan outlook and appreciation for culture’s dynamism into a dialectical analysis focused on understanding historical mutations in the Persian language. Because the formation and predicaments of Iranian national identity often hinged on those mutations, Arani argued that a future Iranian cosmopolitanism must critically analyze the past, with a progressive attitude toward the Persian language in its present situation. Arani’s ideas about the West, Islam, and modernity were more complex than many of the assertions made and convictions harbored by his contemporaries. Despite his sometimes unquestioning faith in scientific materialism, Arani ingeniously explained the critical relevance of the Persian language to the existing power relations that textured social life at both elite and popular everyday levels. His historical analysis of the Persian language as a site of everyday practice and struggle distinguished his urgent and radical conception of cosmopolitanism. In this aspect of Arani’s thought, Persian is a cultural system in the Geertzian sense. It is also, meanwhile, a material translation of the modern Iranian imaginary.

Self-­Critique We know that Arani’s earlier nationalist outlook was not immune from dogma, as his Berlin essays, in which he sometimes elevated Iranian identity at the expense of others, demonstrate. Even after his exposure to Marxism tempered some of his more essentializing and chauvinistic views, Arani retained a strong belief in secularism and European social-­scientific knowledge. No matter the cause, his materialism was moderated by his understanding of culture, language, and identity as outcomes of the same dialectical historical process. Arani, reflecting on the dominant intellectual currents of his time, critiqued not only the ideologues of radical nationalism, but the dogmatism of his own youth: I, myself, based on my age and limits of my knowledge, followed this movement, as can be seen from the articles I wrote for Iranshahr and Farangestan magazines. I corresponded with my friends in the Special Persian language. I have kept those letters as souvenirs of my younger years.3

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By the time he started publishing Donya, Arani clearly considered himself a changed thinker, for he recognized racial nationalism to be harmful. These earlier reflections, he argued, did not exemplify the thinking of a serious-­ minded person.4 But for Arani, his affiliation with the radical nationalists and his firsthand knowledge of their efforts to cleanse the Persian language of Arabic words was also a blessing in disguise. It furnished him with an insider view of all that was wrong with the purification movement. Arani’s self-­criticism was an extension of his commitment to dialectical analysis: He first apprehended the radical nationalists through personal memory, then transcended it to reach higher intellectual ground. He forcefully made the case that efforts to revive a fictive ancient Iranian culture and language would necessarily be counterproductive. Arani carefully differentiated between multiple modes of nationalist thought, and assessed the relative merits of each. He made an axial distinction between two approaches to displaying affection for one’s nation. Nationalist sentiment may be rooted in a real and material (in jahani) appreciation for the nation, its people, and culture. This inclusivist mode, while committed to care for the nation, was reconcilable to a cosmopolitan ethics. There was, however, another, narrower mode of nation worship. This exclusivist nationalism was fearful of or even antagonistic to other cultures and nations, consumed with reverence for one’s own nation, and it treated the past as a normative model for the nation’s future. The first notion of nationalism was materialist insofar as it explained humans’ affinity for their proximate environment as a result of the nourishment they derived from the collective relationship and efforts of their community—­experiences that encompassed everyday traditions from food to festivals. Arani’s conceptualization of material nationalism provided a plausible explanation for people’s spontaneous desire to protect their homes from invasion. Arani identified the exclusivist view with ideological chauvinism, an indoctrinated dogma he sharply rejected: Chauvinism cannot be translated as vatanparasti [patriotism]. Material patriotism, under specific conditions and in specific cases, is in total agreement with Donya’s approach. That is when a people’s livelihood is based on a land’s territory, water, sun, and mines. When people live in that said land, they harbor material affection for it.5

Arani was mindful of the fact that, in the wake of imperial schemes to dominate Iran, patriotism was not devoid of the possibility to be a legitimate



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and positive force. Resistance to foreign domination expressed what Arani called real and material affection for the well-­being of Iran: “If the foreigners want to forcefully take the products of this land, which is the result of the efforts of its people, patriots will fight the foreigners. This affection is material patriotism—­i.e., genuine patriotism.”6 Arani’s critique of nativist nationalism bore the imprint of his social-­ scientific and materialist outlook. In these terms, he analyzed the factors that motivated those who had participated in reforming the Persian language since the late nineteenth century. He argued that two different rationales underlay the desire to reform Persian: “The variegated movement to change the Persian language has two contradictory causes. We shouldn’t confuse them: (1) the chauvinistic movement, and (2) the movement to translate the science of Western nations to Persian.”7 Arani situated both impulses in their historical context and offered in place of an ideological account of language development and reform a more concretely pragmatic one. Linguistic mutations occurred, he explained, in response to material changes to people’s lived environment. Forcibly altering language to elevate the nation’s cultural integrity, it thus followed, was pure folly. To evidence his scheme, Arani offered the following historical example: The first post-­Arab movement in the Persian language was during the Saffarids when Muhammad ibn Wasif was forced to write Persian poetry for Yaʿqub al-­Layth (despite the number of Arabic words mixed into his poetry). The material cause behind this movement will be immediately clear to a logical mind. Yaqub had risen in revolt in practice—­i.e., with sword in hand, to keep the chieftainship to himself and his family against central caliphal power. This was also his ideological uprising; it was the first step.8

Arani then argued that this first movement for purifying Persian was principally in the interest of the Iranian political elite, not necessarily the people: This also makes the material causes behind the pure Persian uprising of Daqiqi and Ferdowsi clear.9 The uprising worked and the Book of Kings (Shahnameh) came into being, mostly free from Arabic. But why is it that people did not subsequently speak the Persian of the Book of Kings? The words that were common before then and had not became extinct (used by Rudaki and others) remained common afterwards. But Dari words like qala, zubin, khesht, or the like did not become popular.10

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Arani likewise contended that, with the stabilization of Iran’s regional autonomy during Samanid rule (819–­999), the political rationale for holding onto pure Persian, which had served to distinguish Iran politically and culturally from its encroaching Arab neighbors, died out: “The material reason behind this is clear to the materialist thinker. With the central power of the caliphs gone, there was no reason left to oppose the Arabs.”11 He added that the “center was no longer bringing the pressure upon the oppressed nation that would have forced it to show the corresponding reaction.”12 Alongside his materialist overview of historical variations in elites’ emphasis on linguistic purity, Arani offered a materialist reading of Islam and its social function in this period: “The religion of Islam was also suitable to the social conditions of the medieval age. The local prince needs the masses to have a religion; the masses are Muslims. There is no material pressure from the center of Islam. Why would the local prince therefore rise in revolt?”13 Arani’s appreciation for the dialectic between language and power can be seen in his suggestion that Abbasid decline, which facilitated a concomitant resurgence of Iranian political confidence, gave way to a more open cultural exchange between Arabic-­and Persian-­speaking peoples. This led to Iranians’ appropriation of the Arabic language, which had earlier been perceived as a means of oppression. Arabic was now imagined as the mother tongue of the Islamic world: On the contrary, from then on, knowing, speaking and writing Arabic, and competence in Arabic sayings, expressions, and words while bringing them to Persian, became coveted. Books like Kalila and Dimna (translated by Abu al-­Maʿali) and The Pearl of Nadir appeared. Saʿdi wrote poetry in Arabic (the language that was called Arabic among the Persian speakers). The Arabic influence was due to the era’s need for a religion and the fact that Islam did not cause any detriments.14

This was a radical turn in Arani’s own thinking, one that placed him on the outskirts of the intellectual mainstream. This nascent debate on the disposition of various Iranian nationalisms, however, was cut short. The first Pahlavi ruler preferred to dictate rather than discuss the terms of Iranian identity, and instead established an “official” narrative on Iranian nationalism, albeit one that was not necessarily new or original. The privileging of pre-­Islamic Iran by certain nationalists dates back to the period and recurred



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during the interwar years. Arani himself was inspired by it when he was in his early twenties. As has been demonstrated, it was only later that he developed disdain for the idea of ancient revivalism and “the ancient worshipers.”

Language against Lived Experience Arani offered two possible explanations for the popularity of calls to “purify” Persian, a peculiar desire he made sense of by situating it in the sweep of global history. He detected two distinct, if overlapping, tendencies within the movement. While some purists, most often culled from the intellectual and political classes, were determined to uproot any trace of Arabic from Persian, others focused on reviving pre-­Islamic Persian culture. Some even went so far as to suggest adopting a Latin script for Persian, as Ataturk had done for Turkish: “In the new period, after European civilization found influence in Iran, once more a new movement came into being around the Persian language.”15 The first of Arani’s two explanations involved the rise of modern nation-­ states and the worldwide proliferation of nationalism as a mode of self-­ representation and political legitimation: “In the early years of the twentieth century, patriotism was still the major slogan of European nations and also found its way into Iran.”16 In Arani’s view, nationalism filtered through Europe before entering Iran, and he argued that European Orientalists, particularly in their view of the Islamic conquests as the decisive event in Persian cultural and political decline, influenced Iranian nationalists. Some Iranian nationalists, therefore, came to the conclusion that the construction of a modern nation required de-­Islamicizing Iranian culture. While Arani understood the historical factors, namely the rise of the nation-­state, that made anti-­Arab and anti-­Islamic sentiment conceivable in Iran, he found a nationalist rejection of Islam imprudent, given most Iranians’ sense of religious obligation, and unnecessary: We should note that some people wrongly considered the Islamic religion to be the only obstacle to Iran’s progress. Among this small number of people, who can be partially considered to be temporary progressive intellectuals, patriotic sentiments were rising. Alexander was damned and cursed. All blame was put on Arabs. They said that, had the Arabs not burned our libraries, people could see every discovery of today already contained in the books of Darius’s time. Such sentiments are easily found in the statements and writings of this group, but it is obvious that they were few. The majority, steadfast in their religion, rejected all this talk.17

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Arani’s assessment of linguistic puritanism was decidedly negative. The forcible purification of the people’s spoken language would estrange them from an otherwise viable vehicle for unification, rendering it over time irrelevant even to the educated class. Arani referenced the back cover of a book written in purified “classical Persian writing” (farsi nevisi ye asil) to demonstrate the movement’s consummate impracticality: In this period, some books appeared in unadulterated Persian. For example, one such book was published in 1894 [1273], that is, forty-­one years ago. It was titled Parvaz-­e Negaresh-­e Farsi [Principles of Writing in Persian], the back cover of which may be suitable to cite here: Principles of Writing in Persian Penned by: Mirza Reza Khan Bakeshlu Qazvini, for the writing of unadulterated Persian, with examples of all types. Second Edition Exclusively available through the Maʿaref Library. Price: 5,000 [dinars]. Add postage, for printed material for orders abroad. Tehran, across from Shams al-­ʿEmareh, The Maʿaref Library, Sheikh Mohammad Ali Behjat Dezfuli.”18

“The cover to a text with designs for purifying Persian has 26 words written on its back cover, 18 of which are Arabic, one of which is European, and seven of which are Persian,” Arani wryly noted. Programs for cultural developments so lacking in self-­awareness were not farsighted, he concluded, but ineffectual, useless, and unscientific: “. . . If you read the above-­mentioned book, you won’t understand it. It is as if you are reading a book in Gujarati or Turkish and if you take off the back cover, you might doubt that the book is in Persian at all.”19 Arani presented a rational and material (in-­jahani) interpretation of nationalism consistent with a cosmopolitan view of the world. The innate natural environment dialectically ascends to the cosmopolitan level. Arani’s outlook was decidedly secular, but he radically insisted upon the necessity of transcending chauvinism to build a healthy political life: But if this truth has developed a sense of mysticism and spiritual devotion, virtual imagery has obscured it. . . . This material interest is transforming into a worshipping of colors, earth, tradition, spirit, and the individual[.] That is, in sum, modes of worship, like the worshipping of spirits [or] jinn,



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in contrast to calculated, rational, and material interests. Chauvinism is a worshipping of idols.20

Arani’s next dialectical step was to examine the tensions between elite and popular political mobilizations and imaginings of language. He evaluated the earliest efforts to purify Persian, emphasizing their inability to penetrate consciousness outside the confines of elite culture and power: “Likewise, accuracy and Ferdowsi are material causes for the pure Persian movement. This movement became a scientific one. The Shahnameh was created with a Persian that was relatively purified of Arabic. But why did the people not subsequently speak with the Persian of the Shahnameh?” 21 Arani answered this apparent riddle straightforwardly: “The material reasons for this are clear to the materialist thinker. Since the caliphs’ centralized power was no longer functional, there was no more need to oppose the Arabs.”22 Arani’s analysis of premodern attempts at Persian purification was not only consistent with his scientific materialism but a product of it. He extended this hermeneutic forward in time to incorporate twentieth-­century changes into his analysis. Despite his propensity for critique, Arani did not reject every element of the purification movement. While recognizing its limits, he discerned the influence of modern thought, which shaped his own youth, and sympathized with those who found reason to doubt certain religious beliefs. He eventually turned his attention to a movement for reforming Persian language contemporary to his lifetime: “Today we are in a new stage of the movement to reform the Persian language which, once again, differs from previous periods.”23 This new stage, Arani felt, required rendering Persian receptive to scientific idioms, since it was scientific innovation that multiplied a country’s industrial and, by extension, economic capabilities. He suggested, “Today we know one thing well. We must learn about European civilization and arm ourselves like a civilized nation.”24 Arani offered this clarification as to the substance of European civilization: “Let’s consider what European civilization is. It means European science, European industry and European art.”25 But he did not see something immutably “European” about this civilization, and emphasized the dialogic and diffusive nature of modern scientific advance and technological revolutions: Is any single one of the European countries the center of European science and industry? Are Europe, the US, and Japan all agents of civilization’s

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progress? When any scientific or industrial research is published in this or that corner of the world, it is immediately published everywhere. What accounts for this ease of scientific connection, despite the linguistic differences between the civilized nations?26

Arani grasped the importance of transnational networks of communication, which could be configured to ease or obstruct the flow of ideas integral to world development. He concluded by arguing that the new movement to reform Persian squarely concerned the possibility of inclusion within European scientific development: “It thus is clear that the major agent behind the contemporary movement to reform the Persian language is the influence of European civilization in Iran, especially feeling the need for scientific words and terms and for saving time.”27 For Arani, embracing within Persian technical terms that had already gained global currency was not only an acceptable and effective approach to cultural reform, but a necessary one, since he believed that if Iran was to develop into a properly progressive modern nation, it had no choice but to follow the path to progress and social change.

Cosmopolitanism and Care of the Nation First and foremost, l affirm love for the world; thereafter, I have affection for Iran; and then I love the wholesome land of Tabriz.28 Abdolrahim Talebi, 1898

In his later works, Arani demonstrated recurring interest in stemming the surging popularity of cultural chauvinism, which oscillated in its various iterations between mandating devotion to tradition or surrendering to European civilization: “[Not] just any dandy who ever finished a lecture book, or young mullah who carried a theology book under his arm for two days, has the right to make use of unnecessary and misplaced Arabic or European words.”29 Despite the distinction Arani made between “Westoxified” and religious arguments for language reform, encapsulated in the opposing figures of the dandy and the mullah, he had not fallen for the trap of sundering the world discursively into “East and West.” His progressive attitude, rooted in a secular materialism, and his acceptance of cosmopolitan culture left him more interested in addressing Iran’s cultural issues in the early twentieth century. Devotion to Iran underwrote his attempt to articulate these issues



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within a materialist view of the world, since caring for the nation and seeing to the material well-­being of its people were one and the same for him. For Arani, navigating the road to national prosperity required the guidance of critical dialogic thinking. His cosmopolitan reading of political and cultural issues, which emphasized Iran’s relationship to the world, impacted his writings on sciences, social analysis, and international events. Arani’s influence helped foster the rise of what I have called the “cultural left.” One the one hand, members of the cultural left, in a cosmopolitan gesture, passionately embraced the contemporary world with all its scientific, cultural, and ethical advantages. On the other hand, they remained acutely aware that Iranian society harbored distinct cultural and historical contexts of its own. Arani’s vision in this sense was deeply dialectical; it was neither a dogmatic embrace of monolithic Western modernity nor one of Iranian tradition. A balance between tradition and transformation was required, he argued, to realize successfully the cultural and ethical advantages of the modern world. Members of the cultural left, according to Arani, would play a crucial role in this process. By initiating a critical engagement with Iranian “national culture,” they could promote the adoption of liberating features of scientific and political modernity. It was this eye for equilibrium that allowed Arani to insist on the primacy of scientific methods and secular culture while resisting Eurocentrism and the fashionable idea of Europeanizing Iran. His commitment to this dialogic principle kept him from yielding to the dogmatism of much leftist thought under Soviet influence. Arani’s critique of conservative traditionalism and of radical nationalist approaches to language reform was derived from his vision of a historically rooted but cosmopolitan Iranian nation. Arani engaged the question of the Persian language in the following way: “Let us now address the question as to where this [Persian language] movement must go.”30 The proposed direction was practical and progressive. Arani conceptualized Persian as a language adaptable to contemporary conditions, foremost among them scientific development. His perspective provided a suitable platform for evaluating the binary between native and foreign that was central to traditionalist and Orientalist thinking. He argued, “We will simultaneously avoid Europeanization and Arabization” by prioritizing the care of the Iranian nation and its future. 31 His dialectical method thus carved a middle way forward through the pragmatic integration of past and present. His was a radical intervention just as national debate in Iran was becoming severely polarized.

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Concerning Arabic words, Arani argued that because they were already incorporated into Persian, retaining them would only preserve the existing integrity of the Persian language: As Persian evolved and changed, a group of Arabic words entered. Why would we expel these words from the language? Even if we did so, we would need to form another society to determine which among the old Persian words is rooted in Parthian or other languages. We would have to then quickly expel them too. This is what the chauvinist path demands.32

On the use of words derived from various European languages, Arani proposed integrating increasingly common words according to the principle of maintaining the Persian language’s proximity to Iranians’ lived experience. That is, while Iranians should be receptive to adopting scientific terms that had entered international circulation, they should adopt them according to both their communicative utility and their concordance with popular usage. The emphasis on lived experience clearly coincided with Arani’s materialist theory of nationalism. It was a pragmatic view of dialectical transformation. Change should be encouraged and welcomed if it helped to develop modern scientific thinking in the country: “The correct position is that of Donya magazine, which considers the use of international terms necessary. It is not Donya that has suggested this path. Because this is a natural thing, it has forcibly become reality and will necessarily continue to be.”33 Arani was aware of the resistance with which chauvinists and traditionalists would meet his ideas: “The first part of our statement here is equally opposed by chauvinists and holy zealots. They oppose adaptive changes because they think the Persian language is the most perfect of languages.”34 He observed that conservatives were just as hostile to his ideas: The holy devout man opposes this first statement from another point of view. He takes the most perfect language to be Arabic. All that is to be said has been said in the Arabic language, he maintains. If something is written in the Arabic language, it cannot be doubted. This especially holds if it is in poetry and follows the correct rhythm and meter. This devout man considers the European languages to be flawed. Using them is blasphemous. For us these two groups, despite opposing each other, form a united rank.35



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Arani discarded the positions of both groups with a dialectical twist, arguing, “We categorize both as worshippers of the old. One worships the old of 1,300 years ago. The other, meanwhile, worships the old of a few thousand years ago.”36 Arani, however, was more critical of “secular” Persian revivalists, who manipulated modern ideas in order to achieve their revivalist goals: “The latter group’s mistake is more insulting because they cannot rescue their sanctities from existing prejudices. They want to use electric drills to somehow find words from the depths of Zand and Avesta. If we used the same zeal to drill our mines, instead of looking for superstition, we would have been practically a first-­grade nation by now.”37 The issue Arani took with such nationalists transcended the theoretical. Practiced at situating his reflections in the transnational, he noted a worrying resemblance between the racialized Iranian narrative, with its conviction of ethnic superiority, and European antimodernist and fascist manipulations of history: “An obvious mistake of chauvinist practice is that they imitate their fascist brothers, seeking to eliminate a part of history. Fascists say that they’ve eliminated the international war and its consequences from their own history. They pretend to be renewing broken continuities from the prewar time.”38 Arani thus compared the nationalists’ drastic purification scheme for the Persian language to that of the rewriting of history by European totalitarians. Both sought to perpetrate the invention of a “fake” pretense. As indicated at the opening of this chapter, Arani found this type of politics very alarming, writing, “They want to eliminate Saʿdi, and others who have written in a mixed Persian, from history. The Golestan is not a book of literature, lacking value for Persian, they say. The idiocy of this claim is not less than those of their fascist comrades.”39 But what would a progressive program for language reform look like? For Arani, substantive social change required a more cosmopolitan and dialectical imagination. One cannot cast off the past, or treat it as an archetype for the future. Arani’s approach was guided by the idea of a dialectical relationship linking the past, the present, and the future: “When Donya spoke of progress, it is true that we negated the literature of the past. This, however, was a dialectal negation as explained in the article ‘Dialectical Materialism.’ We don’t eliminate the literature and history of the past. We negate them. This means that we destroy them and incorporate them in a more perfect state.”40

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Arani, by dint of his pragmatism, exposed the feeble logic of the Iranian nationalists: “The Persian of today is a product of medieval literature. How can one oppose medieval Persian literature while advocating the works of thousands of years ago? This is absolute and pure worship of the dead.”41 Arani’s rejection of “ancient worship” was intended not as a disavowal of history, but as an affirmation of its tendency toward renewal. His commitment to caring for Iran was inclusive of the entirety of its history, culture, and people. Arani invited others to participate equally in caring for the whole of the nation: “To sum up, the chauvinist wants the nation to lose all that it has. Iran has reserved little from its ancient times, now it will be forced to lose its medieval heritage, too.”42 Arani meanwhile criticized the prevalent Iranian nationalists for their resentment of “useful” scientific ideas coming from Europe: According to chauvinism, Persian should share no common words with European and religious languages. So, there is nothing left to do other than coin words. Among the chauvinists, playing with words and nominalism thus begins. Instead of sciences and industrial techniques, they resort to word coinage. Youth who don’t know the foreign language start coining terms for a scientific concept, while remaining in ignorance of the science.43

In this instance, Arani ventured another critical argument concerning the relationship between language and knowledge, or form and content. In a sarcastic tone, he argued that language is not merely a box (or form) in which one might store things. Reformers who sought to coin Persian replacements for foreign scientific words, but knew little about the scientific ideas and subjects they expressed, were engaged in a fruitless endeavor that only further alienated Iran from scientific discourse. In other words, Arani’s cosmopolitanism was not a statement of sympathy for Europe or an argument for abstract global citizenship. It was a proposition for global cultural exchange in which the non-­West would be an active participant. Arani envisioned modernity in terms of transnational mass participation, facilitated by scientific and technological institutional development. There was no cultural primacy or telos invested in one geographic region. In this context, Arani was critical of the nationalist hostility to Arabic: The chauvinist doesn’t think precisely. Because fascism is anti-­Jew in various parts of the world, we should be anti-­Arab here, they say. Let’s imagine



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we condemn Arabic words to death for the crime of being Semitic, while forcibly inventing a bunch of combined words to replace them. Do you think the Persian language will improve? No, the more words we have—­ and the more precise and nuanced the differences among words—­the more useful the language will become in expressing precise thoughts. There was a tasteful young man who wasn’t sure whether to use the [Arabic] expression naf‘ o zarar [profit and injury] or [the Persian] khub o bad [good and bad], but finally decided against both and used khayr o sharr [good and evil].44

Arani questioned the patriotism of those Iranians who would cleanse Persian of all traces of Arabic and whose motives may have been more malign. He argued by analogy: “The English, who are very patriotic, have never thought of purging English of Latin words.”45 In short, cleansing Persian of all Arabic words would, in his view, only harm Iranian culture: “By ejecting these foreign words, we will make the literature of the past incomprehensible for ourselves—­i.e., we will lose it. We will close off the little freedom and room for interpretation that the Persian language has today. We will waste time in coining a bunch of unnecessary new words.”46 Arani argued that, even for those interested in promoting Persian literature and language, nativist nationalism would not produce any significant result: “It is materialist thought that will solve all these shortcomings.” Arani’s materialism was far-­reaching, and inflected both his social-­scientific thinking and his cosmopolitan vision for the nation: “It will push you toward progress in language development, finding new words, while negating the old and the past. It will add them to the useful treasure trove of civilization.”47 Arani’s materialist cosmopolitanism allowed him to expose many of the contradictions internal to nativist nationalisms: “Chauvinism harbors contradictory and confused thoughts. It takes pride in nationality and national works while pushing away Saʿdi and Rumi. It considers itself the highest and most perfect of nations (the sparrow thinks her mate the strongest of animals). Yet it leaves the same right to all other nations, who are all mired in the same mistake.”48 Arani concluded by suggesting the usefulness of adopting new words and concepts from two sources: European scientific language as well as Arabic words of an “ordinary and easy” type.49 Despite his proposals for possible change, Arani pragmatically recognized that “ultimately, if there is a need to coin new words in daily life, instead of difficult words, those of ordinary and simple Persian will be used.”50

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Arani’s concern with language reform was at once pragmatic and expressive of his radical cosmopolitanism. He rejected the efforts of conservative traditionalists to stoke Iranians’ connection to Islam by forcing the usage of archaic Arabic, as well as the project of national chauvinists to purify Persian of Arabic words that had circulated among speakers for centuries. For Arani, the Persian language was a living organism sustained by the energy of its diverse users, not something to be artificially engineered without their consultation. Language was the unifying cultural element that might enable Iranians of all walks of life to imagine themselves as members of one nation—­a modern nation versed in its own history and culture, yet at home in the world and receptive to the insights its most foreign parts had to offer. In Arani’s thinking, the Persian language—­not race, ethnicity, or allegiance to some monarch—­would bring Iranians together and help achieve a new “discovery of Iran.”

6 ʿErfan, Reason, and the Nation

A Lost Modernity Determined to account for their country’s supposed developmental “lags” in order to rectify them, interwar Iranian intellectuals turned to Iranian history and culture to apprehend the primary drivers of national political and economic stagnation. Their labors produced assorted ideas as to how to build a modern Iranian nation. Within this confluence of critique, politics, and culture, several prominent Iranian scholars and intellectuals of the interwar period directed their attention toward examining ʿerfan, or mysticism, and its then contemporary instrumentalization by those who, in the view of their critics, sought to impede reform in the name of tradition. Some may be surprised to learn that Arani, a firm materialist, dedicated a series of essays to tracing the transnational emergence of ʿerfan and antirationalist counterdiscourses in the East and West. For Arani, the lure and logic of contemporary “mystical” thought was best exemplified by the antirationalism of Henri Bergson, a French philosopher whose critique of scientific rationality, an assumed cornerstone of French secularism, in favor of intuitive knowledge, courted controversy.1 Arani’s essays on mysticism, published across the first four issues of Donya, analyzed and critiqued the Sufi or ʿerfan mode of thought. According to Arani, materialism was the philosophical manifestation of humankind’s universal capacity for logical discernment, and a necessary factor for social progress. And in this light, the transnational popularity of a philosophical movement that elevated intuition above reason represented a political conundrum:

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Materialist thinking is natural to humans. If not forced by social miseries; they are sure to think in these terms. Materialism in human thought encompasses the age of hunting, of Greek natural philosophers, of Lokayata in India, Mo Zi in China, materialist ideas of ancient Iran, Eastern naturalists in the medieval age, scientific rationalism in early modern Europe, materialism in eighteenth-­century Europe, and logical materialist principles in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The materialist and logical principles of contemporary humanity have established relations between all sciences, industry, society and the arts while freeing humanity from all superstition, whether in natural sciences, biology, psychology or sociology. They have shown humanity the path to happiness. Based on these principles, just as humanity has overcome important forces in nature, it will also overcome forces within the human community.2

While Arani argued for materialism’s durable universality, he was more particularly concerned with its utility in promoting egalitarian configurations of power in modern and secularized societies, specifically Iran. It was within this context that he confronted ʿerfan as a corrosive alternative to secular modernism that was gaining international traction. In his serialized investigation of mysticism, Arani addressed the history of ascetism in Iran, the East, and Europe. He specifically aimed to introduce a social-­scientific or materialist worldview as an alternative to the world-­ renouncing posture of ʿerfan. For Arani, this effort coincided with a larger project to promote the sciences and progressive social change by engaging civil society in public debate. Arani was not alone in this endeavor. In the 1930s, as Pahlavi modernization accelerated, many Iranian modernists and progressives worried about the popular appeal of antimodernism disguised as tradition. Mohammad Ali, Ahmad Kasravi, Rashid Yasemi, and even the well known literary scholar Mohammad Qazvini wrote of the possible pitfalls of the mystical tradition in Iran. Since the Pahlavi era, a noticeable shift in intellectual attitudes, no doubt fostered by the ideological commitments of the Islamic Republic to legitimate religious governance, has materialized in Iran. One critique leveled against Arani by the Iranian scholar of Islam Nasrollah Pourjavady is representative of this shift. In his commentary on Arani, “Mysticism and the Materialist Perspective,” Pourjavady, an ostensible scholar, resorts to historical distortion, ad hominem attacks, and amorphous argumentation with the implicit goal of defending mysticism and thwarting even measured



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critique.3 Pourjavady’s polemical characterization of Arani as “a pseudo-­ intellectual in the Reza Shah period, and something of a theoretician for the Tudeh Party in Iran,” neglects to mention that Arani perished in prison a year prior to the party’s founding.4 Pourjavady ventures no specific criticism of Arani’s work, or analysis of his writings on mysticism. His outrage flows from the mere fact that Arani anticipated the deleterious effects the popularization of mysticism would have on the development of secular and modern political organs. Pourjavady, a student of other antimodernists like Ahmad Fardid and Morteza Motahhari, and a specialist of Iranian-­Islamic mysticism, is willing to distort history, including the tradition of critique endogenous to Islam that extended to mysticism, to defend it from supposed attack. Rather than identify Arani’s particular reasons for critiquing mysticism, Pourjavady simply makes a general attack on all modernist Iranian intellectuals, writing: “Mysticism was criticized by modernists and political intellectuals after the Constitutional Revolution, and those compensating for our underdevelopment in the progress of civilization. These individuals believed that, by targeting the dervishes and mysticism, they were confronting superstitions on par with exorcism and fortunetelling.”5 What is significant about Pourjavady’s reflexive rejection of Arani’s argument is that, as is the case with some postmodern scholars, the mere invocation of a “modernist intellectual” engaged in a critique of “mysticism” is sufficient to arouse suspicions about the misguided, perhaps even anti-­ Muslim nature of their dissent. Such dismissive reasoning, based on pure innuendo rather than evidence, is the unfortunate legacy of the unscrupulous mudslinging and polemical style of nativist thinkers like Ahmad Fardid, who, envisioning his role as the guardian of transcendental mystical thought, dismissed his detractors in the most self-­aggrandizing tones.6 Pourjavady, adopting this lamentable style, neglects numerous issues relating to what he calls the “intellectual history” of Iran. The critique of mysticism did not begin or end with the constitutional era. It overflows this period by centuries and constitutes an integral stream of Iran’s broader intellectual history, yet the dogmatic Fardid school cannot appreciate this. Within his own context, Arani’s evaluation of ʿerfan did not hinge on its philosophical or theological merit. Contrary to Pourjavady’s assertion, Arani did not question its literary or historical worth. Arani instead questioned those who argued for ʿerfan as an alternative to modern rationality and who rejected scientific and analytical thought as alien and inferior to ʿelm-­e hozuri (intuitive knowledge).

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Arani was clearly invested in analyzing the anti-­intellectual and antimodernist potentialities latent to mystical thought. But how did he explain its resurgence? For Arani, mysticism’s turn away from the world suited a generation that had been denied a say in its affairs and stifled by a climate of political suppression. Although Arani remained convinced, in somewhat teleological fashion, that mysticism would soon give way to materialism, he cautioned that “the idea of mysticism becomes prevalent when the conditions of time and place push back reason and logic; this is when humanity and society feel weakness and incapacity.”7 While the Sufis’ call for introspection and focus on the hereafter did not sit well with Arani, who argued that the achievement of human empowerment in concordance with modern sciences and technologies required active assessment, he did not criticize Sufism as pure thought. His goal was not the mechanical reconfiguration of society, but the introduction of what we know today as critical thinking, or social-­scientific methodology, into popular political discourse, so that citizens might be better equipped to change society themselves. For this reason, Arani concluded his argument with a criticism of the ideas of the French philosopher Henri Bergson.8 It was from this vista that Arani, relatively unconcerned with the theology and philosophy of Sufism, engaged the “new” countermodernist reconstruction of Islam and Sufism. Despite the care Arani took to distinguish historical mysticism from its modern antirationalist incarnation, his argument was formulated in 1933, and he remained prone to simplifying the complexities of what he perceived as “irrational” beliefs. His conception of the idea of Iran and the necessity of antichauvinistic and scientific thinking to realizing it was nevertheless original. Unfortunately, his contribution to articulating a cosmopolitan and modernist view of Iran has been either forgotten or only faintly addressed amid a flurry of discourse celebrating an intellectual “return to origins” and Iranian intellectuals’ fascination with “Eastern spirituality.” It was against this backdrop that individuals like Ahmad Fardid dubiously evoked Iran’s entire contemporary intellectual history and turned appellations like “modernist” and “intellectual” into terms of contempt requiring no further explanation. Pourjavady, who reduces modernism in the constitutional and Reza Shah eras as the evolution of Tudeh and other leftist party politics, exemplifies this intellectual turn in Iran. He, a traditionalist, regards the modernist tendencies of secular intellectuals in Iran a problem. His principal example is Arani’s critical view of ʿerfan. Pourjavardy expresses satisfaction



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in seeing how in the 1960s and ’70s large numbers of Iranian intellectuals rejected their modernist vision to embrace ʿerfan and nativism.9

ʿErfan of Our Time: Local and Global

The interwar period, 1918 to 1935, was a critical interval in the history and evolution of Iranian modernity. It was during this interim that Iranian thinkers developed a sense of the importance of Henri Bergson’s thought, as Arani had. Yet their enthusiasm for introducing Bergson’s ideas, it should be emphasized, was linked to a long tradition of Iranian-­Islamic mysticism. As for the influence Bergson commanded outside this religio-­philosophical tradition, Arani explained his popularity in Europe as indicative of a growing cultural countermovement against the rationality of the Enlightenment and of social-­scientific traditions. Attentive to the material exigencies structuring social thought, Arani recognized Bergsonism as a celebration of older aristocratic modes of social organization: Beginning in the nineteenth century and extending to the present, a series of mystical ideas have recurrently materialized and then declined. The same class that had harbored Diderot and Montesquieu now gave rise to Fichte (1762–­1814), Fechner (1801–­1887), Schelling (1775–­1854), Kant (1724–­1804), Hegel (1770–­1831) and, finally, Bergson today. But the growth of natural and experimental sciences and industry, and the parallel progress of societies, meant that humanity could now boast a strong logical basis and a general philosophical idea capable of solving all scientific and practical ideas. This is how materialist thought came into being, itself influenced by material conditions and social factors.10

Arani was acutely conscious of an analogous confrontation playing out in the Iranian context. Critiques of the mystical tradition dated to the nineteenth century and preceded even the Babi reform movement.11 Alongside these early challenges emerged a movement that sought to defend mysticism as an open spiritual discourse adaptable to the transformations of the modern world. Many scholars, intellectuals, and politicians nonetheless approached the realization of Iranian modernity from a positivist and scientific perspective, and saw as necessary to this process the elimination of popular mystical sensibilities harbored by lay and certain educated people. For them, ʿerfan and Sufism connoted an ascetic lifestyle perceived as hostile

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to rational and scientific knowledge. Others with more radical—­and perhaps subversive—­intentions embraced the mystical as a viable and desirable part of their Iranian-­Islamic heritage, capable of remedying the spiritual malaise that coincided with Iran’s political and economic enervation. In this light, the debate on ʿerfan was perhaps above all an attempt to articulate the role of religion in the process of making modern Iran.

The Postmetaphysical Civilization For Arani, the critical issue at stake in his attempts to advance a radical critique of metaphysics was retaining the viability of materialist and scientific thought modes. The terms and social composition of these debates reveal that metaphysical beliefs had profound political implications for nation-­ making, a process participants hoped to influence through an emergent secular civil society. This political struggle was the context for Arani’s intervention into debates on ʿerfan. Having come of intellectual age in the progressive left, Arani openly advocated a more global and particularly cosmopolitan vision for Iran within his materialist method of critique. His materialism, however, avoided the traps of economic determinism and Eurocentrism, in which features of European culture are endowed with the teleological might of finality. We can divide Arani’s reflections on materialism into the following categories: materialism as (1) a civilizational concept comprising time and space and (2) a multifaceted concept of scientific progress, comprising a social imaginary, objective knowledge, illusion, and nature. Within this framework, Arani examined (3) the historical recurrence of modes of thought centered, alternatively, on mysticism, dialogue, despair, and causality. At the core of Arani’s theory of materialism was the concept of civilization, a stage of societal development at which the faculties of the human mind are externalized to overcome matter, and matter is in the process objectified to meet human needs, thus collapsing the dualism that holds one external to the other.12 Economic and intellectual production, for Arani, existed within this circulatory and dialectical dynamic. Through the invention and acquisition of “the tools necessary for production and exchange of basic human necessities,” humankind inadvertently acquired “human knowledge of the external nature.”13 It is this realization, that knowledge of external nature developed at the same moment that it became internalized to human relations of production and consumption, that led Arani in his critique of idealism to regard metaphysical thinking



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as a feature characteristic to one stage of civilizational development: the “famed thick wall between humanity and truth.”14 His attitude toward metaphysics grounded civilization in time as a sociologically intelligible category. In a modern society, the metaphysical duality of mind and matter, underpinning a qualitatively superior class, is incompatible with the mass politics of social democracy, and this antimetaphysical intervention promoted a cosmopolitan humanism. The sociological nature of Arani’s concept of civilization implied a nonmetaphysical notion of historical time. Arani, contra Hegel, rejected the belief in the end of history in favor of foregrounding change as an unceasing dynamic of life culminating in no final moment. His view of time was therefore not teleological, à la the fixed stages of Comte and Hegel, but evolutionary and conjunctural, placing him closer to Marxist and Darwinian understandings of development as contingent and continuous. He disinvested the temporal-­historical coordinate of fixed meaning, because the future is presumably unwritten. His view coincided with the needs of a newly consolidated nation, recently freed from its dynastic past and a global imperial matrix and seeking to establish the mass-­based politics appropriate for a productive modern political economy. In this sense, Arani was at odds with the aspect of Marxism that reproduced the Hegelian dialectic of closure in the end of history (i.e., a conflict-­free society for Hegel, a classless society for Marx). Arani wrote: “In Hegel, idealism reached its heights and one could see signs of mysticism and pantheism. All these philosophers belong to an age of high growth for mechanism and the natural sciences. Material life was bound to use science and industry. But science and industry cannot grow by ignoring arguments and logic.”15 Hegel suited those European powers that were falling narrowly behind in imperial and capitalist ploys for domination but were nonetheless hoping to pull ahead and “close” the deadly game. Arani believed that ideas were the outcome of specific material conjunctures, and his “civilizational” concept was not the outcome of clear linear time, but of contingency. Hence, Arani argued that humanity—­that is, the whole of humankind—­had always changed and would continue to do so. Arani did not spare himself or his intellectual orientations this fate either, affirming that “dialectical materialism is the apex of growth of human ideas to date.” His emphasis on materialism’s historicity left open the possibility that at some later date, dialectical materialism might be superseded as changing social relations give way to other, more suitable forms of analysis.

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Arani’s “civilizational” concept entailed a related idea of space. Writing on the unbounded geography of mysticism, he commented: “Among the ideas created on this evolutionary path is mysticism which has found different forms among different nations in different periods and is today gradually being diminished.”16 The space of intellectual patterns like mysticism thus correlated to no particular geography or culture, but to transient modes of production: “Mysticism was a theory of forms for Plato, intuition for Plotinus, self-­annihilation for Indian mysticism, mystical taste for Islamic mysticism, and divine breath for Bergson.”17 In Arani’s conceptual scheme, doctrinal differences are of secondary importance to the insights gained from comparing historical modes of production and the reaction of dominant classes to the threat of their change. Arani, confronted by the wreckage left by imperial devastation, was compelled to ask how Iran might be transformed into an organized and productive national unit despite multiple languages, communities, and contingencies. Although his argument for the economy as a determinant to thought can be viewed as an elementary base-­superstructure argument in the Marxist tradition, his subsequent analyses and suggestion that mysticism may, in nonlinear fashion, recur over time complicate that template. For Arani, intellectual evolution was predicated on transitional and unpredictable local conditions converging to create points of radically indeterminate germination. Was this not the real condition of the so-­called Third World at this historical point? Two different readings of Arani are possible: Either he was a crude materialist, reducing all phenomenon to their economic causes, or his occasionally schematic explanations were incidental to a broader argument for understanding the world in its interconnected complexity, a notion best captured in his multifaceted concept of scientific progress. In explicating this notion, Arani made strikingly original arguments as he identified universal patterns across time. One such pattern was scientific progress, which he explained in materialist terms. Advances in the sciences historically depended, he argued, on a highly stratified division of labor: Progress depended on the existence of a toiling underclass (i.e., slaves), the subjugation of whom freed up time for elites to pursue research into the real workings of nature. While the expansion of trade introduced to domestic markets new goods produced by distant communities, in its absence, the majority of the population remained preoccupied with subsistence labor and immersed in the illusions of myth and mysticism:



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Since menial work in ancient Greece was done by slaves, the middle class and the wealthy class had the time and space to investigate the questions of nature, the cause and effect of events, the laws of thinking, and the like. Expansion of trade meant that these Greek thinkers came to know a broader world, which led to more comprehensive and precise ideas. Therefore, in the annals of Greek history, the era of natural philosophers follows that of myths and early mysticism.18

Arani evidenced this universal pattern with a variety of historical examples, so only an illustrative sketch of his account is presented here. He infused his writing on the interconnection between the division of labor and the development of ideas with an appreciation for social imaginaries, distinguishing his account from the conventional Marxist template. He articulated this appreciation by invoking the efficacy of cultural tropes and images in patterning social behavior: “This image of work as lowly meant that Greek scholars paid no attention to experimental sciences. They were interested only in theory and rhetoric, devoid of research foundations. Such science would obviously be incapable of growth and of providing for the needs of society.”19 Because of his attention to imagination, Arani reserved a certain level of autonomy for ideas, and thus deviated in his exposition from the base-­superstructure model. His suggestion that arbitrary cultural prejudices and worldviews—­such as the Greek perception of work as lowly, given its association with slavery—­could influence the course of future events was a far cry from inevitability. Arani’s reflections on collective representation anticipated the emergence of social imaginaries as a popular domain of later sociological research. He clarified his vision in light of the legacy of Kantian philosophy: “Kant believed in the existence of objects beyond humanity, urging investigation into how our thinking affects the images we get from nature.”20 Arani foresaw the Gramscian insight that language is not a functional system for the neutral transmission of transparent meaning, but is invested with local cultural sensibilities and subject to the vicissitudes of time. Hence, he proceeded: When Kant did conduct such a [phenomenological] investigation, however, based on his social and class position, he reached a false conclusion. He thought that we should only interpret the world, according to our own thought categories, to achieve the progress of humanity. In other words Kant, too, put up the same famed thick wall between humanity and truth,

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sending all that was problematic and unknown to the darkness beyond the wall.21

In Arani’s view, Kant grasped that our images of the world were mediated by historically contingent modes of thought, but lapsed into metaphysics by naturalizing what was historical—­human consciousness. Arani had in mind the cultural crisis modern Iran faced as it emerged from foreign domination into the uncertain hegemonic space of a modern mass-­based nation-­state. How could public consciousness be reformed to the point that Iran might participate in the world in a cosmopolitan spirit while remaining free and independent? Only praxis, he believed, could create meaningful change in the human condition, thus suggesting a practical autonomy to ideas. Arani insinuated that the social imaginary retained a functional character. Its interactions with material modes of production took the form not of structured determinism, but of multiple circuits. Sometimes, ventured Arani, the function of imagination was even displacement: “Because the Indian could not actually change his job, caste, or social fate, he did so through imaginings and fantasies. . . . Karma, which results from Samsara, said that a person’s birth in a specific caste is based on his actions. Every Indian believed that ‘if I act well in my current caste, I might be born into a higher one in the future. If not, I will be born into a lower caste, and maybe even as an animal or a plant.’”22 According to Arani, religious displacement functioned to reinforce social obedience while providing relief through fantasies of change, freedom, and redemption, all of which were absent from waking life. In the Iranian context, however, he noted that for underclasses, religion was an instrument of revolutionary struggle. Yet this maneuver remained for him fundamentally illusionary: “The masses, under pressure, had no choice but to resort to fantasy and imagination in rebelling against the privileges of a nation or a favorite class of God.”23 For Arani, then, the dominant ideas of any given historical epoch were not exclusively affiliated with the ruling class. Those dominant ideas might equally serve the emancipatory yearnings of an underclass. Whether these emancipatory ideas were effective was for Arani a matter of their proximity to scientific objectivity and to the ability to apprehend accurately social realities. This brings us to Arani’s conception of history and objective knowledge, which he saw as mediated by the social imaginary. Despite the indeterminacy of the future and the stochastic recurrence of social imaginaries in patterns of change, Arani affirmed certain laws of history: “The laws of history are so



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stable and general that, if it were not for Christ, another small national God could have arisen to the same status.”24 The “laws of history” were discernible in interactions between class struggle and social imaginaries. Yet Arani’s objective optic was relinquished just as the ruling class, facing a hopeless horizon, turned away from its future: “Whenever a class sees progress in power and has no reason to deceive itself, it thinks materially and logically; if a class is oppressed and has no material tool for its own emancipation, it will be forced to resort to imaginings, dreams, and fantasies.” 25 The notion that scientific thinking proliferates within a class as it attains power is striking. Scientific understanding is not accretive but circulatory, and the cause of the successes that fuel class-­wide optimism. Arani elaborated: A material reason explained the renewed importance of mathematics, astronomy, natural laws, and physics, which meant that Bruno, Galileo, Descartes, and Leibniz were now advocating these sciences—­especially math and logical argument. Centralization, which was itself due to numerous factors, had helped the blooming of industry, manufacturing production, and trade. There was thus a material need for improvement in these sciences.26

Scientific objectivity, Arani reasoned, was consolidated as a dominant class emerged, since their established power incentivized scientific research. The paradigm of scientific objectivity was self-­reinforcing, for it augmented the stability and reach of entrenched power. Similarly, in a given historical moment, a circulatory pattern of sustained institutional dynamics could impede the growth of science beyond a certain point: Science belonged to the church and the priest. Military techniques and war belonged to the nobility. The material reason behind the wars was population increase of different tribes, which led to going beyond one’s territory and attacking other tribes. The misery caused by these conflicts prevented the growth of science and industry.27

A substantial section of the population, Arani claimed, remained enmeshed in the social imaginary produced by these circulatory dynamics, inhibiting the growth of scientific understanding among the masses. He wrote: “These affairs of nobility and the back-­breaking work of producing the necessary materials kept the peasants busy and mired in superstition, and there was

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therefore no room for science.”28 This brings us to the next feature of Arani’s thought: the self-­reinforcing loop of history and illusion. As we have seen, social imaginaries are class-­specific and only sometimes capable of being transformed into instruments of revolutionary social change. Arani built this theory on a notion of arbitrary alliances, such that he deprived class identity of the purity common to teleological variants of the left tradition: Iranian rulers were in a type of coalition with the Baghdad central government, to the point that that the heads of the Imamiyyah School had influence in Baghdad. On the other hand, caliphs had been relieved from the rebellion of local rulers. Although this coalition favored the caliph and some local rulers, it could not respond to public need. The masses, under these pressures, had no choice but to resort to fantasy and imagination in rebelling against the privileges of a nation or a class favored by God.”29

Religion, in this analysis, is not the opiate of the masses, but is receptive to transformation under pressure from the oppressed. Yet Arani maintained that religious traditions were generally averse to progressive thought, which he defined to include rational argument, mathematics, and formal logic: “Because Aristotle advocated the correctness of argument and logic, he had a progressive side.”30 However, Arani contended that Aristotle, having imbibed the prejudices of elites, impeded scientific advances potentially beneficial to the survival of Greek civilization. Arani identified intellectual change in terms of “traces,” a gradual and plural process that required a precise combination of appropriate elements to constitute “progressive thought” in any given historical moment.

The Birth of Modern Mysticism: Henri Bergson Arani’s views rested in part upon a subjective view of social alliances and imaginings that conditioned the possibilities for building civilizations. Yet he was not a constructivist. Nature was fundamental to his concept of a natural ontology, in which humans were not free from the general rules of nature, whether material, social, or spiritual: Humans cannot be free from material forces like gravity and atmospheric pressure; nor can they be free from the beliefs given to them by the specific state of society and the mode of producing the necessities of life (e.g., as in



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the asceticism held by mystics). Humans can never be free either from the other realities of life (physiology and psychology).31

It was within the context of these dual constraints that Arani noticed the correlation between mysticism and poverty. Prejudices like mysticism were wedded to poverty in a self-­reinforcing cycle: “Self-­annihilation and ignoring pleasure are the direct result of poverty. This exists now and in previous eras of poverty.”32 Within a given social conjuncture, he predicted the extinction of mysticism: We can predict that the currently dying mysticism of Europe—­which is bound to go extinct as the material conditions of the world change—­will briefly enter Iran as a Western product. Iranian Sufi types will invest effort in linking the mysticisms of the West and the East. But because such things are no longer taken seriously, the Imitator and the Imitated will perish together. The world does not listen to the preaching of these mystics who spend all day procuring the tools of their “very small” happiness.33

Here is a curious idea that stands in marked contrast to the prevailing narrative of a rationalist West absorbing the insights of a mystical East. While Arani suggested that Western mysticism (i.e., Bergsonism) was likely to gain traction in still-­modernizing societies, he did not suggest that mysticism was an atavistic reassertion. It was modernization that provided fertile soil for the flowering of mysticism, and it was this historical simultaneity that facilitated its transmission from European to Iranian society. Yet, curiously, Arani argued that modern mysticism was fated not to succeed, precisely because it undermined the scientific process necessary to augmenting political power. It could not become progressive thought, which for Arani comprised four elements: logic, mathematics, scientific experimentation, and dialogue. We know that Bergson, towards the end of his life in the 1930s, cautioned that the rationalization of human life would only propel humankind’s domination by an ever-­worsening spiral of technical manipulation. He rejected rationality as a foundation for morality and law, urging instead a “genius” to rise and “lead populations” to a “spiritual rebirth.” This type of political vision, Arani held, was linked to the modern predicament of despair. Arani placed significant emphasis on the dialogic role of science in producing progressive thought. He did not embrace dialectics as Marx,

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Engels, and subsequently the Soviet Union did, as the ontology of history and the entire physical world. By their account, the explanatory power of dialectical materialism extended to every corner of human history. Arani deployed dialectics in terms of a circulatory analysis of change. Dialogue was necessary, in that view, to producing scientific progress, which in turn made social change possible. He wrote: “Material life was bound to use science and industry. But science and industry cannot grow by ignoring arguments and logic.”34 To consider his argument, we have only to consider the Soviet Union, which stifled dissent in favor of development by means of a monovocal dictatorship. There was no basis for doubting that Arani embraced dialectics. He wrote that “in Hegel, the principles of dialectics are perfected” in “the law of evolution in opposites.”35Arani seems to have used dialectics as the more philosophically minded Marx did: as essential to understanding and demystifying those social processes whereby humans transform themselves and the world. For Arani, mysticism excluded the dialogic principle foundational to progressive thought and scientific advances. He faulted Bergson precisely for undermining the dialogic by arbitrarily imposing “spirituality” as the telos of human history. In reality, Arani argued, such an “end” was sheer folly: “To consider argumentation stupid and the power of imagination and the Holy Spirit to be humanity’s guide for the path ahead—­is this not a sign of decline and fall?”36 Elsewhere he contemplated: “How did the world suddenly reach the end of evolution? Why did Christianity or scientific mysticism prove unable to create these massive industries during the medieval age?”37 Mysticism soothed not only the downtrodden, whose poverty it valorized, but also the ruling classes, who foresaw their imminent demise due to social crisis: “The second half of the nineteenth century was a period of crises and unemployment. The very people who demanded democracy and general freedom once more reached a dead end.”38 It was despair, then, that explained Bergsonian mysticism in Europe, as well as its appeal in modernizing Iran: Natural and industrial sciences have grown a lot due to material need, especially the expansion of capital. Because this is a period of despair, the ideas of mysticism must grow. Yet mysticism is bound to come with the clothing of the European and American in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Such a period needs people like Flammarion and Bergson. . . .



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Bergson’s latest book is an essence of the spirituality of the regressive class of today’s humanity.39

Arani saw, however, that restrictions on the ruling class did not actually foretell the imminent collapse of bourgeois society: “The West is not in decline generally, because there is no reason for the evolution of society and sciences to suddenly lose direction. It is a certain idea and a certain class, that of Bergson and Hauptmann, which is in decline.”40 In this aspect, Arani decoupled the dynamics of capitalist expansion from any specific class identity, suggesting instead that any number of classes might gain hegemony as capital expands to ever more diverse societies.41 Capitalism was hence capable of grafting on the ideals of myriad traditional ruling classes, thus resulting in a wide assortment of cultural configurations, beneath the surface of which lurked the nature and logic of capitalism. The bourgeoisie of eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century Europe might be reaching the end of its dominion. While at the height of its power, this class had once embraced a scientific outlook, the same bourgeois class, exemplified by Bergson, was also prepared to relinquish scientific rationality when faced with its own unavoidable decline—­as if to spare the ruling class the sight of its own demise. Arani suggested that traditional ruling classes worldwide, threatened by capital’s expansion, might embrace a mystical spirituality to soften the blow of their own potential historical annihilation. For him, this was a decidedly self-­defeating survival strategy, since scientific knowledge was integral to the preservation, not the erosion, of their power. This emphasis on scientific understanding reveals the basis for Arani’s interest in identifying sources of causation. Not only did he explain dialectics in terms of the dialogic (contra the monovocal will of the vanguard, as in Leninism), but he emphasized the principle of causality: A materialist mind, when faced with the changes of an idea in a historical stage, does not relate this to the will and arbitrary desire of the Holy Spirit. Instead, we quickly investigate to see what material conditions brought about this change. But Bergson believes that an illusory creature—­i.e., the Breath of the Holy Spirit, —­just because it so pleases, evolves and perfects itself.42

In this sense, social imaginaries functioned not to elucidate but to obscure the chain of historical causality. Failing to understand “the malaria mosquito and parasites to be sources of disease,” populations “believed in genies and

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spirits.” Arani compared this blindness to cause and effect to the delusions of contemporary Bergsonian mystics: “These new mystics are also unable to see the causes of crises, of social and economic miseries, and thus believe in such secret faculties.” He associated the loss of causal perspective and its ethical consequences with the intoxication “of divine hangover, something of a hypnotism,” concluding that “it should be obvious, mysticism has something of a love relationship with drugs.”43 A depreciated sense of causation then might be linked to the tendency, common among the oppressed, to retreat from reality into dreams of divine benevolence, and to the resistance ruling classes showed to signs of their impending demise. By covering their eyes like a drunken driver veering off the road, they hastened their demise. Yet, as in the case of the drunken driver, underwriting the accident was a larger set of conditions, and the hand over her eyes would scarcely make a difference to the material outcome. Arani’s objections to mysticism were also energized by his refusal to concede to a philosophy of despair. Modern societies were on the precipice of universally embracing modern scientific ideas, and a boom in worldwide qualities of life would ensue soon thereafter. Belief in this was for Arani not a matter of inevitability, but of willful hope: “These same material conditions that had led to hope among one group drove them to materialist ideas, philosophically speaking.”44 Hope as a social imaginary also shared a self-­reinforcing tendency, manifested in institution building: “These materialist ideas now took form as science and industry, especially psychology and sociology, progressed to the general laws of nature in the psyche and society, which had been previously set apart from the inanimate world by a great wall.” 45 Hope, then, was a feature of a postmetaphysical world in which fears of the unknown waned as the self-­confidence of a historically ascendant power waxed. If, however, profound social contradictions persisted in the form of unchecked inequality, no ascendant power would enjoy prolonged stability: Although the great natural scientists like Pasteur, Darwin, Planck, Helmholtz, and Freud have done much to form these materialist ideas, codifying a complete set of principles of science was first done by the great scientists of sociology in the last half of the last century. Materialist and logical principles matter because they can put an end to the contradiction of theories in sciences, as well as all social crises.46



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Recognizing the limitations to objective sciences, Arani envisioned a crucial role for sociology in the building of just societies, not least of all by rendering society receptive to new epistemologies through civic education. There is a circulatory relation, for Arani, between the growth of scientific knowledge and social improvement. Nowhere did he comment explicitly about the advent of a classless society, or even about the end of capitalism.47 He instead privileged the sociological optic, because his principal concern was everyday human empowerment through democratic institution building. It is in the same spirit that Arani criticized Bergson and ʿerfan for offering an unlikely exit from the complexities of modern society. Bergson wrote his Two Sources of Religion and Morality at a troubled conjuncture in the formation of French secular republicanism. He proposed that modernity was an impasse, an existential trap, alienated from the sources of human moral inspiration. A great leader was needed to restore for the masses the spiritual basis of social life. Secular intellectuals challenged Bergson for shrinking from the challenges facing a society that for a century had been gripped by a struggle between monarchy and republicanism; by the intransigence of the Catholic church, which refused to loosen its grip on public life; and by the near collapse of public institutions during the Dreyfus affair. Arani criticized Bergson and his Iranian counterparts for very nearly the same reasons. Intellectual life, in Iran as elsewhere, he contended, was perpetually responding to institutional, material, and social pressures and required lucid critical engagement if it were to pave the way for a public ideology capable of meeting the complex challenges of modern societies. The search for “spirituality” as a public remedy to modern conditions, he recognized, impeded social change and denied human agency.

Conclusion An Unfinished Iranian Enlightenment Although Dr. Arani passed away almost fifteen years ago, no other person in Iran has authored better-­quality work on dialectical materialism than he. Dr. Arani’s knowledge of Persian language and literature and Arabic language enabled him to articulate and put into words his interpretation of dialectical materialism better than Marx, Engels, Lenin, and others. As a result, Arani’s philosophical writing is superior to that of earlier publications. Ayatollah Morteza Motahhari, 19511

Does Arani Matter Today? More than a century has passed since Arani’s birth in 1902, and in that time, Iran has undergone profound political upheavals. Yet Iranian society is still grappling with many of the same questions that occupied Arani. With skepticism of diplomacy still a mainstay of Iranian politics, and America’s international ostracization of Iran still in force since the 1979 revolution, Arani’s attempt to articulate a cosmopolitan vision of Iran amenable to the wider world is as urgent as ever. His writing in the 1930s addressed essential questions that Iran was facing in the trying years of the postconstitutional interlude. He explored Iran’s political and cultural relation with Western modernity, the dangers of nativist discourse, the importance of retaining Iran’s Islamic cultural legacy, and ways of forming a unified and democratic nation out of an ethnically diverse population. Arani’s vision encouraged a sense of historical appreciation for Iran’s pre-­and post-­Islamic past, while retaining a forward-­looking embrace of the modern moment. He aimed to craft “a new idea of Iran,” a project he did not live to articulate fully. Today, the “idea of Iran” is still an unfinished project. Arani’s radical politics were inspired by a sense of social hope. Despite the dangers he perceived in the increasingly popular rhetoric and practices of mysticism, his understanding of historical laws of motion led him to realize that change—­technological, social, or otherwise—­was not only possible for Iran but inexorable, and so he sought to foster the national confidence



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needed to activate national participation in the project of realizing a prosperous Iran. Furthermore, in defining Iran and Iranians as participants in the contemporary world who stood to benefit from modern achievements, Arani hoped to encourage social cooperation between Iranians and the world. Within this collaborative space, the creation of civic virtues might, he hoped, supplant “traditionalism” and encourage Iranians not to retreat inward, but to devote themselves to cultivating international “good will,” moving themselves and their country along a path of growth and prosperity. Throughout Donya’s two-­year run, Arani advanced a forward-­looking, cosmopolitan vision for Iran’s future. Despite its occasional lapse into Eurocentrism, the magazine pushed a progressive, materialist platform less rigid in its outlook than much of what would be later produced by the Iranian left. Moreover, Arani’s strident sense of hope cast a compassionate, not combative tone over his writings. Rather than write from a place of cultural contention, Arani, in precise scientific language, kindled a nascent national dialogue. To appreciate the specific contributions Arani made to this national dialogue, his thought ought to be situated within the continuum of the intellectual history of 1920s and 1930s Iran. In this light, Arani’s argument for a nonessentializing Iranian nationalism centered on care of the nation and his discussion of the Persian language’s relation to past and present national imaginaries are more original than might be suggested by studies that designate him a typical Eurocentric socialist.2 Donya’s cultural radicalism approached Iranian history and culture through a critical optic.3 With future-­oriented and cosmopolitan sensibilities, pages of the magazine included discussion of and essays by the likes of Sadegh Hedayat, Nima Yushij, Abdolhossein Nushin, Bozorg Alavi, and Khalil Maleki, a student of Arani.4

Inspiring Cosmopolitanism Arani’s late adolescence was marked by sudden changes and a clinging sense of difference, raised as he was in a family that moved more than once across Iran. His exposure to Iran’s ethnic, linguistic, and social diversity rendered him sensitive to the cultural differences that divided the nation, as well as to its dire material needs. He sensed the hold that traditional ideologies favored by established authorities had over the lives of ordinary people, and never lost sight of the transformations that capitalist expansion caused in local social relations. In his earliest reflections, he embraced a chauvinistic nationalism in reaction to Ottoman attempts to invalidate Iranian civilization

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and to inspire insurgency among Turkish-­speaking minorities. In this early phase, Arani accepted the exclusivist premises of twentieth-­century nationalism, which envisioned the hegemony of a purified group at the expense of minority difference. This ugly paradigm was at the root of many of the worst atrocities of twentieth-­century nation-­making experiments. Yet Arani came to question the foundations of twentieth-­century nationalist thought, breaking through its one-­sided emphasis on sameness to appreciate, on the basis of his experiences as an Azeri Iranian and roving learner, the possibility of finding unity in difference. Ultimately, over the course of his short life he interrogated not only the dogmas of Soviet orthodoxy, the chauvinism of established nationalism, and the romanticism of religious traditionalism, but also the too often invisible mechanisms of global capitalism that hid beneath the surface of more readily apparent cultural and political markers. In the process, he sent a letter to the future, encouraging contemporary intellectuals caught in a postmodern impasse to rethink cosmopolitanism in new ways.5 When Arani arrived in Germany in the wake of World War I, he glimpsed the devastation European modernity had proven itself capable of. He organized and published reflections on Iranian modernity from Berlin, a modern cultural capital par excellence, encountering figures like the French novelist and humanist socialist André Malraux.6 Arani saw in the left a road to radical freedom, a release from all closed dogmas, an opportunity to unleash humankind’s creative energies through the liberation of labor and the rejection of centuries-­old societies built on elitism and oppression. Arani returned to Iran from Berlin in the aftermath of Reza Khan’s 1921 coup, which initiated the long process of undoing the achievements of the Constitutional Revolution, preserving only the most authoritarian currents in Reza Shah’s later autocracy. Amid this political desolation, he arrived at an original materialist conception of historical change. The West was not a “completed whole” to be “imported” to an emptied East, but one theater in a universal process of dynamic change. The West was equally ensnared in contradictions and change, just as were its supposed civilizational subordinates. Arani appreciated the relative advantages of Western standards of living and liberty, but he did not derive from this insight an argument for mimicry. This established his dialogic emphasis; that is, the conversational quality of many pieces published in Donya.7 Arani regarded as reactionary all those who protected the vested interests of the old order, and he made peace with the fact that their subsumption into a new order would be necessary to



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building a modern Iran. In this light, it is evident that for Arani the work of agitation and argumentation ran together, and the role of the intellectual in his understanding of social change was allotted the autonomy necessary to activate his revolutionary potential in educating the Iranian masses. Within the heterogenous swirl of modern Iranian nationalism, a movement inclusive of ancient revivalists, ethnic chauvinists, and Persian purists, Arani’s view was the most cosmopolitan, apprehending change as the outcome of traveling cultural parts. Arani embedded this observation in his dialectical account of mutations in the Persian language. Iranians must not seek ancient Persian sources purified of all cultural contamination, he argued, for no such source exists. On the contrary, the Persian language must develop in relation to the dynamism of the world. Then it might build an imaginative horizon capable of absorbing the best qualities of modern knowledge and establishing a prosperous Iran. In the same spirit, Arani advanced an extended critique of “political mysticism,” the popularity of which he accounted for in terms of the duress Pahlavi dictatorship had placed some classes under. Of course, he had no idea that Iran would witness the rise of a theocratic state in 1979. Nonetheless, he decried the rising antimodernist tendencies of ʿerfan, not to be confused with all of Islam—­a prescient prediction which foresaw many of the dead ends of contemporary postmodernism and Islamist politics.

The Worth and Peril of Modernity Many of us who first encountered the West as its “other” still retain a degree of ambivalence about our place in it, but today the West is something else: it is modernity. I have long felt ill at ease with the West’s uncompromising quest for power; its tendency to couch its thirst for profit and power in abstract appeals to progress; and its self-­portrayal as the “universal” option for a future without history. Yet to me its social ideas are perhaps worth salvaging. This is especially so regarding its narrative of human agency and a “cosmopolitan” ethical ideal. As John Dewey argued, the promise of a “common faith” for the human community is critical in connecting us to our past and to a common struggle for justice and collective well-­being. The advantages of modern societies have revealed a road to material betterment and, with it, to uplifting ordinary people. Yet I recognize that modernity imperils certain existential desires integral to our humanity, namely our yearning for transcendence and meaning. My tentative view of modernity vacillates between hope and bitterness.

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There is hope: I am often inspired by the literature and art produced under modernity’s aegis, by the democratic social movements that have rocked recent history, and the postmetaphysical insights drawn from modern science and rational thought. There is bitterness: the depravity of colonialism and the brutality of state violence, without which modernity would not have the instruments of accumulation and control needed to posit itself continually, and the density of Western arrogance amid it all. You may rightly conclude that I am undecided or, less generously, confused and mistaken about the worth of modernity and its possibilities. I prefer a more humble and modest modernity, but this does not come naturally for a world-­historical enterprise on the scale of its power and importance. If one feels sympathetic to certain elements of postcolonialism or postmodernism, other elements remain troubling. Today, “academic tribalism” prevails, and the incredulity with which suggestions to objective investigation are met means that an orthodoxy has emerged to which we are expected to conform. The dogma that, for example, one need not seriously bother with “problematic” works of historical significance, whether they be the studies of Orientalist scholars or of modernists, is troubling. Foucault’s writings on the Iranian Revolution provide a vivid example of the real-­world ramifications of intellectual assaults on the Enlightenment, and the concomitant naïveté with which their proponents view alternative social forms. Few of those who defended the theorist’s romantic exposé of Iran’s Islamic Revolution have a studied appreciation for Iranian history, politics, or culture. Foucault’s own writings display a rudimentary understanding of Iranian politics and history; on figures pivotal to the revolution, like Ali Shariʿati, he dug no deeper, content with claiming that their thought bore “no Western influence.” Foucault refused to even talk to secular leftists during his two trips to Iran. He found them unexciting, too “culturally European.” Instead, he craved encounters with the “other”—­religious revolutionaries. This, by itself, already revealed a binary imagination that expressed itself as contempt for secular France and fascination with the Eastern other. It was thus that Foucault, who saw in Ayatollah Khomeini’s leadership a potentially viable alternative to liberal democracy, came to endorse the ideological claims of Islamists. These facts can be overcome for many of Foucault’s admirers, who insist that his antimodernist optic is the only meaningful mode of political judgment.8 While many of Foucault’s works, including his apprehension of the interrelated nature of “power” and of “truth claim-­making,” remain scholarly watersheds, his writings on the Iranian Revolution suggest a naïve



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view of Iranian politics and Islam. How could such a sophisticated thinker so uncritically praise those who undermined a mass protest for the sake of factional power, only to subsequently maintain his position when the depth of his moral and political error was plainly revealed before the world? Upon being criticized, Foucault insisted that he refused to “engage in polemics,” while comparing his interlocutor’s reasoned questions to Stalinist persecution. Or, upon being criticized by an Iranian woman residing in Paris for poor judgment on matters of women’s rights, Foucault snapped back publicly that she was “essentializing” Islam. Yet it is still more curious that so many contemporary scholars persist in defending him and—­infinitely worse—­his naïve celebrations of the radical spirituality of the 1979 revolution. Such indifference to the political implications of Foucault’s arguments should compel deeper reflection on his articulation of power-­knowledge. That power relations shape our understanding of “truth” is a productive sociological insight. Institutions and processes of knowledge production do not operate in a vacuum, after all. A careless understanding of power-­ knowledge, however, can lead to the narrow ideological view that all ideas are reducible to correlative political positions. In the process, identity comes to trump empirical evidence, history, and even the desire for scholarly “objectivity,” while the policing of ideas, concepts, and theories is sanctified as a moral act. Truth and knowledge are no longer about our “scholarly” labors to know. Instead, they become a product of the scholar’s identity. In light of the contemporary Foucauldian moment, a relatively overlooked twentieth-­century intellectual figure like Arani has much to teach us about intellectually grappling with and practically engaging the problem of modernity. Arani committed his life to overcoming certain ideological traps, such as the totalizing fictions of civilizational or religious essences as well as the orthodoxies of Soviet Marxism. Simultaneously, he grasped the dangers of ʿerfan as a mystification of modern politics with little relation to the history of world religion. His overlooked intellectual biography offers analyses of and replies to these trends, anchored in serious cosmopolitan commitments that refuse to yield to parochialism or totalization.

Mistaken Anti-­Enlightenment? Many on the left today are in a rush to distance themselves from, even to critique, cosmopolitanism and its potential as a source of inspiration to Global South activists seeking a sense of collectivity capable of transcending national and group identities. Radical conservatives have long loudly

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proclaimed their loathing for cosmopolitanism and have adamantly promoted in its place imagined racial, ethnic, or national identities and the fantasy of cultural authenticity. For them, cosmopolitanism violated their core drive to preserve and fortify systems of social separation. They were, and are today, hostile to the possibility of bringing “humanity” together. The realization of their “utopia” rests on “tribalism,” which they seek to nurture by stoking divisions among humanity based on hatred of others. In recent years many on the left have, albeit unwittingly and as a result of an altogether different political project, abetted the radical right’s assault on cosmopolitanism, an attack on a target that encompasses science, empirical reality, and secularism—­in short, on the legacy of the Enlightenment.9 We now see the deleterious yet predictable consequences of leftist participation in the antimodern parade. The round rejection of secularism, the Enlightenment, and cosmopolitanism forms only the tip of a larger reactionary iceberg, the whole of which includes the rise of populism across Europe and the United States, the rejection of truth in favor of alternative facts, and so on. The mistaken opposition of “local” identities, like ethnicity, gender, race, or religion, to “universal” ones may in the process have intellectually linked the postmodern left to Old World conservatives.10 This convergence is somewhat understandable, given that early enthusiasts of cosmopolitanism, following Immanuel Kant’s utopian and Eurocentric “cosmopolitan universals,” elaborated an elitist cosmopolitanism indifferent to the vast majority of people and impossible for them to identify with. Now that “cosmopolitanism” and “globalism” are discussed in tandem to account for self and the world, the question of cosmopolitanism has become still more awkward.11 A cosmopolitan person is often imagined as a well-­to-­do man floating from one metropolis to another, appreciating the best each place has to offer and caring only about his own fulfillment. We envision an upper-­class “transient,” renouncing rootedness while feeding on a buffet of customs and cultures others have built and practiced. One may therefore want to avoid using the term “cosmopolitanism,” and look to other terms to conceptualize international ethical norms that transcend national and religious boundaries, as Amartya Sen does in Development as Freedom.12 Other scholars prefer expressions such as “global imaginary” or “transnational ethics,” which, unlike cosmopolitanism, are not burdened with connotations of imperial ambitions. However, the logic of contaminated contexts, followed to its end, obliges us to avoid a long list



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of ideas potentially beneficial to humanity. While such ideas—­like democracy, human rights, feminism, and secularism—­have not been theorized or exercised outside historical power relations, they can still be used to critique and reform the relations from which they issue. A better option, then, is to insist on the untold political potential of owning these ideas, abuses and all, while revising their meanings to create a new contemporary humanism. Many intellectuals have instead abandoned Enlightenment ideas, to such an extent that the “new left” now shares much ground with the “old right,” and the line dividing them appears at points only tenuous. Antimodernism’s displacement of cosmopolitanism is perhaps one of the more regrettable developments of recent intellectual history. The critiques of so-­called secular modernity made, for instance, by Talal Asad are so far-­reaching, denouncing as they do the very selves constituted under that paradigm, that in its place new metanarratives have been erected which simply invert the hierarchy they critique to elevate the East over the West, religion over science, and Islamic governance over secularism. Scholars whose work has come to set the terms of debate in Middle Eastern studies, anthropology, and critical theory have in no uncertain terms expressed skepticism of ideas traceable to the Enlightenment.13 This issue is of very direct relevance to this book, since Taghi Arani’s work challenged some of the earliest articulations of political Islam, the Iranian experience of which exemplifies the perils of antimodernism.

Intellectuals and the Politics of Place This study has endeavored to show that Taghi Arani was singular in his commitment to reinvigorating the spirit of what we might call the Iranian enlightenment, under attack as it was by the prevailing intellectual trends of the interwar period, namely religious nativism and cultural chauvinism. His critique of the antimodern tendencies latent to such isolationist turns away from the world were all too prescient. Yet, forward-­looking as Arani was, he was a product of his time and place. To emphasize his intellectual idiosyncrasies, then, is not to extract him from his sociopolitical context, but to avoid diluting those qualities that make his thought worthwhile to our understanding of interwar Iran. Arani’s intellectual formation was motivated by a confluence of events integral to the interwar period: a global spread of authoritarian nationalisms, a domestic reckoning with Iran’s place in a new system of nation-­states, and the state suppression of public discourse. Arani, a pioneering figure of the Iranian secular left, pushed debates

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on national identity, modernity, and the politics of nationalism in new directions inclusive of a left concern for the material well-­being of the masses. The left has been defined here as a political-­cultural current broadly appreciative of cosmopolitan ethics, and engaged foremost in the critical reexamination of Iranian history and culture. The understanding of “cosmopolitanism” deployed throughout this study differs from conventional uses of the term in two senses. For one, it is used to reference the trilogy of the self, community, and the world; and in that sense cosmopolitanism is a question of depth: How profound should the interconnections be between self, community, and the world? For leftists this question took the form of developing the capacity for individual autonomy (the self ) alongside a project of mass uplift (the community), all while advancing a consciousness appreciative of humankind’s shared history and dignity (the world). This tripartite project of individual, national, and international uplift was based upon the desire to live in a world connected and regulated by cosmopolitanism as an ethical norm. Second, this study does not use cosmopolitanism to suggest that Arani was convinced of the universalism of his ideals and sensibilities. It instead investigates the idea of “new cosmopolitanism,” as put forth by Joan Cocks in her Passion and Paradox: Intellectuals Confront the National Question.14 Cocks argues that the choice between national attachments and cosmopolitan commitments is a false one, since the two often coexisted for the radical intellectuals she examines. She illustrates that, concomitant with nationalism’s internationalization, a new kind of intellectual emerged: one capable of reconciling these two conditions to show that the dichotomy between nation and world, or between self and other, is not inviolable. For Cocks, two figures who exemplified the neocosmopolitan intellectual, with multivalent attachments to the indigenous and the international, were Edward Said and V. S. Naipaul, both of whom carefully searched international occurrences for political patterns while reserving special attention for their own specific cultures and geographic regions. Their sense of cultural attachment, however, was mediated by a critical and objective distancing. Arani’s arguable harmony with the broad contours Cocks delineates offers the opportunity to imagine the possibilities of cosmopolitanism and modernity in interwar Iran afresh. More particularly, Cocks’s typology of an intellectual receptive to nationalist and internationalist interests permits the important concepts of democracy, human rights, and secularism—­too often isolated by scholars of the Global South as Western paradigms—­to



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retain a central place within the cosmopolitan framework, while avoiding the notion of an all-­encompassing metaphysical universalism capable of transcending societal particularities. A pertinent question should be addressed before proceeding: How does secular leftism differ from liberalism? Pinning down a boundary separating the two is difficult, not least since liberals and secular leftists share certain historical and intellectual genealogies. Both are outgrowths of the modern postmetaphysical revolution known as the Enlightenment, and it is only in recent years that Marxism and liberalism have come to be seen as existential opposites. More recently, postmodernism has usurped Marxism to claim the mantle of the left; and with it, the legitimacy of certain liberal ideas conversant with radical traditions, such as secularism, cosmopolitanism, and social scientism, have been called into question and, in the case of the Middle East and other regions targeted by imperialism, treated as instruments of political and epistemological coercion.15 The antagonistic juxtaposition of Marxism against liberalism gained traction when Soviet Russia, amid the polarizing pressures of the Cold War, designated itself arbiter of Marxist orthodoxy. As opposition to the Soviet Union become de rigueur across much of the political spectrum in Europe and the United States, Western liberals struck a more anti-­Marxist tone, while Soviet Marxists and their benefactors adopted a radical antiliberal stance. In the process, important ideas, such as the cosmopolitanism or sense of international solidarity that had long been shared by certain radicals and liberals, were marginalized. Meanwhile, other ideas and identity-­based ideologies became more prevalent. An intellectual romance with the “local” took hold, and all that was genealogically connected to the Enlightenment, including cosmopolitanism, was deemed undesirable. Arani, however, lived at a time when cosmopolitanism was still a critical component of left politics. His life also coincided with a critical chapter in nation-­building for modern Iran, at the level of both public imagination and institutional development. Arani’s thought after returning from Berlin to Tehran mainly focused on theorizing the idea of modern Iran, linking Iranian culture and history to a wider transnational flow of ideas and practices. This was his transnational cosmopolitan idea.16 Despite the little written about him, Arani’s political project influenced the contours of contention in twentieth-­century debate about the future and form of Iranian modernity. His novel and inclusive conception of Iranian identity built on his appreciation for the historical articulation of Iran’s past to its

168 Conclusion

present, a notion that recognized the Persian language as a central cultural and discursive space for identity formation. In engaging this conjuncture, Arani innovated a critical but unifying narrative about Iranian national identity informed by a radical cosmopolitan ethics. Arani approached questions of developing a modern secular Iran systematically, and grounded his recommendations for reform, which focused on encouraging national receptivity to the modern sciences and fostering a united identity through Persian-­language education, in the material advances benefiting the contemporary world. His historical understanding of modernity did not attribute differential rates of development to notions like national superiority. He rejected the romanticization of racial and religious heritage prevalent among early twentieth-­century intellectuals, and encouraged pragmatism in the cultural field, envisioning a resulting enrichment of the Persian language. Unlike most of his contemporary Iranian Marxists, many of whom would go on to join the Tudeh Party, Arani’s thinking was not limited by the ideological strictures of Soviet Marxism. Whether in Iran or in Berlin, his radicalism was tempered by his deep care for the nation and its people. His leftism and interest in Marxist principles of historical materialism were mediated through the concerns that were local to him and to other Iranians. Arani’s cosmopolitan attitude and leftist inclinations may have been influenced by the work he did on Persian literature in Berlin. It is notable that two important characteristics in Arani’s thinking, cosmopolitanism and cultural modernism, were also shared by some of his radical friends who later joined the Tudeh Party, such as Bozorg Alavi, a well known literary figure, and Abdolhossein Nushin, a pioneering playwriter and theater director,17 whose attitudes hewed closely to pro-­Soviet lines soon afterward. Arani did not see the leftist project of reorganizing society as a purely political effort, nor did he limit politics to questions of power. Despite his daring defense of himself and his fellow members of the Group of Fifty-­Three before an Iranian court, and despite his critiques of arbitrary rule, injustice, and evisceration of civil rights under Reza Shah, he did not regard the state with enough disdain to avoid soliciting it for a license to publish Donya; and if the government’s policies generated good for society, Donya acknowledged them as such. While Arani was a vocal critic of the government on issues related to political tyranny, his pragmatism appreciated the benefits of the public discourse to which its civic institutions gave foundation.



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Conclusion An examination of Arani’s intellectual and political life permits the following case. Thinkers like Arani, whose broad-­mindedness left few ideas unturned, seized on the political openings generated by the growing pains of the interwar period to force open the intellectual horizons of Iran. Arani wrote about a great many issues, energetically applying his appreciation for scientific materialism, which he cultivated as a trained chemist and committed Marxist, to diverse discourses about national consciousness, identity, and language. The dogmas of doctrine—­whether Soviet or nationalist—­little bothered him. Arani combined the dialogic principle of societal change through public critique in all his assessments of progress, development, and justice. No dogma was beyond reproach, and no idea too taboo. For him, a commitment to the left meant, above all, finding the courage to challenge orthodoxies, not to consolidate stifling new ones. He was certainly a critic of the modern West, and particularly of the militarism that plagued Europe during the 1920s and ’30s. He was insightful enough, however, to see that his desire for a prosperous future for his country and its people, as well as for the world, required a vision inspired by an ethics of social equality and justice, but one also open to the achievements of the Enlightenment.

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Notes

Timeline 1. On the significance of Arani’s Arabic education, Anvar Khameʾi writes, “It was this breadth of knowledge, accompanied by power of analysis and forceful logic, that Dr. Arani had begun to acquire during his talabegi [theological training in Arabic], that is, in the earliest period of his education in the traditional schools, and further developed while studying at Dar al-­Fonun and the University of Berlin, that turned him into a real scholar.” Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi: Panjah Nafar va Seh Nafar (Political Memories: Fifty plus Three People) (Tehran: Nashr-­e Goftar, 1993), 15. 2. When asked by a police interrogator, after his arrest in Tehran in May 1937, about the purpose of his trip to Berlin, Arani responded, “In the summer of 1935 I went to Europe . . . My main purpose was to do new studies and to secure marital engagement. I did not get married, but I spent some time in the laboratory of the Berlin police on the chemistry of criminology, foodstuffs and drugs.” See “Training in Forensic Chemistry (Berlin Police), Summer 1935,” in Hossein Farzaneh, Parvandeh-­e Panjah o Seh Nafar (The Dossier of the Fifty-­Three Persons) (Tehran: Negah, 1993), 242. 3. Kamran Aslani was a labor activist in Isfahan and one of the founders of the Communist Party of Persia who later became a Comintern operative mainly based in Moscow. 4. Abdolsamad Kambakhsh (1903–­71), was one of the Group of Fifty-­Three, and he later became a leading member of the Tudeh Party. He is known to have been a close confidant to members of the Soviet Communist party.

Introduction 1. Associated Press, in the New York Times, January 1, 1935. 2. However, 1934–­35 may be remembered as the beginning of the postautocracy. 3. Associated Press, January 1, 1935. 4. Associated Press, January 1, 1935. 5. “The Foreign Office thought the matter was rather silly and noted: ‘It would surely

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be flattering the Persians unduly to intimate that H.M.G. have given a moment’s thought to their real or imaginary titles. . . . If the phrase “the King of Kingly Persian Government” is nonsense, so much the better’ (FO 371/17890 [http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ details /r/C2775555]). The Eastern Department agreed that the only sensible thing to do was to accept the Persian request. That seemed to be it.” https://blog.nationalarchives.gov. uk/persia-iran-via-inglistan/. 6. Abolqasem Najm was responsible for organizing a centennial celebration in Berlin for Iran’s national poet, Ferdowsi, in 1934. Najm would go on to become foreign minister, and to serve in several other senior positions in the Pahlavi state. There is no clear evidence for his sympathy for Nazi racial ideology, however. 7. Directive to Iranian Consulates and Embassies Abroad, Foreign Office document no. 41749, 3/10/1313 [1935], Tehran: National Archives of Iran (Sazman-­e Asnad-­e Melli-­ye Iran) (NAI), film 22–­240, 21/6/214, archive no. 297036473. 8. Saeed Nafisi, Tarikh-­e Shahryari-­ye Shahanshah Reza Shah Pahlavi (The History of Reza Shah Pahlavi Monarchy) (Tehran: Center for Celebration of the Foundation of Iran’s Monarchy, 1966). 9. Saeed Nafisi, “Az in Pas Hameh Ma ra beh Nam-­e Iran Mishenasand” (From Now On Our Country Will Be known as Iran). Ettelaʿat, December 10, 1934. 10. Nafisi, “Az in Pas Hameh Ma ra be Nam-­eh Iran Mishenasand.” 11. Nafisi, “Az in Pas Hameh Ma ra be Nam-­eh Iran Mishenasand.” 12. Arani published a series of essays in the early issues of Donya in which he critiqued ʿerfan, or Persian mysticism, and challenged Henri Bergson’s philosophy as the latest incarnation of antirationalism, charging it with being both ethically and politically reactionary. 13. Ali Ansari, The Politics of Nationalism in Modern Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 299. 14. As opposed to Persian signifying a racial or ethnic identity. 15. Taghi Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi” (Changing the Persian Language), Donya, no. 10–­12, (June 1935): 23. 16. Jawaharlal Nehru, The Discovery of India (Calcutta: Signet Press, 1946), 420. 17. The “idea of Iran” is a reference to how the nation is remembered, currently valued, and imagined to be in the future. As such, it is a space for continued contestations about what the nation has been, is, and should be. 18. The notion of “social imaginary” was elaborated in key works by Cornelius Castoriadis, notably The Imaginary Institution of Society (Cambridge, MA: MIT University Press, 1987), and in Charles Taylor’s Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004). I am particularly interested in Mohammed Arkoun’s argument on “national imagination”: “Any given society in any given time is produced by the continuously combined, interacting activity of reason and imagination. However, the history of the past is usually presented as a rational or, at least, a rationalized process, which excludes the participation of imagination which is the privilege of poets, artists and prophets; it creates images, parables, symbols to an aesthetic dimension to the realities of human existence, or to show a transcendent truth beyond the ordinary explanations of reason.” Mohammed Arkoun, “Islamic



Notes 173

Culture, Modernity, Architecture,” in Architectural Education in the Islamic World, ed. Ahmet Evin (Singapore: Concept Media, 1986), 20. 19. Richard Wolin, “The Idea of Cosmopolitanism: From Kant to the Iraq War and Beyond,” Ethics & Global Politics 3, no. 2 (2010): 143–­53. 20. Wolin, “Idea of Cosmopolitanism,” 144. 21. Wolin, “Idea of Cosmopolitanism,” 147. 22. Wolin, “Idea of Cosmopolitanism,” 149. 23. Wolin, “Idea of Cosmopolitanism,” 152. 24. Part of the rationale for giving 1919–­35 as the duration of the interwar period, particularly in the context of debates on Iranian nationalism, is that the beginning of many of the intellectual and political activities can be dated to 1919. For example, the publication of the magazine Kaveh began in 1919, in Berlin. This rather vibrant and open space for intellectual discussion and debate wound down in the second period of Reza Shah’s rule (1934–­41). Many historians have marked it as the period in which a single view of modern Iran (authoritarian nationalism) was established and enforced by the state. 25. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 26. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 295. 27. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 295. 28. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 295. 29. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 295. 30. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 296. 31. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 32. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 33. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 34. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 35. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 36. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 297. 37. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 76. 38. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 76. 39. Ansari, Politics of Nationalism, 79. 40. Afshin Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western: An Intellectual History of Iranian Modernity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). 41. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 108–­9. 42. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 67. 43. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 99. 44. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 103–­4. 45. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 108. 46. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 60. 47. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 68. 48. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 49. 49. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 57. 50. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 73.

174 Notes

51. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 77–­78. 52. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 51. 53. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 44. 54. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 44. 55. As a cautionary note, I should add that current critiques of “Orientalism” and “positivism” are productive so long as they are not exaggerated to an extreme. When that is the case, this position often falls into either “nativism” (or gharbzadegi discourse, in the Iranian case), or certain cultish mysticism. 56. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 106. 57. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 107. 58. Matin-­Asgari, Both Eastern and Western, 102. 59. Taghi Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi” (Mysticism and Principles of Materialism), Donya, nos. 1 (January 1934), 3 (March 1934), and 4 (April 1934). 60. Taghi Arani, “Taghyir dar Zaban-­e Farsi” (Change in the Persian Language), Donya nos. 10–­12 (June 1935). 61. Ernst Mach (1838–­1916) was an Austrian philosopher of the sciences. His philosophy influenced the Vienna Circle. His antimetaphysical approach and his antirealist epistemology (positivist empiricism) inspired both analytical philosophy and pragmatism. 62. Arshin Adib-­Moghaddam, Psycho-­nationalism: Global Thought, Iranian Imaginations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 6. 63. Adib-­Moghaddam, Psycho-­nationalism, 7. 64. Adib-­Moghaddam, Psycho-­nationalism, 19. 65. Adib-­Moghaddam, Psycho-­nationalism, 38. 66. Adib-­Moghaddam, Psycho-­nationalism, 5. 67. Abbas Amanat, Iran: A Modern History (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2017), 510. 68. Amanat, Iran: A Modern History, 510. Amanat does not provide a source for the claim that Arani adopted his name later in life because of his preference for the Aryan race. 69. Author’s correspondence with Younes Jalali, June 23, 2020. 70. Arani critiques Persian nationalist discourses in an editorial: “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya” (Donya Editorial), Donya, no. 6 (July 1934). 71. Hamid Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri-­ye Enqlabi-­ye Iran va Goruh-­e Arani (A Brief History of the Revolutionary Republican Party of Iran and the Arani Group) (Tehran: Nashe Atiyeh, 1990); Hossein Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks (Arani beyond Marx) (Tehran: Tazeha, 2003) ; Bagher Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani (Arani’s World) (Tehran: Pejman, 2006); Khosrow Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh (Arani in the Mirror of History) (Tehran: Akhtaran, 2008). 72. Younes Jalali, Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin: Fundamental Science, Psychology, Orientalism, and Political Philosophy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019). 73. Ehsan Yarshater, “Communication,” Iranian Studies 22, no. 1 (1989): 62–­65, especially 62. 74. Yarshater, “Communication.”



Notes 175

75. David Motadel, “Iran and the Aryan Myth,” in Perceptions of Iran: History, Myths and Nationalism from Medieval Persia to the Islamic Republic, ed. Ali Ansari (London: I. B. Tauris, 2014), 130. 76. Motadel, “Iran and the Aryan Myth,” 133. 77. Motadel, “Iran and the Aryan Myth,” 133. 78. Yarshater, “Communication,” 63. 79. Yarshater, “Communication,” 63.

Chapter 1 1. Mojtaba Minovi, “Avvalin Karavan-­e Maʿrefat” (The First Caravan of Knowledge), Yghma, no. 62 (August 29, 1953): 181. 2. Valeska Huber, Channelling Mobilities: Migration and Globalisation in the Suez Canal Region and Beyond, 1869–­1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 3. The Sudanese novelist Tayeb Salih brilliantly captures the complexities of the transitional flow of ideas and people. Tayeb Salih, Season of Migration to the North (Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann,1997). 4. Ali Mirsepassi, “Golpayegan: Seeing the Worlds from a Humble Corner: A Political Memoir,” In Arang Keshavarzian and Ali Mirsepassi, eds., Global 1979: Geographies and Histories of the Iranian Revolutions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021) 116. 5. Montesquieu, The Persian Letters (Harmondsworth and Middlesex, UK: Penguin Books, 1973). 6. This is a reference not only to travelogues and memoirs, but to writings about the virtues of traveling. 7. Farid al-­Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds (Mantiq al-­Tayr) (London and New York: Penguin, 1984). 8. Mohammad Ghazali, Kimiya-­ye Saʿadat (Alchemy of Happiness), ed. Hosein Khadivjan (Tehran: Entesharat-­e ʿElmi va Farhangi, 1991), 457–­61. 9. Ghazali, Kimiya-­ye Saʿadat. 10. Ghazali, Kimiya-­ye Saʿadat. 11. Minovi, “Avvalin Karavan-­e Maʿrefat,” 181. 12. Taghi Arani’s last name is also written as “Erani.” Almost all the publications written in the German language spell it “Erani,” but in English it is commonly spelled “Arani.” As there is no consensus on a single transliteration, I follow the norm used by those writing in English. Arani gives different dates of birth in various available documents. In his 1937 interrogation, he gave the year 1903. Hossein Farzaneh, Parvandeh-­ye Panjah o Seh Nafar, 227. However, in a blurb for his book on psychology, his date of birth is stated as September 1902 (cited in Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 83). When he applied for a teaching position in Berlin, he gave his date of birth as March 21, 1902 (official documents cited in Jalali, Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin, 181). The same date was repeated in his application for his doctoral defense (reprinted in Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh, 207). But the official version of his dissertation lists Arani’s date of birth as September 5, 1902 (documents cited in Jalali, Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin, 181). Shakeri also cites the two dates

176 Notes

in 1902, based on German documents (Shakeri 2008, 26.). Taghi Arani, Osul-­e ʿElm-­e Ruh, Pesikologi-­ye Omumi (The Principles of the Science of the Soul: General Psychology). Berlin: Kaviani Press, 1927. 13. Khosrow Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh (Arani in the Mirror of History) (Tehran: Akhtaran, 2008), 26. 14. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi: Panjah Nafar va Seh Nafar (Political Memoirs: Fifty plus Three People) (Tehran: Nashr-­e Goftar, 1993), 17. 15. After the constitutionalists came to power, the newly founded parliament introduced numerous measures to reform the economic and financial system. Iranian government action at that time included the hiring of the American adviser Morgan Shuster (1877–­1960) in 1911 for the purpose of reforming Iran’s finances. The Russian and British empires, which were unhappy with Shuster’s proceedings, demanded his removal and expulsion from Iran. After resistance to this demand from the Iranian government, in December of 1911 the Russian army threatened military action. Despite the Iranian government expelling Shuster a few months after having hired him in May 1911, the Russian army advanced into Iran in December and occupied numerous major cities in the north of the country, including Rasht, Anzali, and Tabriz. Due to resistance by the people of Tabriz, the siege lasted three days. But eventually the Russians occupied that city and proceeded to execute resisters. The Russian forces remained in Tabriz for several years, until the middle of World War I. 16. Mehdi Mojtahedi, Rejal-­e Azerbayjan dar ʿAsr-­e Mashrutiyat (Azeri Leaders in the Constitutional Period) (Tehran, Naqsh-­e Jahan Press, 1948). 17. Edward. G. Browne, The Persian Revolution of 1905–­1909 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1910), 269. 18. Farnaz Calafi, Ali Dadpay, and Pouyan Mashayekh, “Iran’s Yankee Hero,” New York Times, April 18, 2009. 19. Calafi, Dadpay, and Mashayekh, “Iran’s Yankee Hero.” 20. Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh, 202; Taghi Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” in Parvandeh-­e Panjah o Seh Nafar (The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier), ed. Hossein Farzaneh (Tehran: Negah, 1993), 284. 21. Ervand Abrahamian, A History of Modern Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 62. 22. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 275. 23. Hossein Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks (Arani beyond Marx) (Tehran: Tazeha, 2003), 459–­60. 24. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 284. 25. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi: Panjah Nafar va Seh Nafar (Political Memoirs: Fifty plus Three) (Tehran: Nashr-­e Goftar, 1993), 19. 26. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 63. 27. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 65. 28. “Mohasselin-­e Sharqi dar Alman” (Oriental Students in Germany), Iranshahr, no. 3 (August 22, 1922): 55.



Notes 177

29. “Ferestadan-­e Mohasselin beh Farang” (Sending Iranian Students to Europe), Iranshahr, no. 7 (December 20, 1922): 55. 30. Shakeri states that Arani attended lectures by Planck and Einstein, as do many others, but it’s not clear what the source of this information is. See Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh, 100. 31. Hamid Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi-­ye Iran (History of the Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia) (Tehran: Nashr-­e Atieh, 2000), 9–­11. 32. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 19. 33. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 284. 34. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marx, 40, 598. 35. Younes Jalali, Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin (Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan 2018), 59. 36. Sayyed Hasan Taghizadeh (1878–­1970) was an eminent statesman, constitutionalist, and scholar. After the success of the 1906 Constitutional Revolution, he represented the merchants and guildsmen of Tabriz in in the first Majles (October 6, 1906–­July 17, 1908). He was a key member of the Democrat Party at the time. As a modernist journalist and scholar, he also wrote many essays on political, cultural, and social issues, particularly in the newspaper Kaveh, published in Berlin from 1916 to 1922. 37. Hasan Taghizadeh, Zendegi-­ye Tufani: Khaterat-­e Seyyed Hasan Taghizadeh (A Tempestuous Life: Memoirs of Seyyed Hasan Taghiadeh), ed. Iraj Afshar (Tehran: Elmi, 1993), 183–­86. 38. Hossein Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, 1884–­1962. 39. Allameh Mohammad Qazvini (1877–­1949) was one of the most respected scholars of Iranian culture and history. He collaborated with Edward Browne at the University of Cambridge, and spent more than three decades of his life in Europe. Ebrahim Pourdavoud (1885–­1968) was a prominent historian and scholar of pre-­Islamic Iran perhaps best known for translating Avesta into Persian. 40. Mohammad Ali Jamalzadeh (1892–­1997), a prominent Iranian writer, is considered the father of Persian short-­story writing. 41. Jamshid Behnam, Berlini-­ha: Andishmandan-­e Irani dar Berlin, 1915–­1930 (Berliners: Iranian Thinkers in Berlin 1915–­1930) (Tehran: Farzan Ruz, 2007), 7–­8. 42. For more on the controversy regarding the foundation of Kaviani Press and its relationship to the Million Committee and the newspaper Kaveh, see Edward G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, Volume 4: Modern Times (1500–­1924) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 424. 43. Friedrich Rosen was born on August 30, 1856, in Leipzig, Germany. His father, Georg Rosen, worked in the Foreign Ministry of Germany in 1921. For detailed information on Rosen’s life and his relationship with Arani, see chapter 3 in this volume. 44. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 94. 45. Mahmud Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr-­e Pahlavi: Az Forughi ta Fardust (Notable Personalities in the Pahlavi Period: From Foroughi to Fardust), vol. 2 (Tehran: Sina, 1997), 815.

178 Notes

46. Taghi Arani, Osul-­e ʿElm-­e Ruh, Pesikologi-­ye ʿOmumi (The Principles of the Science of the Soul: General Psychology) (Berlin: Kaviani, 1927), 3. 47. Arani, Osul-­e ʿElm-­e Ruh, Pesikologi-­ye ʿOmumi, 3. 48. Kaveh was published in Berlin by Sayyed Hasan Taghizadeh from 1916 to 1922. It ceased publication due to lack of funding. 49. Ervand Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982), 124. 50. Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 124. 51. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 11. 52. Taghi Arani, “Scientific Questions,” Iranshahr, no. 1 (1922): 63–­64. 53. Taghi Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi” (Changing the Persian Language), Donya 1, nos. 10–­12 (1935): 373. 54. Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 156–­57. 55. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 34–­35. 56. Morteza Alavi, who was expelled from Germany, went to the Soviet Union during that time and lived in Thessalonica. He was charged with spying during Stalin’s great purge, and was shot in 1938. Ahmad Asadi also traveled to the Soviet Union, where his name morphed into “Asadof,” by which some Persian sources refer to him. 57. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi , 12–­13. 58. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 236. 59. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 31. 60. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 454. 61. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 13–­14. 62. Cosroe Chaqueri, ed. The Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia (Florence: Padzahr, 1996). 63. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 17. 64. Iraj Eskandari, Khaterat-­e Iraj Eskandari (The Memoirs of Iraj Eskandari), ed. Abdollah Shahbazi (Tehran: Moʾassas-ye Motaleʾat va Pazhuhesh-­ha-­ye Siyasi, 1993), 51. 65. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 24. 66. Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh, 208. 67. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 31. 68. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 26. 69. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 22–­23. 70. Eskandari, Memoirs of Iraj Eskandari, 54. 71. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 23–­24. 72. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 236 73. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 64. 74. Shakeri, Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh, 27; Jalali, Taghi Erani, 161, 75. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 256. 76. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 227. 77. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 15. 78. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 65.



Notes 179

79. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 232 80. Arani, Farziyeh-­ye Nesbi (Theory of Relativity) (Tehran: 1934), 3. 81. Arani, Farziyeh-­ye Nesbi, 37. 82. Morteza Motahhari, introduction to Sayyed Mohammad Hossein Tabatabaʾi, Osul-­e Falsafeh va Ravesh-­e Reʾalism (The Principles of Philosophy and Method of Realism), vol. 1 (Tehran: Sadra, 1992), 3. 83. Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 154. 84. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 237–­38. 85. Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 157. 86. Ladbon Esfandiari, who fled Iran from fear of the Reza Shah government’s persecution of the left, went to the Soviet Union, where he perhaps fell victim to Stalin’s great purge and was killed in 1937 or 1938. 87. Some historians mistakenly believe that this correspondence began with Nima Yushij. 88. Ahmadi, History of the Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia, 44. 89. Ahmadi, History of the Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia, 43. 90. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 17. 91. Bozorg Alavi, Khaterat-­e Bozorg Alavi (The Memories of Bozorg Alavi), ed. Hamid Ahmadi (Tehran: Donya-­ye Ketab, 1998), 153 92. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 47. 93. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 71. 94. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 73–­74. 95. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 67. 96. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 53. 97. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 13. 98. Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr Pahlavi, 777. 99. Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr Pahlavi, 778. 100. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 13. 101. Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr Pahlavi, 778–­80. 102. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 14. 103. Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr Pahlavi, 813. 104. Eskandari, Khaterat-­e Iraj Eskandari, 63; Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 69. 105. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 238–­39. 106. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 239. 107. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 217. 108. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 239. 109. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 14. 110. Boroujerdi, Arani beyond Marx, 69–­70. 111. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 248. 112. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 240. 113. See Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi; Farzaneh, The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier; Sepehr Zabih, The Communist Movement in Iran (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996); Shakeri, Arani in the Mirror of History.

180 Notes

114. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 24–­25. 115. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 228–­29. 116. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 242. 117. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 242. 118. Alavi, Khaterat-­e Bozorg Alavi, 147; Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 245. 119. Farzaneh, The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier, 119. 120. Farzaneh, The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier, 119. 121. Farzaneh, The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier, 20. 122. Abdolsamad Kambakhsh, “Abdolsamad Kambakhsh’s Dossier,” in The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier, ed. Hossein Farzaneh (Tehran: Negah, 1993), 191–­203. 123. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 178–­88. 124. Yusef Eftekhari, Khaterat-­e Doran-­e Separishodeh (Memoirs of the Elapsed Time), eds. Kaveh Bayat and Majid Tafreshi (Tehran: Ferdowsi, 1991), 58. 125. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 119. 126. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 189. 127. Anvar Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 143. 128. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 485–­86. 129. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 258. 130. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 268. 131. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 274. 132. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 284. 133. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 265–­66. 134. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 280. 135. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 284. 136. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 145. 137. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 145. 138. Khameʾi, Khaterat-­e Siyasi, 146–­47. 139. Farzaneh, The Fifty-­Three’s Dossier, 545. 140. Alavi, Khaterat-­e Bozorg Alavi, 157. 141. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 493. 142. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 494. 143. Editorial, Ajir, no. 8 (May 30, 1943), in Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 57–­58. 144. Eftekhari, Khaterat-­e Doran-­e Separishodeh, 59–­60. 145. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 694–­696. 146. Boroujerdi, Arani faratar az Marks, 696. Ervand Abrahamian believes that “Ovanessian, who was much closer to the 53,” has the most reliable account of Arani’s death, “that Arani died of typhus. He describes him as a ‘shahid’ and blames the prison warden of not providing adequate medical support including lemons and oranges” (personal correspondence, July 2020).   147. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 527–­32. 148. Arani’s first demand was for an end to keeping prisoners in jail for a long time and not letting their families visit them.



Notes 181

149. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 532. 150. Arani, “Dr. Taghi Arani’s Dossier,” 531. 151. Ahmadi, Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri Enqelabi, 44. 152. Minovi, “Avvalin Karavan-­e Maʿrefat,” 181.

Chapter 2 1. Roshani Beik, July 21, 1923. 2. Taghi Arani, “Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran,” Farangestan, no. 5 (August 30, 1924). 3. According to Mohammed Arkoun, “the ‘imaginary’ of an individual, a social group, or a nation is the collection of images carried by that culture about itself or another culture-­once a product of epic poetry, and religious discourse, today a product primarily of the media and secondarily of the schools.” Arkoun, Rethinking Islam (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1994), 6. 4. Jawaharlal Nehru wrote The Discovery of India (Calcutta: Signet, 1946) as a series of letters to his daughter, Indira, during his imprisonment in 1942. The book’s historical narrative stretches from ancient times to the last years of British colonial rule, and analyzes texts from the Vedas to the Upanishads, epics such as the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, and personalities like the Buddha and Mahatma Gandhi. Nehru’s aim was to articulate a “new” history of India that would promote his secular and democratic vision for postliberation India. He wrote a cultural history that would transcend both the colonial legacy and the racial and other social forms of discrimination in India’s tradition. Nehru’s history focuses on India’s shared cultural achievement as a unified national narrative, an imaginary, but also celebrates its diversity of ethnicity and religion. More relevant to our discussion of Iranian nationalism, it rebuffs the British racialized history of India and the discourse of Aryan or Indo-­Europeans (light-­skinned Indians). The Discovery of India was a critical part of Nehru’s vision for the making of the Indian democratic state, of which he was the first prime minister. 5. Ervand Abrahamian, A History of Modern Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 61. 6. Abrahamian, A History, 60. 7. Abrahamian, A History, 63. 8. Abrahamian, A History, 65. 9. Iranshahr, “Ferestadan-­e Mohasselin beh Farang” (Sending Iranian Students to Europe), Iranshahr, no. 7 (December 20, 1922): 55. 10. Behnam, Berlini-­ha, 1. 11. This is a reference to a short defeat of the conceptualists in 1909, and Mohammad Ali Shah’s rule. 12. Behnam, Berlini-­ha, 10. 13. Behnam, Berlini-­ha, 10. 14. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, 484. 15. Taghizadeh, Zendegi-­ye Tufani, 182. 16. Taghizadeh, Zendegi-­ye Tufani, 184–­85. 17. Taghizadeh, Zendegi-­ye Tufani, 185.

182 Notes

18. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, 483–­88. 19. Al-­Sulami, “Iranian Journals in Berlin during the Interwar Period,” 158. 20. Taghi Arani, “Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran,” Farangestan, no. 5 (August 30, 1924). Arani, “The Farsi Language,” Iranshahr, nos. 5 and 6 (February 1924). Arani, “Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran,” Farangestan, no. 5 (August 30, 1924/1302). 21. Kaveh Bayat, Pantorkism va Iran (Pan-­Turkism and Iran) (Tehran: Sherazeh, 2006). 22. Bayat, Pantorkism va Iran, 161. 23. Hasan Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha” (The Beliefs of the Ottomans about Iranians). Iranshahr no. 2, (October 18, 1923). , “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha” (What Ottomans Think of Iranians), translated from the Turkish Yengi edition into Persian, Iranshahr, no. 2, (October 18, 1923): 88. 24. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 88. 25. Ataov Turkkaya, “The Principles of Kemalism,” Turkish Yearbook of International Relations 20 (1980): 29. 26. Turkkaya, “Principles of Kemalism,” 89. 27. Turkkaya, “Principles of Kemalism,” 89–­90. 28. Turkkaya, “Principles of Kemalism,” 90. 29. From Ileri: “The Turks have shed so much of their blood for the glory of the Ottoman state but those carrying the Iranian flag have not shed a single drop of their blood for their flag.” 30. From Ileri: “Caucasian Turks received some civilization from the Russian dominance, but Iran gave nothing to its subject Turks other than the opium it got from China.” 31. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 89. 32. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 90. 33. From Ileri: “Last year it had been announced that syphilis was cured for free by municipal doctors. In the course of a year, 9,000 people came and more than twice that number were syphilis patients who didn’t come.” Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 91. 34. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 91. 35. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 91. 36. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 92. 37. Roshani Beik, “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha,” 94.

Chapter 3 1. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 76. 2. Amir Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen: Orientalist Scholarship and International Politics (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2020), 476. 3. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 474. 4. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 86. 5. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 483. 6. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 1. 7. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 1.



Notes 183

8. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 4–­5. 9. Hossein Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani (Expressions of the Iranian Spirit) (Berlin: Iranshahr Press, 1956). 10. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 12. 11. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 12. 12. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 19. 13. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 19. 14. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 19. 15. Iranshahr, Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani, 19. 16. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 81. 17. Saeed Nafisi, “Friedrich Rosen,” Mehr, no. 37 (Khordad 1315): 28. 18. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 83. 19. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 44. 20. It is worth adding that Arani may have been introduced to Orientalist writings about Iran before he moved to Berlin. 21. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 486. 22. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 486. 23. Theilhaber, Friedrich Rosen, 485. 24. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 99. 25. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 491. 26. Jalali, Taghi Erani, 494. 27. Taghi Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi” (The Persian Language), Iranshahr nos. 5–­6 (February 6, 1924). 28. Taghi Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati baraye Iran” (Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran), Farangestan no. 5 (August 30, 1924): 247–­54. 29. In this short piece Arani identified five eminent Iranian cultural icons and four kings known the world over. He listed Zoroaster, Farabi, Ebn Sina, Omar Khayyam, and Ferdowsi as foremost cultural figures of Iran. On the question of naming five Persian kings, he only named four, explaining that there was only consensus on Cyrus the Great, Darius the Great, and Ardeshir Banakan. Taghi Arani, “Scientific Opinion Poll,” Iranshahr, no. 1: 33–­34. 30. A few historians of modern Iran, Ervand Abrahamian and Abbas Amanat among them, have overstated the bearing of the two articles Arani published in Berlin. 31. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 355. 32. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 355. 33. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 356. 34. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 356. 35. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 356. 36. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 357. 37. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 358. 38. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 359. 39. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 359.

184 Notes

40. Arani’s studies and his friendship with a group of Jewish graduate students may partly account for Arani’s analytical views. 41. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 359–­60. 42. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 360. 43. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 360. 44. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 360–­61. 45. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 361. 46. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 363–­64. 47. Arani, “Zaban-­e Farsi,” 364. For a detailed discussion of the debate over the cleansing of the Turkish language of Arabic and Persian, see Yilmaz Çolak, “Language Policy and Official Ideology in Early Republican Turkey,” Middle Eastern Studies, 40, no. 6 (2004): 67–­91. 48. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 249. 49. As was noted earlier, Arani was only a twenty-­one-­or twenty-­two-­year-­old student in Berlin at the time of the article’s publication. Many years later he admitted that this essay was a response to Roshani Beik, and that his own views were much too nationalistic. 50. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 250. 51. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 251. 52. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 251. 53. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 248. 54. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 247. 55. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 248. 56. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 254. 57. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 251. 58. They included Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, Taghizadeh, and Shafagh, among others. 59. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 248. 60. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 249. 61. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 253. 62. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 253. 63. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 253. 64. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 250–­51. 65. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 249–­50. 66. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 252. 67. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 254. 68. Arani, “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran,” 254.

Chapter 4 1. Bozorg Alavi, Khaterat-­e Bozorg Alavi (Memories of Bozorg Alavi), ed. Hamid Ahmadi (Tehran: Donya-­ye Ketab, 1998), 147. 2. Arani, Donya, no. 1, 1934. 3. Arani, Donya, no., 1, 1934. 4. Arani, Donya, no. 7–­9, 1934. 5. Arani, Donya, no. 10–­12, 1935. 6. It also appears that Donya experienced financial difficulties and may have ceased publication partly for lack of funding.



Notes 185

7. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 10. 8. Arani preferred other names for his journal (Tundar and Materialism), which were rejected by the Ministry of Information when he applied for a printing license. It is still telling, however, that he considered and settled on Donya. 9. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 117. 10. Toluʿi, Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr-­e Pahlavi, 779. 11. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya” (Donya’s Opening Editorial), Donya, no. 1 (January 21, 1934), 1. 12. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 9. 13. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1. 14. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1. 15. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1. 16. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1–­2. 17. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1. 18. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 1. 19. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 2. 20. Momeni, Donya-­ye Arani, 2. 21. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,” 165. 22. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,” 165. 23. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,” 165. 24. For analyses of Marx’s views on peasants, see Hal Draper, Karl Marx’s Theory of Revolution, 4 vols. (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1977–­90), vol. 2, 317–­452; and Michael Duggett, “Marx on Peasants,” The Journal of Peasant Studies 2, no. 2 (1975): 159–­82. 25. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,” 165. 26. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,”166. 27. Arani, “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya,”166. 28. See for example, Arash Khazeni, Tribes and Empire on the Margins of Nineteenth Century Iran (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010). 29. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire. 30. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire. 31. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire. 32. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire. 33. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. It is a sarcastic recital of an Arabic saying by Imam Ali, the first Shia Imam: “The world [donya, which also happened to be the name of the journal] is but a corpse; and those who are after it, a bunch of dogs.” The editorial doesn’t mention the last word of the saying, kollab [dogs]. 34. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 35. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 36. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 37. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166. 38. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166. 39. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166. 40. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166. 41. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166.

186 Notes

42. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 166. 43. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 44. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 45. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 46. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 47. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 48. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 49. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 169. 50. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 51. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 52. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 53. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 54. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 55. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 56. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 57. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 58. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168. 59. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 168–­69. 60. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 169. 61. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 169. 62. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 169. 63. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 167. 64. Khazeni, Tribes and Empire, 169.

Chapter 5 1. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi” (Changing the Persian Language), Donya, nos. 10–­12 (June 1935). 2. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi.” 3. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 21. 4. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi” 21. 5. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 18. 6. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 18. 7. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 18. 8. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 9. Arani used the term “uprising” to compare the poetic efforts of Daqiqi and Ferdowsi to the military uprisings with which they were ideologically linked in his analysis. 10. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 11. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 12. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 13. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 14. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19.



Notes 187

15. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 16. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 17. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 20. 18. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 20. 19. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 20. 20. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 20. 21. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 20. 22. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 19. 23. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 21. 24. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 21. 25. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 21. 26. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 21. 27. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 22. 28. Mehdi Mojtahedi, Rejal-­e Azerbayjan dar ʿAsr-­e Mashrutiyat, 214. 29. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 26. 30. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 31. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 32. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 33. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24–­25. 34. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 35. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 36. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 37. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 38. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 23. 39. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24. 40. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24. 41. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24. 42. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24. 43. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 24. 44. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 45. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 46. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 47. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 48. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 49. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 25. 50. Arani, “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi,” 27.

Chapter 6 1. Taghi Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi” (Mysticism and the Principles of Materialism), Donya, nos. 1 (January 1934), 3 (March 1934), and 4 (April 1934). 2. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 127.

188 Notes

3. Nasrollah Pourjavady, “Mysticism and Taghi Arani,” taken from Nasrollah Pourjavady’s Facebook page, October 4, 2014. https://www.facebook.com/nasrollah.pourjavady/ posts/10201192998879422. 4. Pourjavady, “Mysticism and Taghi Arani.” 5. Pourjavady, “Mysticism and Taghi Arani.” 6. Although Pourjavady recently critiqued Fardid, speaking of his “charlatanism,” he seems to have been rather quick to judge in the case of Arani. 7. Arani, “‘Erfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 10. 8. If we were to treat mysticism as a literary tradition, then Arani’s criticism would be meaningless and unfair. Those, however, who present mysticism as an intellectual order, in opposition to modern “reason,” do not consider it a literary tradition. Ahmad Fardid was one such thinker. 9. For a study of the Pahlavi state’s embrace of “spiritual” Islam in the 1960s and 70s, see Mirsepassi, Iran’s Quiet Revolution: The Downfall of the Pahlavi State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019). 10. Arani, “Erfan va Usul-­e Maddi.” 11. The Babi faith emerged as a nineteenth-­century messianic movement in Iran, and derives its name from the title bab (literally, gate) given to its founder, Sayyid ʿAli Muhammad Shirazi (1819–­50), who was believed to be a portal to the Twelfth Imam. Babism evolved from Shiʾi Islam and became a major millenarian movement. 12. Arani sometimes uses the notions of civilization and civil society interchangeably. 13. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 10. 14. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no, 3: 118. 15. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 118. 16. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 10. 17. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 10. 18. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 11. 19. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 13. 20. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 118. 21. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 118. 22. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 15. 23. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 91. 24. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 1: 16. 25. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 2: 90. 26. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 116. 27. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 115. 28. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 115. 29. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 2: 91. 30. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 110. 31. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no, 3: 112. 32. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 114.



Notes 189

33. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 114. 34. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 118. 35. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 118–­19. 36. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 120. 37. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 122. 38. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 119. 39. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 119. 40. Arani, “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi,” Donya, no. 3: 119. 41. Arani’s argument seems similar to Raymond Williams’s theory of “cultural materialism.” Williams’s particular approach to “culture” aims to explain the complexity of ideas and tradition, and their interactions with political power. See Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977). 42. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 120. 43. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 121. 44. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 126. 45. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 126. 46. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 126. 47. One may argue that Arani used more moderate language because he was aware that Donya would be subject to strict censorship. However, the line of argument he develops in this piece seems consistent with his lifestyle and general public political positions.

Conclusion 1. Morteza Motahhari, introduction to Sayyed Mohammad Hossein Tabatabaʾi, Osul-­e Falsafeh va Ravesh-­e Reʾalism (The Principles of Philosophy and Method of Realism), vol. 1 (Tehran: Sadra, 1992), 33–­34. 2. See chapters 5 and 6 in this volume. 3. It should be noted that a new run of Donya was published after Arani’s death by the Tudeh Party. This second life in the publication of Donya identified itself as the continuation of Arani’s Donya, and was perhaps inspired by Arani’s ideas. Over time, however, the new Donya transformed into a different, more partisan journal. 4. Khalil Maleki (1901–­69) was a prominent socialist thinker and political figure in the 1940s and ’50s. Arani was a mentor to him, and they met in Berlin. Maleki worked with Arani when they both returned to Iran. For a detailed study of Maleki’s life and thought, see Homa Katouzian, Khalil Maleki: The Human Face of Iranian Socialism (London: One World, 2018); Behnam, Berlini-­ha, 125. 5. Arani remained an advocate for the Persian language as a unifying element of the modern Iranian nation-­state. This seems to have been a “pragmatic” stand for him, as it enabled him to take a critical stand toward the dominant privileging of race and ethnicity as the center element of Iranian nationalism in Iran and Turkey. 6. André Malraux (1901–­76) was a French literary figure and a statesman who served for ten years as France’s minister of cultural affairs. He wrote Man’s Fate about the Chinese

190 Notes

Revolution, as part of a trilogy. His writing foreshadowed the main themes of what later became existentialism: commitment, meaning forged through action, no preestablished identity, and Marxism of the humanist variety. 7. This is a general reference to Bakhtin’s (1895–­75) idea that humans’ life experiences are shared (dialogic) events, and that our lives achieve meaning by our participation in dialogue. 8. Maxine Rodinson wrote a critical piece about Foucault’s writings and pointed out: “Foucault felt embarrassed to speak of Islamic government as an ‘idea’ or even an ‘ideal.’ But the slogan of an Islamic government seemed to express a ‘political will’ that impressed him. According to him, it concerned, on the one hand, an effort to give the traditional structures of Islamic society (as they appeared in Iran) a permanent role in political life.” Maxine Rodinson, “Khomeini and the ‘Primacy of the Spiritual,’” Nouvel Observateur, February 19, 1979. 9. A notable example of this line of reasoning is Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). 10. Both left and right use the concepts “local” and “authenticity” in inconsistent ways. The radical right imagines the local as the domain of one’s “roots.” Within this domain, Western “values” are universal, and whiteness is its metonym. For them, the “non-­West” is an external “local” that ought to be fenced in. The postmodernists, meanwhile, speak of how unstable, contingent, and invented all ideas and cultural systems are, while then proceeding to engage in a romance with “local” cultural ideas and values. The works of Talal Asad and Saba Mahmood are two examples. In both cases, they insist on a single notion of Islam and defend it against all other, less authentic, versions of Islam. 11. For a thoughtful discussion of cosmopolitanism and its distinction with globalism, see Golbarg Rekabtalaei, Iranian Cosmopolitanism: A Cinematic History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 6–­7. 12. The argument is a critique of economic determinism of modernization theory, as well as a critique of postmodern cultural relativism. Sen’s idea of “capabilities” operates as a “universal” ethical norm, guaranteeing material resources for marginalized populations to provide them agency. Amartya Sen, Development as Freedom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 13. See, for instance, Michael Walzer, “Islamism and the Left,” Dissent, winter 2015. 14. Joan Cocks, Passion and Paradox: Intellectuals Confront the National Question (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002). 15. For a critique of the postmodern approach in the study of contemporary Islamic societies, see Aziz Al-­Azmeh, Islams and Modernities (Verso: London, 1993); Aziz Al-­Azmeh, “Secularism and its Enemies,” working paper series of the Centre for Advanced Studies in the Humanities and Social Sciences (CASHSS), from the conference “Multiple Secularities: Beyond the West, beyond Modernities,” Leipzig University, 2020; Ali Mirsepassi, “Mistaken Anti-­Modernity: Fardid after Fardid,” working paper series of the Humanities Centre for Advanced Studies (HCAS), from the conference “Multiple Secularities: Beyond the West, beyond Modernities,” Leipzig University, February 2019. 16. For a more detailed discussion of the interwar period, see chapter 3.



Notes 191

17. Abdolhossein Nushin (1907–­71) was a leading playwright, theatre director and translator. He was one of the early individuals to introduce modern theater to Iran. Nushin was among the leftist intellectuals who contributed to Donya under Arani’s editorship. He was member of the group that founded the Tudeh Party.

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Selected Bibliography

Abrahamian, Ervand. A History of Modern Iran. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. ———. Iran between Two Revolutions Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982. Adib-­Moghaddam, Arshin. Psycho-­nationalism: Global Thought, Iranian Imagination. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Ahmadi, Hamid. Tarikhcheh-­ye Ferqeh-­ye Jomhuri-­ye Enqlabi-­ye Iran va Goruh-­ye Arani (A Brief History of the Revolutionary Republican Party of Iran and the Arani Group). Tehran: Nashr-­e Atiyeh, 1990. Alavi, Bozorg. Khaterat-­e Bozorg Alavi (Memories of Bozorg Alavi), edited by Hamid Ahmadi. Tehran: Donya-­ye Ketab, 1998. Al-­Azmeh, Aziz. Islams and Modernities. London: Verso, 1993. ———. “Secularism and its Enemies.” Working Paper Series of the Centre for Advanced Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences (CASHSS), from the conference “Multiple Secularities: Beyond the West, beyond Modernities” Leipzig University, February 2020. Alsulami, Mohammed. “Iranian Journals in Berlin during the Interwar Period.” In Transnational Islam in Interwar Europe: Muslim Activists and Thinkers, edited by Götz Nordbruch and Umar Ryad. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Ansari, Ali. The Politics of Nationalism in Modern Iran. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Arani, Taghi. “Azerbayjan Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran” (Azerbaijan: An Existential Question for Iran). Farangestan, no. 5 (August 30, 1924): 247–­54. ———. “ʿErfan va Usul-­e Maddi” (Mysticism and the Principles of Materialism). Donya, no. 1 (January 1934): 10–­16; no. 3 (March 1934): 87–­91; and no. 4 (April 1934): 109–­27. ———. “Farziyeh-­ye Nesbi” (The Theory of Relativity). Donya, no. 7 (August 1934): 197–­ 203; no. 8 (November 1934): 229–­37; and no. 9 (December 1934): 261–­68. ———. Osul-­e ʿElm-­e Ruh, Pesikologi-­ye Omumi (The Principles of the Science of the Soul: General Psychology). Berlin: Kaviani Press, 1927.

194

Selected Bibliography

———. “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya” (Opening Editorial). Donya, no. 1 (January 1934): 1–­2. ———. “Sarmaqaleh-­ye Donya 6” (Opening Editorial 6). Donya, no. 6 (July 1934) 165–­69. ———. “Taghyir-­e Zaban-­e Farsi” (Changing the Persian Language), Donya, no. 10–­12 (June 1935). ———. “Zaban-­e Farsi” (The Persian Language). Iranshahr, no. 5–­6 (February 6, 1924): 355–­65. Arkoun, Mohammed. “Islamic Culture, Modernity, Architecture,” in Architectural Education in the Islamic World, edited by Ahmet Evin. Singapore: Concept Media, 1986. Asad, Talal. Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Associated Press. “Persia Changes Its Name; to Be ‘Iran’ from March 22.” New York Times, January 1, 1935. Ataöv, Türkkaya. “The Principles of Kemalism.” Turkish Yearbook of International Relations 20 (May 1980): 19–­44. Attar, Farid al-­Din. The Conference of the Birds (Mantiq al-­Tayr). Translated by Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis. London and New York: Penguin, 1984. Bayat, Kaveh. Pantorkism va Iran (Pan-­Turkism and Iran). Tehran: Shirazeh, 2006. Behnam, Jamshid. Berlini-­ha: Andishmandan-­e Irani dar Berlin, 1915–­1930 (Berliners: Iranian Thinkers in Berlin, 1915–­1930). Tehran: Farzan Ruz, 2007. Boroujerdi, Hossein. Arani faratar az Marks (Arani beyond Marx). Tehran: Tazeha, 2003. Browne, Edward G. A Literary History of Persia, Volume 4: Modern Times (1500–­1924). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978. ———. The Persian Revolution of 1905–­1909, 2nd ed. London and Edinburgh: Frank Cass, 1966. Calafi, Farnaz, Ali Dadpay, and Pouyan Mashayekh. “Iran’s Yankee Hero.” New York Times, April 18, 2009. Castoriadis, Cornelius. The Imaginary Institution of Society. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987. Cocks, Joan. Passion and Paradox: Intellectuals Confront the National Question. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002. Çolak, Yilmaz. “Language Policy and Official Ideology in Early Republican Turkey.” Middle Eastern Studies 40, no. 6 (November 2004): 67–­91. Dehkhoda, Ali Akbar, Loghatnameh-­ye Dehkhoda (Dehkhoda’s Dictionary), vol. 7, 2nd ed. Tehran: Tehran University Publication, 1998. Directive to Iranian Consulates and Embassies Abroad, Foreign Office. Document no. 41749, 3/10/1313. Tehran: National Archives of Iran (Sazman-­e Asnad-­i Melli-­ye Iran), [1935]. Draper, Hal. Karl Marx’s Theory of Revolution, vol. 1. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1977. Duggett, Michael. “Marx on Peasants.”Journal of Peasant Studies 2, no. 1 (1975): 159–­82. Eftekhari, Yusef. Khaterat-­e Doran-­e Separishodeh (Memories of the Elapsed Time), edited by Kaveh Bayat and Majid Tafreshi. Tehran: Ferdowsi Publisher, 1991.



Selected Bibliography

195

Eskandari, Iraj. Khaterat-­e Iraj Eskandari (Memoirs of Iraj Eskandari), edited by Abdollah Shahbazi. Tehran: Moʾasseseh Motalaʿat va Pazhuhesh-­ha-­ye Siyasi, 1993. Farzaneh, Hossein. Parvandeh-­ye Panjah o Seh Nafar (The Dossier of the Fifty-­Three Persons). Tehran: Agah, 1993. Fernée, Tadd Graham. Enlightenment and Violence: Modernity and Nation-­Making. London: SAGE, 2014. Ghazali, Mohammad. Kimia-­ye Saʿdat (Alchemy of Happiness), 9th ed., edited by Hossein Khadivjam. Tehran: Entesharat ʿElmi va Farhangi, 1991. Huber, Valeska. Channeling Mobilities: Migration and Globalization in the Suez Canal Region and Beyond, 1869–­1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Iranshahr, Hossein Kazemzadeh. Asar va Ahval-­e Kazemzadeh Iranshahr (The Works and Life of Kazemzadeh Iranshahr). Tehran: Iqbal, 1971. ———. “Ferestadan-­e Mohasselin be Farang” (The Sending of Iranian Students to Europe). Iranshahr, no. 7 (December 20, 1922): 55–­56. ———. Tajalliyat-­e Ruh-­e Irani (Expressions of the Iranian Spirit). Berlin: Iranshahr Press, 1956. ———. “Mohasselin-­e Sharqi dar Alman” (Eastern Students in Germany). Iranshahr, no. 3 (August 22, 1922): 55–­63. J. P. C. “Oriental Memories of a German Diplomatist.” English Review (October 1930). Jalali, Younes. Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin: Fundamental Science, Psychology, Orientalism, and Political Philosophy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Katouzian, Homa. Khalil Maleki: The Human Face of Iranian Socialism. London: One World, 2018. ———. The Political Economy of Modern Iran: Despotism and Pseudo-­Modernism, 1926–­ 1979. Review. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1981. Kersten, Carool. Cosmopolitans and Heretics: New Muslim Intellectuals and the Study of Islam. New York: Columbia University Press, 2011. Khameʾi, Anvar. Khaterat-­e Siyasi: Panjah Nafar va Seh Nafar (Political Memories: Fifty plus Three People). Tehran: Nashr-­e Goftar, 1993. Khazeni, Arash. Tribes and Empire on the Margins of Nineteenth-­Century Iran. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010. Koyré, Alexandre. “The Political Function of the Modern Lie.” Contemporary Jewish Record, vol. 8, no. 3 (June 1945): 290–­-­300. Makki, Hossein. Tarikh-­e Bist Saleh-­ye Iran (Twenty-­Year History of Iran). Tehran: Amirkabir, 1978. Matin-­Asgari, Afshin. Both Eastern and Western: An Intellectual History of Iranian Modernity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Minovi, Mojtaba. “Avvalin Karavan-­e Maʿrefat” (The First Caravan of Knowledge). Yghma, no. 62 (August 29, 1953). Mirsepassi, Ali. “Golpayegan: Seeing the World from a Humble Corner: A Political Memoir,” In Global 1979: Geographies and Histories of the Iranian Revolution, edited by Arang Keshavarzian and Ali Mirsepassi. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021.

196

Selected Bibliography

———. Islam, Democracy, and Cosmopolitanism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. ———. Iran’s Quiet Revolution: The Downfall of the Pahlavi State. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019. ———. “Mistaken Anti-­Modernity: Fardid after Fardid.” Working Paper Series of the Centre for Advanced Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences (CASHSS). From the conference “Multiple Secularities: Beyond the West, beyond Modernities.” Leipzig University, February 2019. Mojtahedi, Mehdi. Rejal-­e Azerbayjan dar ʿAsr-­e Mashrutiyat (Azeri Leaders in the Constitutional Period). Tehran: Naqsh-­e Jahan Press, 1948. Momeni, Baqer. Donya-­ye Arani (Arani’s World). Tehran: Pejman, 2006. Montesquieu, Baron de. Persian Letters. Harmondsworth and Middlesex, UK: Penguin Books, 1973. Motadel, David, “Iran and the Aryan Myth.” In Perceptions of Iran: History, Myths and Nationalism from Medieval Persia to the Islamic Republic, edited by Ali Ansari. London: I. B. Tauris, 2014. Motahhari, Morteza. “Moqaddameh va Pavaraghi” (Preface and Annotation). In Osul-­e Falsafeh va Ravesh-­e Reʾalism (The Principles of Philosophy and the Method of Realism) by Sayyed Mohammad Hossein Tabatabaʾi. Tehran: Sherkat-­e Ofset, 1953. Nafisi, Saeed. “Az in Pas Hameh Ma ra be Nam-­e Iran Mishenasand” (From Now On We Will Be Known by the Name Iran). Ettelaʿat, December 10, 1934. ———.“Friedrich Rosen.” Mehr, no. 37 (June, 18, 1936): 28. ———. Tarikh-­e Shahryari-­ye Shahanshah Reza Shah Pahlavi (The Imperial History of Reza Shah Pahlavi). Tehran: Centre for Celebration of the Foundation of Iran’s Monarchy, 1966. Nehru, Jawaharlal. The Discovery of India. Calcutta: Signet Press, 1946 [1942]. Pourjavady, Nasrollah. “Mysticism and Taghi Arani.” Facebook, October 4, 2014. https:// www.facebook.com/nasrollah.pourjavady/posts/10201192998879422. Rekabtalaei, Golbarg. Iranian Cosmopolitanism: A Cinematic History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019. Rodinson, Maxine. “Khomeini and the ‘Primacy of the Spiritual.’” Nouvel Observateur, February 19, 1979. Roshani Beik, Hasan. “ʿAqideh-­ye ʿOsmani-­ha darbareh-­ye Irani-­ha” (The Beliefs of the Ottomans about Iranians). Iranshahr no. 2, (October 18, 1923). ———. Din Yok Milliyet Var: Benim Dinim, Benim Türklüğümdür (There Is No Religion, Just Nationality: My Turkishness Is My Religion). Istanbul, 1926. Rostami, Mohammad. Iranshenasan dar Adabiyat-­e Farsi (Iranologists in Persian Literature). Tehran: Institute for Humanities and Cultural Studies, 2011. Salih, Tayeb. Season of Migration to the North. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1997. Sen, Amartya. Development as Freedom. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Shakeri, Khosrow. Arani dar Ayeneh-­ye Tarikh (Arani in the Mirror of History). Tehran: Akhtaran, 2008.



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Stilz, Anna. “Civic Nationalism and Language Policy.” Philosophy and Public Affairs 37, no. 3 (Summer 2009): 257–­92. Taghizadeh, Sayyed Hasan. Zendegi-­ye Tufani: Khaterat-­e Sayyed Hasan Taghizadeh (A Tempestuous Life: The Memories of Sayyed Hasan Taghizadeh), edited by Iraj Afshar. Tehran: ʿElmi, 1993. Taylor, Charles. Modern Social Imaginaries. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004. Theilhaber, Amir. Friedrich Rosen: Orientalist Scholarship and International Politics. Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2020. Toluʿi, Mahmud. Bazigaran-­e ʿAsr-­e Pahlavi: Az Forughi ta Fardust (Notable Personalities in the Pahlavi Period: From Foroughi to Fardust), vol. 2, 815. Tehran: Nashr-­e Elmi, 1997. Vejdani, Farzin. “Appropriating the Masses: Folklore Studies, Ethnography, and Interwar Iranian Nationalism.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 44, no. 3 (August 2012): 507–­26. Walzer, Michael. “Islamism and the Left.” Dissent, Winter 2015. https://www.dissentmagazine.org/article/islamism-and-the-left. Wolin, Richard. “The Idea of Cosmopolitanism: From Kant to the Iraq War and Beyond.” Ethics & Global Politics 3, no. 2 (May 2010): 143–­53. Yarshater, Ehsan. “Communication.” Iranian Studies 22, no. 1 (1989): 62–­65. Zabih, Sepehr. The Communist Movement in Iran. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Zarrinkub, Abdolhossein. Arzesh-­e Miras-­e Sufiyeh (The Value of the Sufi Legacy). Tehran: Amirkabir, 1983. ———. Jostoju dar Tasavvof-­e Iran (Inquiry into the Sufism of Iran). Tehran: Amirkabir, 1983

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Index

Abbasid decline, 130 Abdulhamid II, 77 Abrahamian, Ervand, 39, 48, 55, 180n146 Adib-­Moghaddam, Arshin, 12–­13, 22–­24 Ahmadi, Hamid, 42, 48, 57 Ajir, 67 Akcura, Yusuf, 80 Alavi, Bozorg, 51, 55–­56, 67, 108; Arani and, 56, 59–­60, 106, 168 Alavi, Morteza, 48–­49, 51, 55, 61, 178n56 Alchemy of Happiness (Ghazali), 36, 109 Amanat, Abbas, 25–­26 anarchism, 54 ancient Greece, 30, 148–­49, 152 Anglo-­Persian Agreement, 39, 74 Another Philosophy of History (Herder), 11 Ansari, Ali, 12–­16, 24–­25 anticolonialism, 11, 32, 42 anticonstitutionalists, 39 anti-­Enlightenment, 163–­65 antimodernism and antimodernists, 5–­7, 27, 31–­32, 144–­45, 161; Arani on, Donya and, 112–­13; European, 8, 107, 137; leftists and, 164–­65 antimonarchists, 49 antirationalism, 5, 141, 144, 172n12 antisemitism, 90, 92–­93, 138–­39

Aqayan, Alexander, 66 Arabic language, 7–­8, 38, 44; Arani on, 95–­98, 126–­30, 132, 136, 138–­39, 171n1; Islam and, 130; Persian language and, 96–­99, 107, 126–­32, 136, 138–­39 Arabization, 4, 135 Arabs, 2, 47, 71–­73, 92, 94, 105, 130, 133 Arani, Taghi. See specific topics the Arani Group, 56–­57 Aristotle, 152 Arkoun, Mohammed, 172n18, 181n3 arrest, of Arani, 63–­64, 171n2 Aryan languages, 95–­96 Aryan myth, Iran and, 27–­30, 119 Aryan race, 28–­29; Arani on, 25–­26, 47–­48, 94–­95, 119; Iran and, 2–­4, 47, 89–­90; Persians and, 94–­95; Rosen, F., on, 92 Aryan spirit, 89–­90, 92–­93 Aryanism, 3–­4, 29, 85, 88–­90, 92–­93 Asad, Talal, 165, 190n10 Asadi, Ahmad, 48–­51, 178n56 Aslani, Nesratollah (“Kamran”), 61–­63, 171n3 Associated Press, 1–­2 Ataturk, Kemal, 77–­78, 80–­81, 99, 131 Attar, Farid al-­Din, 35–­36 authoritarian nationalism, 5, 17–­20, 22, 24,

200 Index

27, 165, 173n24; Arani on Persian language and, 30–­31; of Pahlavi state, 30 authoritarianism, 13, 18–­19, 72, 160 autocracy, 13, 16–­17, 49–­50, 125, 160 autocratic nationalism, 3 Avicenna, 113 Azad, Abdolqadir, 68 Azad, Abdolrahman Seif, 46 Azadi-­ye Sharq, 46 Azerbaijan, 25–­26, 37, 73, 75–­78, 80, 103–­ 4; Arani and, 76–­78; Constitutional Revolution (1905–­1911), 101 “Azerbaijan: Yek Masʾaleh-­ye Hayati va Mamati bara-­ye Iran” (Arani), 26, 92–­93, 99 Azeris, 38, 73, 77–­78, 83–­84, 99–­104

Friedrich Wilhelm University, 42–­43, 86, 93; Iranian intellectuals and, 122; on Iranian modernity, 160; Iranshahr and, 87–­88; Kaviani Press and, 86–­88, 90–­91; 1934–­1935, 61–­63; at Oriental Languages Institute, 44–­45, 52, 86; political activities, 46–­52; Rosen, F., and, 91 Berlin Circle, 25, 85 Boroujerdi, Hossein, 42, 50–­51 Both Eastern and Western (Matin-­Asgari), 12–­13, 16 Breitscheid, Rudolf, 50 Britain, 29–­30, 74 British Enlightenment, 14 Browne, Edward, 43–­44, 75, 90, 177n39

Babism, 145, 188n11 Bahrami, Mohamad, 49–­50, 65–­66 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 190n7 Baskerville, Howard Conklin, 38–­39 Becker, Carl-­Heinrich, 87 Bedaye (Saʿdi), 44–­45 Beik, Roshani, 71 Bergson, Henri, 31–­32; Arani on, 141, 144–­ 45, 148, 153–­57, 172n12; ʿerfan and, 107, 113, 141, 157, 172n12; modern mysticism and, 152–­57; Two Sources of Religion and Morality by, 157 Berlin, 31; Dar al-­Fonun in, 39–­40, 42, 45; Ferdowsi festival in, 93; Friedrich Wilhelm University of, 42–­43, 48, 51, 86–­87, 93; interwar, 5, 40–­41, 74–­76; Iran Association in, 48–­49; Iranian intellectuals in, 43, 76, 122; Kaviani Press in, 43–­44, 52–­53, 86–­87; Oriental Languages Institute in, 44–­45, 52, 86–­ 87; RIRF in, 48–­50; Weimar, 31, 41–­42, 74. See also Arani, Taghi, in Berlin Berlin, Arani in, 4–­5, 19–­20, 25–­27, 41, 55, 60, 76–­77; arrest in Tehran and, 171n2; at Dar al-­Fonun, 39–­40, 42, 45; early writings, 93–­94; encounters, 85–­86; at

Capital (Marx), 56 capitalism, 6, 8, 11–­12, 24, 121, 155, 157 care of the nation: Arani on, 7, 13, 134–­40; cosmopolitanism and, 134–­40 Castoriadis, Cornelius, 172n18 Caucusus, 78 “Changing the Persian Language” (Arani), 126–­27 chauvinism, 14, 20, 159–­61; Arani on, 78, 107, 127–­29, 134, 136–­38, 159–­60 chauvinistic nationalism, 7, 48, 159–­60 Christie, Agatha, 34–­35 civic nationalism, 4–­9, 13–­14, 31, 61–­62 classes, Arani on, 121–­25, 148–­52, 155 classical Farsi, 132 Cocks, Joan, 166–­67 collectivism (ishtiraki), 54 collectivist ideology, 54, 63 colonialism, 23, 36, 83, 124, 181n4 Committee of Iranian Nationalists, 75 Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), 79–­80, 83 communism, 51, 54–­55 Communist International, 41 The Communist Manifesto (Marx and Engels), 51, 55



communists, in Group of Fifty-­Three arrests, 63 Comte, Auguste, 21, 147 constitutional monarchy, 16, 54, 83 Constitutional Revolution (1905–­1911), 10, 13–­14, 16, 22, 143, 177n36; Azerbaijanis and, 101; Iranian nationalism and, 71–­ 72; Reza Shah on, 83, 160; RIRF and, 49; Tabriz and, 38; travels of constitutionalists, 36; World War I and, 39 constitutionalism, 17–­18, 61 constitutionalists, Iranian, 10–­11, 13–­16, 36–­39, 176n15 contemporary context, Arani in, 30–­32 Corbin, Henry, 107 corrupt intellectuals, Arani on, 121–­22 cosmopolitan ethics, 4, 7, 128, 166, 168 cosmopolitan humanism, 147 cosmopolitanism, 9–­11, 22, 70; Arani and, 4–­5, 7, 109–­10, 114, 127–­28, 134–­40, 158–­61, 163, 167–­68; care of the nation and, 134–­40; in Donya, 109–­10, 159; Global South activists and, 163–­64; globalism and, 164; leftists on, 163–­67; materialist, 139; new, 166; radical, 61–­ 62, 110–­15, 140; transnational, 33, 167 cultural left, 135 cultural materialism, 189n41 cultural nationalism, 4, 92 CUP. See Committee of Union and Progress Curzon (lord), 74 Damavandi, Reza, 40 Dar al-­Fonun, 39–­40, 42, 45 Dar al-­Moʿallimin, 52 death, of Arani, 67–­69, 180n146 Dehzad, Abdolhossein Hesabi, 61 Dehzad, Soghri, 61 democracy, 11–­12, 22, 49, 154 democratic socialism, 5, 12, 32 Development as Freedom (Sen), 164 Dewey, John, 161

Index 201

dialectical materialism, 54, 147, 154, 158 Din Yok, Milliyet Var (Roshani Beik), 78 Discovery of India (Nehru), 72, 181n4 doctoral thesis and defense, of Arani, 51–­52 Donya: antagonists of, 118–­21; cosmopolitanism in, 109–­10, 159; as first Marxist magazine in Iran, 31, 107–­8; Iranian intellectuals and, 118–­21, 123; Pahlavi state and, 59–­61; reception of, 115–­17; Reza Shah and, 61; on science and materialism, 59; traditionalists on, 115, 118–­19. See also Arani, Taghi, Donya and Donya, Arani and, 5–­6, 24–­25, 48, 64, 72, 104, 189n3; Alavi, B., and Eskandari, I., and, 56, 58–­60; antagonists of, 118–­21; on antimodernism, 112–­13; Arani group, in forming, 56–­57; on class, 121–­23; conversational quality of writing, 160; on cosmopolitanism, 109–­10, 159; on Einstein and relativity, 53–­54; first issue, 58–­59; global vision of Iran, 115–­16; on intellectual class, 121–­23; on Iranian peasantry, 116–­17; on Iranian youth, 119–­20; Marxism, 31, 56, 107–­8; Matin-­Asgari on, 17, 20–­22; on modernization of Iran, 114–­15; on mysticism, 53–­54, 141–­42, 172n12; name of publication, 58; Pahlavi state and, 59–­61; on Persian language, 107, 126–­28; on Persian literature, 126, 137; reception of, 115–­17; science writings in, 53–­54, 106; on scientific thinking, 136 al-­Dowleh, Vossuq, 74 Dreyfus affair, 157 early writings: of Arani, 93–­99; Berlin, Arani in, 93–­94 education: Arani on, 6–­7, 88, 104, 120–­22, 124–­25; literacy and, 124; of women, 120 Eftekhari, Yusef, 68 Einstein, Albert, 41, 53–­54

202 Index

elm huzuri (intuitive knowledge), 8, 107, 143 Engels, Friedrich, 51, 55, 153–­54 enlightened despotism, 77 enlightened dictator, 16 ʿerfan (mystical knowledge), 8, 42; Arani on, 141–­44, 146, 157, 161, 163, 172n12; Bergson and, 107, 113, 141, 157, 172n12; local and global, 145–­46; nativism and, 144–­45; Pourjavady on, 143–­45; Sufism and, 145–­46 Esfahani, Jamaloddin, 99 Esfandiari, Ladbon, 55, 179n86 Eskandari, Iraj, 50, 55–­56, 58–­60, 67, 108–­9 Eskandari, Soleyman Mirza, 108 ethnic nationalism: Arani on, 26, 31, 48, 84–­86, 93–­94; Islam and, 11 Ettelaʿat, 3, 29 Euclid, 44 Eurocentric nationalism, 18, 22–­23 Eurocentrism, 17–­18, 146, 159, 164 European civilization, 18–­19, 101; Arani on, 113, 123, 131, 133–­34 European modernity, 111, 160 European Orientalists, 3, 19–­20, 73, 92, 95, 131 family, of Arani, 37–­40 Farangestan, 5, 92 Fardid, Ahmad, 107, 143–­44 Farhad, Ahmad, 49 fascism and fascists, 8, 90, 137–­38 Ferdowsi, 93, 129, 133, 172n6 Feuerbach, Ludwig, 55 “The First Caravan of Knowledge” (Minovi), 69 Fiyouzat, Abolqasem, 37–­38 Fiyouzat School of Tabriz, 37–­38 Foroughi, Mohammad Ali, 2–­3, 14 Foucault, Michel, 162–­63, 190n8 French republicanism, 14 French Revolution, 14

Friedrich Wilhelm University of Berlin, 42–­43, 48, 51, 86–­87, 93 Gandhi, Mahatma, 8–­9, 23, 181n4 Ganjavi, Nezami, 99 Geertz, Clifford, 127 General Psychology (Arani), 45–­46 German nationalism, 95 German Oriental Society, 44 German Orientalism, 19, 22, 44, 86, 89–­91 Germany: Iran and, 2, 19, 28–­29, 43, 73–­76; Iranian students in, 41, 48–­49, 57, 74–­75; Million Committee, 43; National Socialism, 46; Nazi, 28–­29, 92–­93; pan-­Turkism and, 80; Reza Shah on, 2, 29; Weimar, Arani in, 4–­5; Weimar Renaissance in, 41, 74. See also Arani, Taghi, in Berlin; Berlin Ghanizadeh, Mahmud, 43, 86 gharbzadegi, 174n55 Ghazali, 36, 109 globalism, 164 globalization, 28–­29 Gobineau, Joseph Arthur de, 89 Gokalp, Ziya, 80 Gramsci, Antonio, 149 Green Movement, 14–­15 Group of Fifty-­Three, 63–­64, 66, 168, 171n4 Hegel, G. W. F., 147, 154 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 10–­11 historical materialism, 20–­21 hokumat-­e qanun (rule of law), 10, 72 humanism, 4, 147, 160 humanists, 124 idea of Iran, 9–­12, 14–­15, 31, 158, 172n17 Ileri, 79 India: composite cultural ideal of, 22–­23; Iran and, 9, 22–­23, 72; multiculturalism and, 22–­23; Nehru on history of, 181n4



Indian nationalism, of Gandhi, 8–­9 Indo-­Europeans, 92, 95 interwar period: Berlin, 5, 40–­41, 74–­76; Iran, 12–­30, 36, 71–­74, 77–­78, 130–­31, 145, 169; Iranian intellectuals in, 77, 141; Iranian nationalism in, 4–­5, 9–­10, 23–­27, 71–­72, 77, 94, 173n24; Reza Shah and, 22, 24–­25 intuitive knowledge (ʾelm huzuri), 8, 107, 143 Iran: Arabization of, 4; Arabs in, 2, 47, 71–­ 73; Aryan myth and, 27–­30, 119; Aryan race and, 2–­4, 47, 89–­90; Britain and, 29–­30, 74; Germany and, 2, 19, 28–­29, 43, 73–­76; idea of, 9–­12, 14–­15, 31, 158; India and, 9, 22–­23, 72; interwar years, 12–­30, 36, 71–­74, 77–­78, 130–­31, 145, 169; Islam and, 21, 72–­73, 89–­90, 96–­97, 130–­31, 162–­63; Islamic and Arabic worlds and, 6–­7; modern, 1, 9–­12, 30–­31; modern Europe and, 5–­6; modernization of, 69, 107, 112, 114–­15; as multicultural, 22–­23; Nafisi on, 2–­4; national identity of, 13, 22, 34, 72–­73, 92, 99–­100, 102–­4, 127, 168; oil industry, nationalization of, 69; peasantry of, 116–­17, 121, 124; as “Persia,” name change, 1–­3, 27–­30; Turks in, Roshani Beik on, 79–­80; the West and, 111–­13; Westoxification discourse in, 4; during World War I, 39–­40, 42, 73–­74 Iran (publication), 108–­9 Iran Association, in Berlin, 48–­49 Iran Committee, 88 Iranian Aryanism, 3–­4 Iranian Communist Party, 54–­55, 61, 63 Iranian Constitution of 1906, 3 Iranian constitutionalists, 10–­11, 13–­16, 36–­39, 176n15 Iranian counter-­Enlightenment, 27, 115 Iranian cultural exceptionalism, 88–­89 Iranian Enlightenment, 13, 15, 165 Iranian identity, 13, 34, 72–­73, 93, 97, 112;

Index 203

Iranian nationalism and, 130; national, 22, 73, 92, 99–­100, 102–­4, 127, 168; Persian language and, 88–­89, 94–­95, 167–­68 Iranian intellectuals, 4, 6, 9, 102; Arani and, 41–­43, 55, 112, 118–­19, 121–­24, 126, 143–­45; in Berlin, 43, 76, 122; class, 121–­ 23; corrupt, 121–­22; in diaspora, 41–­42; Donya and, 118–­21, 123; in interwar period, 77, 141; leader-­intellectuals, 124; nineteenth-­century, 72; on pan-­Turkish nationalism, 73; politics of place and, 165–­69; travels of, 38 Iranian modernity, 9–­12, 16, 21, 25, 69–­70, 110, 135, 145 Iranian nation formation, 13, 22, 25 Iranian nationalism, 1–­3; Adib-­ Moghaddam on, 12–­13, 22–­24; Ansari on, 12–­16; Arani and, 5, 12, 23, 77, 88–­89, 94–­95, 102–­5, 131, 138–­39, 159, 189n5; Constitutional Revolution and, 71–­72; in interwar Berlin, 5; interwar period development, 4–­5, 9–­10, 23–­27, 71–­72, 77, 94, 173n24; Iranian identity and, 130; of Iranshahr, 88–­89; Matin-­ Asgari on, 12–­13, 16–­22, 24; modernity and, 25; Orientalism and, 94; Reza Shah and, 30; Turkish nationalism and, 77 Iranian peasantry, Arani on, 116–­17, 121, 124 Iranian race, 94, 97, 99–­100 Iranian Revolution, 162–­63 Iranian spirit, 88–­93 Iranian Studies, 27–­28 Iranshahr, 5, 18–­19, 41, 74, 86–­88; Arani and, 46–­48, 79, 86, 88, 92 Iranshahr, Kazemzadeh, 4, 43, 46, 86–­90, 92 Iranshahr school, 52 irredentism, 73, 83–­84 ishtiraki (collectivism), 54 Islam, 2; Arabic language and, 130; ethnic

204 Index

nationalism and, 11; Iran and, 21, 72–­73, 89–­90, 96–­97, 130–­31, 162–­63; Iranian spirit and, 89; materialist reading of, 130; Ottomans and, 81; Rosen, F., on, 92; Shiʿism, 81; Sufism, 144 Islamic Republic of Iran, 13, 25, 142 Islamic Revolution, 13 Islamists, 15, 27, 161–­62 Israel, 80 Istanbul, 87–­88 Istanbul Association (Ojaghi), 78–­79 Ittihad, 79 Jahanbani, Amanollah, 63 Jalali, Younes, 26–­27, 91 Jamalzadeh, Mohammad Ali, 43 Kambakhsh, Abdolsamad, 57–­58, 61–­65, 171n4 Kant, Immanuel, 10–­11, 149–­50, 164 Kasravi, Ahmad, 55–­56, 64, 66, 69, 77, 112 Kaveh, 17–­19, 43, 46, 76, 88, 173n24 Kaviani Press, 43–­46, 52–­53, 86–­88, 90–­91 Kemal, Namik, 77–­78 Kemalists, 31, 81 Khameʾi, Anvar, 66, 171n1; Arani and, 40, 42, 51–­52, 56–­58, 62 Khayyam, Omar, 44, 86, 90–­92 Khiabani (sheikh), 73 khodi and ghayr-­e khodi, 12–­13 Khomeini (ayatollah), 162 Khosrow, Naser, 86, 118 Komiteh-­ye Melli-­ye Iran, 76 laws of history, Arani on, 150–­51 leader-­intellectuals, Arani on, 124 leftism, of Arani, 124 Lenin, Vladimir, 41 Leninism, 155 liberalism, 33, 167 Litten, Wilhelm, 44–­45 Mach, Ernst, 21, 174n61

Mahmood, Saba, 190n10 Makinezhad, Taghi, 57 Maleki, Khalil, 56–­57, 189n3 Malraux, André, 160, 189n6 Mannich, Carl, 52 Mantiq al-­tayr (Attar), 35–­36 Mardom, 54 Marx, Karl, 48, 51, 55–­56, 153–­54 Marxian historiography, 25 Marxism, 33; Alavi, M., on, 51; Arani and, 4–­5, 17, 25–­26, 31, 48, 51, 55–­57, 70, 106–­9, 114, 116–­17, 127, 147–­49, 168–­ 69; on class struggle, 121; in Donya, 31, 56, 107–­8; liberalism and, 167; on peasants, 116–­17; Soviet, 5, 163, 167–­68; of Soviet Union, 61 Marxist materialism, 4, 34, 57, 109 materialism: Arani on, 17, 20–­22, 48, 54, 57, 59, 65, 97–­98, 110, 117, 127–­30, 134–­35, 141–­42, 146–­48, 154–­56; cultural, 189n41; dialectical, 54, 147, 154, 158; historical, 20–­21; Islam and, 130; Marxist, 4, 34, 57, 109; scientific, 17, 20, 107, 109, 127, 133, 169; secular, 134; sociological, 107 materialist cosmopolitanism, 139 materialist nationalism, 7, 128 Matin-­Asgari, Afshin, 12–­13, 16–­22, 24–­25; on Arani, 17, 20–­22 metaphysics, 146–­52 Metternich, Klemens von, 77 Mihan, 79 military service, of Arani, 52 Million Committee, Germany, 43 Minovi, Mojtaba, 33, 37, 69 modern Iran, 9–­12 modern Iranian nation formation, 13 modernism, 61, 77–­78, 107; mysticism and, 142–­43; secular, 142, 165 modernity: Arani on, 6, 8, 12, 17, 21, 111–­13, 135, 163; European, 111, 160; Iranian, 9–­12, 16, 21, 25, 69–­70, 110, 135, 160; secular, 124, 142, 165; the



West as, 161–­62; worth and peril of, 161–­63 modernization, of Iran, 69, 107, 112, 114–­ 15, 124 Mokhtari, Rakan Al-­Din, 67 monarchy, 48 Mongols, 100–­101 Montesquieu, 34–­35 Mosaddeq, Mohammad, 11, 69 Motadel, David, 28–­29 Motahhari, Morteza, 54, 143 multiculturalism, 22–­23 mystical knowledge. See ʿerfan mysticism, 8, 107; Arani on, 53–­56, 141–­49, 153–­57, 161, 172n12; modern, Bergson and, 152–­57; modernism and, 142–­43; myth and, 148–­49; political, 161; poverty and, 153 “Mysticism and Principals of Materialism” (Arani), 21, 55–­56 “Mysticism and the Materialist Perspective” (Pourjavady), 142–­43 myth, mysticism and, 148–­49 Nafisi, Saeed, 2–­4, 29, 91 Naipaul, V. S., 166 Najm, Abolghasem, 2, 172n6 Nameh-­ye Farangestan, 19, 46–­47, 48 national identity: formation, 9–­10, 127; Iranian, 13, 22, 34, 72–­73, 92, 99–­100, 102–­4, 127, 168; Persian language and, 7, 92–­93 national imaginary, 4, 10, 12, 94, 98, 126, 159, 172n18, 181n3 National Socialism, German, 46 nationalism: Arani on, 33–­34, 47–­48, 70, 78, 84, 86, 101, 109, 127–­28, 131, 137, 159–­60; authoritarian, 5, 17–­20, 22, 24, 27, 30–­31, 165, 173n24; autocratic, 3; chauvinistic, 7, 48, 159–­60; civic, 4–­9, 13–­14, 31, 61–­62; cultural, 4, 92; ethnic, 11, 26, 31, 48, 84–­86, 93–­94; Eurocentric, 18, 22–­23; German, 95;

Index 205

Indian, of Gandhi, 8–­9; materialist, 7, 128; nativist, 129, 139; Ottoman, 93–­94; Pahlavi, 115; pan-­Turkish, 73, 77; Persian, 119; progressive, 10; psycho-­nationalism, 12–­13, 22, 24; racial, 31, 108, 128; radical, 5, 127–­28, 135; religious, 15; transnationalism and, 33–­34; Turkish, 72–­73, 76–­78, 80–­81, 102, 105, 107. See also Iranian nationalism nativism, 16–­17, 20, 34, 94, 107, 143, 158; ʿerfan and, 144–­45; religious, 5–­6, 165 nativist nationalism, 129, 139 Nazis and Nazism, 2, 28, 92–­93, 172n6 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 5, 8–­9, 22–­23, 72, 181n4 new cosmopolitanism, 166 new Ottoman movement, 72 New Persian and Old Persian, 96–­97 Nezam High School, 52, 106 nezhad-­e sefid (white race), 3 Nushin, Abdolhossein, 56–­57, 168, 191n17 Oriental Languages Institute, in Berlin, 44–­45, 52, 86–­87 Orientalism, 28, 34–­35, 77; Arani and, 91–­92, 94, 131, 135; European, 3, 19–­20, 73, 92, 95, 131; German, 19, 22, 44, 86, 89–­91; Iranian nationalism and, 94; traditionalism and, 135 Ottoman Empire, 77–­78, 81 Ottoman nationalism, 93–­94 Ottoman state, 77, 82, 182n29 Ottomanism, ecumenical, 77 Ottomans, 73, 77–­84, 100–­102, 159–­60 Pahlavi dynasty, 23, 73 Pahlavi monarchy, 3, 73 Pahlavi nationalism, 115 Pahlavi regime, 49, 142, 161 Pahlavi state, 13–­14, 17–­18, 22, 24, 31, 55; Arani on, 107–­8; authoritarian nationalism of, 30; censorship in, 59–­60; Donya and, 59–­61; “Group of Fifty-­

206 Index

Three” arrests, 63; Reza Shah, 29–­30, 54, 83, 107–­8 Palestine, 80 pan-­Persian movement, 98–­99 pan-­Turkish nation, 102 pan-­Turkish nationalism, 73, 77 pan-­Turkism, 77–­78, 80–­81, 84, 88, 98–­ 105; Arani and, 99–­105 Parvaz-­e Negaresh-­e Farsi (Qazvini, Mirza), 132 Passion and Paradox (Cocks), 166 patriotism, 128–­29, 139 Paykar, 51 peasants, 116–­17, 121, 124 Persia: Associated Press on name, 1–­2; Montesquieu on, 34; name change to “Iran” from, 1–­3, 27–­30 Persian culturalism, 88 Persian language, 27–­28, 38; Arabic language and, 96–­99, 107, 126–­32, 136, 138–­39; as Aryan language, 95–­96; Iranian identity and, 88–­89, 94–­95, 167–­68; lived experience and, 131–­34, 136; national identity and, 7, 92–­93; New Persian and Old Persian, 96–­97; presses and newspapers, 43–­44, 46–­47, 86–­87; reform, 7, 134–­35, 137, 140; Rosen, F., and, 91; Turkish language, 94–­95, 99–­101, 104 Persian language, Arani on, 5–­8, 21, 76, 88–­ 101, 106, 111, 126–­40; Arabic language and, 95–­98, 126–­30, 132, 136, 138–­39; Aryan race and, 47–­48; authoritarian nationalism and, 30–­31; “Changing the Persian Language” by, 126–­27; cosmopolitanism and, 161; in Donya, 107, 126–­28; instructor of, 44–­45, 86; Iranian identity and, 88–­89, 94–­95, 167–­68; Iranian nationalism and, 189n5; lived experience and, 131–­34, 136; reform, 7, 134–­35, 137, 140; Turkish language and, 94–­95, 99–­101, 104; “Zaban-­e Farsi (The Persian Language)” by, 26, 93–­94

The Persian Letters (Montesquieu), 34–­35 Persian literature: Arani and, 44–­45, 51, 86–­87, 91–­92, 118, 126, 137–­39, 168; classical, 35–­36, 44, 51, 118; Rosen, F., on, 90–­91 Persian nationalism, 119 Persians: Aryan race and, 94–­95; Iranian Azeris and, 78; Orientalists on, 92; Semites and, 95; Turks and, 81–­84 Pishevari, Sayyed Jafar, 67 Planck, Max, 41 Plato, 148 Plotinus, 148 political mysticism, 161 The Politics of Nationalism in Modern Iran (Ansari), 12–­13 positivism, 20–­21, 145, 174n55 postcolonialism, 42, 70, 162 postmetaphysical civilization, 146–­52 postmodernism, 143, 160–­62, 164, 167, 190n10, 190n12 Pourdavoud, Ibrahim, 43, 177n39 Pourjavady, Nasrollah, 142–­45 Pourreza, Mohammad, 49 poverty, mysticism and, 153 principle of causality, Arani on, 155–­56 Principles of Realist Philosophy and Methodology (Tabatabaʾi), 54 Principles of the Science of the Soul (Arani), 45–­46 prison, Arani in, 67–­69 progressive nationalism, 10 psychology, Arani on, 45–­46, 52–­55 Psychology of the Soul (Arani), 54–­55 psycho-­nationalism, 12–­13, 22, 24 Psycho-­nationalism (Adib-­Moghaddam), 12–­13, 22 Qajar, Ahmad Shah, 40, 49, 74 Qajar, Fath Ali Shah, 64 Qajar empire, 73 Qajar era, 29 Qazvini, Mirza Reza Khan Bakeshlu, 132



Qazvini, Mohammad, 43–­44, 86, 142, 177n39 racial nationalism, 31, 108, 128 racialism, 2, 18, 24, 26, 28–­29, 78, 83–­84, 92 racism, 28 radical cosmopolitanism, 61–­62, 110–­15, 140 radical nationalism, 5, 127–­28, 135 radical secularism, of Arani, 4 Rastekhiz, 43 Ravandi, Morteza, 43 religion, Arani on, 152 religious nationalism, 15 religious nativism, 5–­6, 165 Revolutionary Iranian Republic Faction (RIRF), 48–­50 Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia (RRPP), 26 Reza Shah, 1, 143–­44, 173n24; Adib-­ Moghaddam on, 23; Ansari on, 13–­16, 24–­25; antimonarchy assembly and, 49; Arani on, 107–­8, 122, 168–­69; on Aryanism, 29; autocratic nationalism of, 3; on collectivist ideology, 54, 63; on compulsory education, 104; Constitutional Revolution and, 83, 160; dictatorship of, 69; Donya and, 61; on Germany, 2, 29; interwar period and, 22, 24–­25; Iranian nationalism and, 30; military coup by, 40, 69, 72, 74, 160; Nafisi and, 2–­3; Nameh-­ye Farengstan on, 47; Pahlavi dynasty and, 73; Pahlavi state and, 29–­30, 54, 83, 107–­8; Paykar on, 51; RIRF on, 49–­50; state-­building by, 40; unified Iranian nation and, 6 RIRF. See Revolutionary Iranian Republic Faction Risala fi sharh ma ashkala min musadarat kitab Uqlidis (Khayyam), 44 Rodinson, Maxine, 190n8 Rose Garden (Saʿdi), 113, 126

Index 207

Rosen, Friedrich, 90–­93, 177n43; Arani and, 44, 52, 86–­87, 90–­92 Rosen, George, 90, 177n43 Roshani Beik, Hasan, 78–­84, 88 Roshani Beikm Hasan: Arani and, 93–­95, 98–­100, 102–­4 RRPP. See Revolutionary Republican Party of Persia Rubaiyat (Khayyam), 44, 91 rule of law (hokumat-­e qanun), 10, 72 Rumi, 139 Russo-­Turkish War, 77 Safavids, 23, 81 Said, Edward, 166 Samanid rule (819–­999), 130 Saʿdi, 44–­45, 86, 113, 137, 139 science and scientific thinking, Arani on, 6, 106, 136, 139, 144, 151–­52, 154–­57 science writings: by Arani, 45–­46, 52–­56, 59, 106; Donya in, 53–­54, 106 scientific materialism, 17, 20, 107, 109, 127, 133, 169 “Scientific Questions” (Arani), 47–­48 Scientific Theories (Arani), 45, 53 scientific thinking, 6, 106, 136, 139, 144, 151 secular materialism, 134 secular modernism, 142, 165 secular modernity, 124, 142, 165 secularism, 61, 127, 137, 141, 157, 162, 168; of Arani, 4–­6 self-­critique, by Arani, 127–­31 Seljuq Dynasty, 79–­80 Semitic Arabs, 92 Semitic languages, Arani on, 95, 98 Sen, Amartya, 164 sentencing, of Arani, 66–­67 Series in the Exact Sciences (Arani), 45, 52–­53 Setare-­ye Iran, 79 Shahnameh, 129, 133 Sharaf Mozaffari Primary School, 39 Shariʿati, Ali, 162

208 Index

Sharqi, 108–­9 Shirvani, Khaqani, 99 Shiʿism, 81, 88 Shoureshian, Mohammad, 58, 64–­66 Shuster, Morgan, 176n15 Simku, Ismael Khan, 73 social contract, 11 The Social History of Iran (Nafisi), 3 social imaginary, 7, 13, 31, 146, 150–­51, 156, 172n18 socialists and socialism, 41, 48, 54, 85–­86 sociological materialism, 107 Soviet Marxism, 5, 163, 167–­68 Soviet Revolution, 80 Soviet Socialist Republic, 41 Soviet Union, 61, 67, 135, 153–­54, 163, 167, 178n56, 179n86 Stalin, Joseph, 178n56, 179n86 Stalinism, 5, 70, 163 state power, citizens and, 11 state-­building, by Reza Shah, 40 “Statement of Truth” of RIRF, 49–­50 Sufism, 144–­46 Tabatabaʾi, Sayyed Mohammad Hossein, 54 Tabriz, 37–­38, 43, 73, 87 Tabrizi, Abdolshakur, 86 Taghi Erani, a Polymath in Interwar Berlin (Jalali), 27 Taghizadeh, Seyed Hasan, 2–­3, 14, 18, 43, 75–­77, 88, 123, 177n36 Tajadod, 79 Talebi, Abdolrahim, 134 Tanin, 79 Tankaboni, Mirza Taher, 55 Tanzimat, 77 Tarbiyat, Mirza Mohammad, 43 Tehran: Arani in, 38–­40, 50, 52–­61, 106, 171n2; Donya in, 58–­61; Nezam High School in, 52, 106; in 1930s, 52–­61; radical intellectuals of, 1930s, 54–­58; University of Tehran, 57 Teskilat-­i Mahsusa, 78

Teymourtash, Abdolhossein, 49–­50, 108 Theory of Relativity (Arani), 53 Thomas, Herman, 52 traditionalists and traditionalism: Arani and, 5–­6, 20, 107, 111–­13, 115, 118–­19, 135–­36, 140, 159–­60; on Donya, 115, 118–­19; Orientalism and, 135 transnational communication, 134 transnational cosmopolitanism, 33, 167 transnationalism, 13, 16–­17, 24, 138; circulation of ideas and, 35–­37, 42; nationalism and, 33–­34 travel: Arani and, 33–­34, 37; of Iranian constitutionalists, 36–­37; in literature and films, 34–­36; Minovi on, 37; religious rituals and, 36; transnational cosmopolitanism and, 33 trial, of Arani, 64–­66 Trotsky, Leon, 41 Tudeh Party, 25, 54–­57, 143–­44, 168, 171n4, 189n3, 191n17 Turkish language, 104–­5, 131, 159–­60; Arani on, 94–­95, 99–­101, 104 Turkish nationalism, 72–­73, 76–­78, 80–­81, 102, 105, 107 Turkish Republic, 76–­77, 80, 83–­84, 99 Turks, 71–­72, 78–­84, 94–­95, 99–­105, 182nn29–­30 Two Sources of Religion and Morality (Bergson), 157 Union and Progress Party for the Caucasus, 78 University of Tehran, 57 Vakil, Seyyed Hashem, 64, 66 Vatan, 79, 108–­9 Vorwarts, 50 Wassmus, Wilhelm, 73 Weimar Germany: Arani in, 4–­5; Berlin, 31, 41–­42, 74 Weimar Renaissance, 41, 74



the West: Arani on Westerners and, 111; Iran and, 111–­13; as modernity, 161–­62 Western capitalism, 6, 121 Westoxification, 4, 134 white race (nezhad-­e sefid), 3 Williams, Raymond, 189n41 Wolin, Richard, 10–­12 World War I, 39–­43, 71, 73–­76, 88 World War II, 1, 62

Index 209

Yarshater, Eshan, 27–­28, 30 Yeki Majmoa, 79 Young Ottomans, 77–­78 Young Turks, 78, 80, 100 Yushij, Nima, 55 “Zaban-­e Farsi (The Persian Language)” (Arani), 26, 93–­94 Zionism, 80