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Iranian Lessons
By Michael Ignatieff.
The New York Times
July 17, 2005 Sunday
Late Edition - Final
Michael Ignatieff, a contributing writer, teaches about human rights
at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. He is the editor of
''American Exceptionalism and Human Rights,'' just published by
Princeton University Press.
[I]
In south Tehran there is a huge walled cemetery dedicated to the
martyrs, the young men who died fighting in the 1979 revolution and
the Iran-Iraq war of 1980-1988. This vast city of the dead, complete
with its own subway station and shops, does not share Arlington
National Cemetery's sublimely stoic aesthetic of identical
tombstones, row upon row. In Tehran's war cemetery, each of the
fallen is remembered individually with his own martyr's shrine, a
sealed glass cabinet on a stand. The cabinets are filled with faded
photos of men forever young, some in helmets or red bandannas, some
carrying their weapons, others at home stroking the family cat or
grinning during a meal with friends. Next to the yellowing
photographs might be a Koran, or a faded copy of a Persian poem, or a
set of plastic flowers, or one of the painted eggs that Iranian
families exchange at their New Year. These little shrines seem to go
on forever, each one a family's attempt to confer immortality on some
young man who died in the trenches at a place like Khorramshahr, the
pinnacle of Iranian resistance to the Iraqi invaders.
More than a million Iranians served in the war with Iraq. Three
hundred thousand died and a larger number came home wounded. Although
the conflict ended in stalemate and disillusion, it remains the
Iranian revolution's defining moment of sacrifice. Accordingly, the
regime still exploits the martyrs' sacrifices at every traffic
roundabout in the country, with enormous posters of the bearded,
unsmiling, very young men in uniform, heading off to battle and
divine reward.
The religion of Iran, Shiite Islam, is a martyr's faith. Shiite
culture has aspects of a death cult, including an obsession with
blood sacrifice. For some surviving veterans, the camaraderie they
experienced on the Iraqi front epitomized not only the patriotic
virtues of the revolution but also the self-sacrificing virtues of
their faith. Any American neoconservative betting on the Iranian
regime to crumble under the impact of isolation, blockade, sanctions
or foreign condemnation ought to pay a visit to the martyrs'
cemetery. Revolutionary regimes anchored in faith and blood sacrifice
have good reason to believe they are impervious to outside pressure.
I visited the cemetery of the martyrs late last month, during a trip
to Iran to lecture on human rights, mostly to reform-minded students
and intellectuals. My arrival fell between rounds of the country's
presidential election. In the first round of voting, Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad -- the son of an ironworker, a former Revolutionary Guard
during the war with Iraq and, briefly, the appointed mayor of Tehran
-- had come from nowhere to win about 20 percent of the vote. The
former Iranian president Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, the supposedly
reformist candidate, was struggling to hold off Ahmadinejad's
challenge in the second round. Ahmadinejad is an authoritarian
populist with a base of support among the poor in the shantytowns and
warrens of south Tehran. Unlike Rafsanjani, he is not a mullah, and
he served in the war. This gave him access to the war veterans and
the Basiji, the paramilitary popular militias created during the war,
and he was using them to get out the vote in the poorest
neighborhoods of south Tehran. He promised the poor justice, but most
of all he promised the veterans rewards for their sacrifice.
Immediately labeled a hard-liner by most American commentators,
Ahmadinejad sent out more populist, inclusive signals at home,
leading some Iranians to worry that quick American condemnations of
him as a reactionary might only provoke him into becoming one.
At the beginning of the week that I arrived, there were few
Ahmadinejad posters around Tehran for the presidential runoff. Thanks
to the veterans, by the eve of the final vote, banners and posters
were displayed everywhere. At night, cars would grind to a halt while
Ahmadinejad supporters, with his picture plastered on their
foreheads, danced around the traffic circles. In the end, Ahmadinejad
easily defeated Rafsanjani in the runoff election, winning with about
60 percent of the vote. It was a victory so unexpected that some were
already calling it the second Iranian revolution.
[II]
Ahmadinejad had capitalized not only on his war service but also on
gathering disillusion with the failure of the reformers -- nominally
in power since the election of President Mohammad Khatami in 1997 --
to address popular grievances relating to jobs, housing, transport
and, above all, the growing class divide. In leafy north Tehran,
reformers were talking about human rights and democracy, while in
dusty south Tehran, the poor were struggling to hold onto jobs in an
economy in which unemployment was officially 15 percent and probably
twice that. For the reformers, the victory brought home how out of
touch with ordinary Iranians many of them had become.
''That was our chief mistake,'' Amir Hossein Barmaki, a middle-class
Tehrani who now works for the United Nations in the city, told me.
''The reformers -- Khatami and Rafsanjani -- came to power after the
war and they did nothing for the veterans. These boys from the poor
districts came home, having saved the country, and we did nothing for
them. There were some who are dying of Saddam's poison gas attacks
who didn't even get a pension.''
''No,'' he went on. ''There was worse. None of us actually went to
the war. All the middle class went abroad or stayed in university. We
sent the poor instead. We could even buy our way out of military
service. It is our shame.''
On the nights after Ahmadinejad's victory, the atmosphere among many
of the liberal Iranians I talked with was reminiscent of another
group of intellectuals: the Russian thinkers of the 1860's,
Western-educated men and women who had to discover, painfully, just
how out of touch their reformist ideas were with the poor and
burdened of their own society. Barmaki told me mournfully, ''We
reformers have lost five years.''
The political task ahead for the liberal thinkers of Iran is to find
a program that links human rights and democracy to the poor's
economic grievances.
[III]
I had been invited to lecture on human rights and democracy, but
Ahmadinejad's unexpected victory changed the agenda of my talks.
Suddenly the question was no longer, What do democracy and human
rights mean in an Islamic society? but, Can democracy and human
rights make any headway at all in a society deeply divided between
rich and poor, included and excluded, educated and uneducated? The
reformers had promoted human rights and democracy as a panacea for
Iran's poor, and what had been the result? The slums of Tehran voted
for a man who advocated stricter discipline for women, tougher
theocratic rule and state control of the economy.
I was invited not by the mullah-dominated universities but by the
Cultural Research Bureau, an independent center in Tehran that
publishes books and runs its own gift shop, gallery and lecture hall.
My Iranian host, Ramin Jahanbegloo, works in a tiny shared office at
the bureau, inviting foreign guests and building up a small circle of
free-minded students whom he lectures on European thought. He and I
had never met, but he has published a book of conversations he had as
a student with Isaiah Berlin, the Oxford philosopher of liberalism,
and I have written a biography of Berlin. We are Berliners.
Berlin himself visited Tehran in the late 1970's, during the dying
years of the shah's regime. He gave a lecture -- ''On the Rise of
Cultural Pluralism'' -- in front of the empress, who, as Berlin later
recounted, fidgeted irritably and then made a sign to a courtier to
get Berlin to cut it short. In midlecture, Berlin sat down, he told a
friend, ''as if stung by several wasps.'' All in all it was not a
happy visit. The shah's Iran, he decided, was the last czarist regime
on earth. Propped up by the Americans and kept in power by a hated
secret police, the shah launched a White Revolution in the 1960's, a
grandiose modernization program that alienated mullahs, merchants and
students alike. Eventually, street demonstrations forced him to
abdicate, and he fled into exile in 1979. After that came the Shiite
revolution, led by Ayatollah Khomeini. Since then, hundreds of
thousands of Iranians have gone into exile, and the liberal
intelligentsia that remains is both cut off from the mass of the
Iranian population and isolated from the Western universities from
which it draws its inspiration.
Jahanbegloo says he thinks of himself as a bridge between Iran and
those universities. He invites a steady stream of philosophers like
Richard Rorty from Stanford and Agnes Heller from the New School in
New York to give talks to students. He sees some signs that their
ideas are finding a toehold in Tehran. Three decades ago, the
intellectuels du jour were Michel Foucault and fellow radical
theorists. They arrived in Tehran proclaiming their solidarity with a
revolution that actively despised them while persecuting its own
freethinkers. Now the pendulum in Tehran has swung toward pragmatic
liberals like Berlin.
Upon arrival, I was immediately plunged into the kinds of discussions
about democracy and freedom that took place in Prague, Warsaw and
Budapest in the 1980's. On my first day, young journalists at a
reform-minded newspaper called Shargh quizzed me about the difference
between ''maximal'' and ''minimal'' democracy. Maximal democracy
means elections plus rule of law, bills of rights and checks and
balances. That is decades away in Iran. Minimal democracy is what
they already have: guided rule by the mullahs that may deliver the
country straight to tyranny under Ahmadinejad.
It became apparent that what I should have been teaching during my
visit was the history of the Protestant Reformation. It's not just
that Islam badly needs a Reformation. It's also that Iranians need to
know how the Reformation and the bloody religious wars that followed
it taught the West to put God in his place. Democracy arises, I told
the students, not just to enthrone the people but also to separate
religion and politics, establishing rules of tolerance that allow all
religions to enjoy freedom and creating a political system in which
religious and secular arguments compete on equal ground.
Many young Iranians I talked to were so hostile to clerical rule that
I found myself cautioning them against going too far in the other
direction. Many seemed in favor of a secular republicanism in which
religion was excluded from politics altogether, as it was in Turkey
during the rule of that country's modernizing dictator, Mustafa Kemal
Ataturk. As Isaiah Berlin warned, however, if you bend the twig too
far, it will snap back in your face. In Turkey, the reaction against
the extremes of Ataturk's secularism has brought an Islamic
government, though admittedly a moderate one, to power. Secularism, I
argued, doesn't mean crushing religion, it just means creating a
neutral space in which arguments between religious and secular people
are settled by evidence, not dogma.
''Like in the United States?'' a bright female student asked me with
a coy smile. In the United States, I said, God is never out of the
public sphere. The furor over the end of Terri Schiavo's life and the
Bush administration's restrictions on federal financing for stem cell
research, among other things, make that obvious. From their vantage
point inside a theocracy, young Iranians long for ''a wall of
separation'' between religion and government, as Thomas Jefferson
called it, and they told me they found it puzzling, even
disappointing, that religion and politics are not actually separate
in the United States. I tried to explain that keeping God in his
place in a democracy is work that never ends.
Democracy in Iran also means working free of what one student called
''the culture of dictatorship,'' a floating web of patriarchal
controls over private life. All of the young people I talked to were
under 30, invariably were living at home till marriage and were
chafing under restrictions on their personal lives. For young women,
living free means the right to choose whom you marry and how much
hair to display around your hijab; it means leaving to get an M.B.A.
in Australia and then coming back and running a business. For one
young man, struggling to find how he might buy his way out of
compulsory military service, it means the freedom, he confessed in a
whisper, to be gay. Homosexuality is a crime in Iran, and seemingly
the only time when conversations do become furtive, with anxious
looks over shoulders, is when homosexuality is the topic.
The hostility toward homosexuality is not just a reflex of a deeply
traditional family culture. The Shiite regime has waged a 26-year war
on pleasures both homosexual and heterosexual. In Persian culture,
however, the taste for pleasure runs deep. Just think of the
music-making, dancing and the costumed beauty of the men and women in
classical Persian miniatures. During the revolution, many of these
Persian treasures were hacked off the walls of mosques and palaces by
Shiite zealots.
Thankfully, Persian pleasure remains stubbornly alive. When I flew
south from Tehran to Isfahan, the astounding capital of the Safavid
shahs of the 17th century, I spent one night wandering along the
exquisitely lighted vaulted bridges, watching men, not necessarily
gay, stroll hand in hand, singing to each other and dancing beneath
the arches, while families picnicked on the grass by the banks of the
river and men and women passed a water pipe around. Though it cannot
be much comfort to those who have to live, here and now, under public
and private tyrannies, I came away from a night in Isfahan believing
that Persian pleasure, in the long run, would outlast Shiite
puritanism.
[IV]
Like all revolutionary regimes, the Iranian state seems to have
reproduced the ugliness of the regime it overthrew. The shah had a
secret police -- Savak -- and the mullahs have one, too. One day in
Tehran, on a street corner, I passed a small student demonstration
linked to the elections and watched as a sweaty secret-police
officer, with a gun in his waistband, tried to muscle a demonstrator
away into a car. Other demonstrators started punching the officer,
and he had to call for reinforcements. While he did so, the seized
student wriggled free and disappeared into the crowd.
In a more genuinely fearful police state, he would have gone quietly.
On the other hand, when this regime wants to crush the opposition, it
does so with unflinching ruthlessness. Some religious minorities --
like the Armenian Christians -- are not persecuted, but others, like
the Bahais -- a schismatic sect of Islam -- have been barred from the
universities, and their leaders have been arrested, tortured and, in
some cases, killed. Iranian human rights lawyers told me that they
defend as many political prisoners as they can, but there are
hundreds more held incommunicado. Some go into the prisons and never
emerge alive. In June 2003, Zahra Kazemi, an Iranian holding a
Canadian passport, was taking photographs outside the notorious Evin
prison in Tehran when she was arrested and dragged inside. Three
weeks later, the authorities announced that she had died under
interrogation, and soon after that, evidence came out indicating that
she had been tortured and raped. The Canadian government is demanding
that those responsible be punished or dismissed, but a case in an
Iranian court seems to be going nowhere.
Shirin Ebadi, the lawyer handling the Kazemi case and the regime's
most visible opponent, is a heroic figure, a physically tiny dynamo,
bursting with scorn for the regime and quick to shed her hijab in
private houses as a sign of her independence. She walks a careful
line, distancing herself from the Bush administration's criticism of
the presidential elections, but remaining equally dismissive of the
regime's claims that its guided democracy remains a democracy
nonetheless. Having done time for political offenses herself, she
knows the insides of the prisons where her clients now languish. The
outgoing president, the supposed reformer Khatami, notably failed to
lend Ebadi political cover and support when she came back from Oslo
with the Nobel Peace Prize, the first ever Nobel given to an Iranian.
When I asked her whether the prize and the recognition it brought
protect her, she replied with a quizzical arch of an eyebrow: ''No,
the Nobel does not protect me at all.''
[V]
At Shahid Beheshti University, I gave a seminar on human rights to a
class composed mostly of young women in full-length black robes and
head coverings. When I went up to shake their hands before the
session started, they pulled their hands away. Such contact between
the sexes is frowned upon. But in class, they were anything but
docile. In often fluent English, they asked what I thought about
Islamic Shariah law and its punishments, which can include stoning
women to death for adultery. The challenge, I argued, is not
understanding why these are wrong but prevailing politically against
the religious authorities who believe that their own power depends on
enforcing these penalties. The students replied that they needed help
from Western intellectuals like me to get rid of Islamic punishments.
I replied that while outside pressure can help, Western human rights
advocacy can often have counterproductive results. In Nigeria, for
example, an international letter-writing campaign organized by human
rights advocates did not persuade an Islamic governor in northern
Nigeria to halt the flogging of a teenage girl for having sex (she
says she was raped) -- and the campaign might even have persuaded him
to proceed, if reports are to be believed. On the other hand, a group
of female Islamic lawyers worked within the Shariah system to defend
another Nigerian woman who had been sentenced to stoning for
adultery, securing her acquittal on a technicality (which drew
criticism from some Western human rights advocates).
The women in the class were not happy with my suggestion that they
should reform Shariah from within. ''There should be one law for
everybody, not two systems, one of Islamic law and the other of
secular law,'' one student argued. I agree, I said, but it's not
obvious how you are going to get there in Iran. The students found
this too defeatist. ''We are very glad that you come to our class,
professor,'' one said to me, ''but you are too nice to the Shariah
law. It must be abolished. It cannot be changed.''
One professor observing these exchanges was a middle-aged man in the
light brown robes and white turban that designate a religious
scholar. Having listened carefully, with his long legs stretched out
beneath the desk, he asked me -- in fluent English -- why I thought
human rights were universal. I gave the answer I use in my class at
Harvard -- that if I were to go up to him, right now, and smack him
across the face, anywhere in the world the act would count as an
injustice and an insult. Human rights law codifies our agreement
about stopping these intuitively obvious injustices.
But why, he pressed further, would an injustice against him also be
perceived by me as an injustice? Because, I replied, human beings are
not closed compartments. We can imagine what it would be like to be
at the receiving end of the very blows we strike.
''You are an intuitionist,'' he said with a smile. I countered that
the human capacity to understand the pain of others is a fact, not an
intuition. ''But you need something stronger than this,'' he said. We
continued for a while, agreeably disagreeing, but as he gathered up
his papers to depart, he was smiling like someone who thought he had
just won an argument. As far as he was concerned, beneath his belief
in human rights lies the bedrock of the Koran, while beneath mine
lies nothing but hopeful instincts.
[VI]
One day, I paid a call on Saeed Semnanian, the chancellor of one of
Tehran's most conservative universities. We sat in his spartan
office, while female engineering students walked to and fro in the
gardens outside his window. I began with compliments about the
achievements of the revolution. Female literacy has risen to 70
percent (though male literacy is still higher, at 84 percent), while
income per head has doubled since the end of the war with Iraq. But,
I went on, everyone I talked to in Tehran told me the revolution has
congealed into a corrupt, repressive system of privileges that
exploits Islamic orthodoxy to remain in power.
''Whom do you talk to?'' he asked me with a level stare.
''Intellectuals, writers, journalists.''
''You are trying to take the temperature of the revolution, but all
your thermometers are wrong,'' he responded.
All this complaining, he implied, is what you would expect from
discontented liberals. The achievement that matters, he said, is that
Iran is independent. In the presidential elections, all the
candidates were pure Iranian. In the shah's time, nothing was pure
Iranian. Everything was decided in the American or the British
Embassy.
He seemed faintly amused by my failure to understand his country. For
him, the history of Iran is the history of attempts to subvert its
independence. As far as he is concerned, it might be yesterday, and
not in 1953, that Kermit Roosevelt and the C.I.A. organized the coup
that overthrew Mohammed Mossadegh, the prime minister who
nationalized the Iranian oil fields. The seizure of the American
Embassy and the hostage drama were, as Semnanian saw it, an
exquisitely drawn out revenge for the C.I.A.-inspired coup, just as
the regime's current drive for nuclear weapons is a search for an
ultimate guarantee of its freedom from foreign interference.
Iranian democrats contend that if Iran were a democracy, its nuclear
weapons would not threaten anyone. What makes Iranian weapons
dangerous, they argue, is that the regime is a theocracy with
connections to Hamas and Hezbollah. A democratic Iran that broke with
terrorism would be easier to live with, even if it possessed a
nuclear bomb. As Shirin Ebadi told me, ''Who cares about France's
force de frappe?''
American neoconservatives also tend to argue that democracy will make
Iran peaceful and pro-American. This might be wishful thinking. Fear
of encirclement by the United States means that the regime's drive
for weapons has widespread popular support. If a genuine Iranian
democracy were as nationalistic as most new democracies usually are,
a democratic Iran might well remain a bellicose opponent of the
United States and Israel.
In any event, America has almost no capacity to promote democracy
inside Iran, and some capacity to do harm to Iranian democrats. Every
Iranian I met wanted to spend time in the United States -- and wished
there were more scholarships to take them to America -- but nearly
every one of them laughed when I mentioned the recent Congressional
appropriation of $3 million to support democratic opposition groups
inside and outside the country. Iranian democrats look on American
good intentions with incredulity. It would be fatal for any of them
to accept American dollars. ''Do they want to get us all arrested as
spies?'' one said to me.
Hence the paradox: the Middle Eastern Muslim society with the most
pro-American democrats will strenuously resist any American attempt
to promote democracy inside it. It is easy to understand why. ''We
fought for our independence,'' Semnanian told me. ''You think when
our people fought to drive out the invaders from Iraq for seven
years, we were fighting only Saddam? We were fighting the U.S.A.,
Britain, the whole world. We saved our country. And now we are
free.''
[VII]
The night before I left Tehran, I had a private conversation about
Ahmadinejad's political program with one of the new president's
advisers, A. Asgarkhani, a genial, long-haired professor in his 60's.
When Asgarkhani, who holds a Western doctorate, first began
predicting victory for his candidate a month ago, nobody believed
him. Even a week before the runoff, nobody took him seriously. Now it
had happened.
The good thing about Ahmadinejad's victory, Asgarkhani said, is that
it will end the paralysis of the regime, the division between the
reformers and the religious guardians who control the political
system. All power will finally be in one set of hands. So the
president can do something.
But won't that be bad for human rights? I asked.
Maybe at first, he replied, but then Ahmadinejad will bring human
rights and democracy -- here he gestured with his hands -- ''from the
top down.''
And how is Ahmadinejad going to change the economy? ''If he listens
to me,'' Asgarkhani said, ''he is going to go with
'techno-nationalism.' ''
Techno-nationalism, import substitution, new growth theory -- all the
catch phrases of Western development economics tumbled out of
Asgarkhani's mouth, but they still sounded like the Islamic Marxism
that has passed for economic theory in Iran since the revolution:
don't depend on foreigners; keep the economy in state hands,
otherwise foreign capitalists will get control of it; restrain the
financial sector, because a free financial sector will cause the
economy to melt down.
With oil at about $60 a barrel as I write, there is little likelihood
that the regime will be forced to open up and reform the economy. But
unless it does, there won't be much democracy or progress for the
poor. One human rights truth, universally acknowledged, is that oil
is an obstacle to democracy in every developing society. When a
government can get what it needs out of oil derricks and ceases to
derive its revenue from taxes, it loses any incentive to respond to
the people. Theocracy in Iran is built on oil and will endure as long
as the oil price holds up.
One young female Iranian economics major had told me wearily that she
wondered why she bothered to study macroeconomics at all, since, in
Iran, all economic decisions are made politically. The incoming
president has promised the desperately poor the better life the
revolution was supposed to deliver. What happens if all that the poor
get are programs and policies like Asgarkhani's voodoo economics?
Then all that will be left is the iron fist.
When I said this to another young Iranian woman and told her that
when Ahmadinejad fails the poor, the only recourse left will be
further repression, she said, determinedly: ''No, he cannot turn back
the clock. He cannot send us backward.'' I hoped she was right, but I
noticed that she made a small involuntary gesture. She pulled her
hijab down and covered her hair entirely. For the first time, she
looked uncertain and concerned.
URL: http://www.nytimes.com
GRAPHIC: Photos: Young Iranian men pass the time outside a mall in
Tehran. There is much speculation that under President-elect Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad, a conservative former mayor of Tehran, recent freedoms
will be curtailed.
Shirin Ebadi, a human rights lawyer, says her 2003 Nobel Peace Prize
does not make her feel safe in Iran.
Young Iranian women find creative ways to adhere to hijab laws.
(Photographs by Lynsey Addario/Corbis, for The New York Times)
By Michael Ignatieff.
The New York Times
July 17, 2005 Sunday
Late Edition - Final
Michael Ignatieff, a contributing writer, teaches about human rights
at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. He is the editor of
''American Exceptionalism and Human Rights,'' just published by
Princeton University Press.
[I]
In south Tehran there is a huge walled cemetery dedicated to the
martyrs, the young men who died fighting in the 1979 revolution and
the Iran-Iraq war of 1980-1988. This vast city of the dead, complete
with its own subway station and shops, does not share Arlington
National Cemetery's sublimely stoic aesthetic of identical
tombstones, row upon row. In Tehran's war cemetery, each of the
fallen is remembered individually with his own martyr's shrine, a
sealed glass cabinet on a stand. The cabinets are filled with faded
photos of men forever young, some in helmets or red bandannas, some
carrying their weapons, others at home stroking the family cat or
grinning during a meal with friends. Next to the yellowing
photographs might be a Koran, or a faded copy of a Persian poem, or a
set of plastic flowers, or one of the painted eggs that Iranian
families exchange at their New Year. These little shrines seem to go
on forever, each one a family's attempt to confer immortality on some
young man who died in the trenches at a place like Khorramshahr, the
pinnacle of Iranian resistance to the Iraqi invaders.
More than a million Iranians served in the war with Iraq. Three
hundred thousand died and a larger number came home wounded. Although
the conflict ended in stalemate and disillusion, it remains the
Iranian revolution's defining moment of sacrifice. Accordingly, the
regime still exploits the martyrs' sacrifices at every traffic
roundabout in the country, with enormous posters of the bearded,
unsmiling, very young men in uniform, heading off to battle and
divine reward.
The religion of Iran, Shiite Islam, is a martyr's faith. Shiite
culture has aspects of a death cult, including an obsession with
blood sacrifice. For some surviving veterans, the camaraderie they
experienced on the Iraqi front epitomized not only the patriotic
virtues of the revolution but also the self-sacrificing virtues of
their faith. Any American neoconservative betting on the Iranian
regime to crumble under the impact of isolation, blockade, sanctions
or foreign condemnation ought to pay a visit to the martyrs'
cemetery. Revolutionary regimes anchored in faith and blood sacrifice
have good reason to believe they are impervious to outside pressure.
I visited the cemetery of the martyrs late last month, during a trip
to Iran to lecture on human rights, mostly to reform-minded students
and intellectuals. My arrival fell between rounds of the country's
presidential election. In the first round of voting, Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad -- the son of an ironworker, a former Revolutionary Guard
during the war with Iraq and, briefly, the appointed mayor of Tehran
-- had come from nowhere to win about 20 percent of the vote. The
former Iranian president Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, the supposedly
reformist candidate, was struggling to hold off Ahmadinejad's
challenge in the second round. Ahmadinejad is an authoritarian
populist with a base of support among the poor in the shantytowns and
warrens of south Tehran. Unlike Rafsanjani, he is not a mullah, and
he served in the war. This gave him access to the war veterans and
the Basiji, the paramilitary popular militias created during the war,
and he was using them to get out the vote in the poorest
neighborhoods of south Tehran. He promised the poor justice, but most
of all he promised the veterans rewards for their sacrifice.
Immediately labeled a hard-liner by most American commentators,
Ahmadinejad sent out more populist, inclusive signals at home,
leading some Iranians to worry that quick American condemnations of
him as a reactionary might only provoke him into becoming one.
At the beginning of the week that I arrived, there were few
Ahmadinejad posters around Tehran for the presidential runoff. Thanks
to the veterans, by the eve of the final vote, banners and posters
were displayed everywhere. At night, cars would grind to a halt while
Ahmadinejad supporters, with his picture plastered on their
foreheads, danced around the traffic circles. In the end, Ahmadinejad
easily defeated Rafsanjani in the runoff election, winning with about
60 percent of the vote. It was a victory so unexpected that some were
already calling it the second Iranian revolution.
[II]
Ahmadinejad had capitalized not only on his war service but also on
gathering disillusion with the failure of the reformers -- nominally
in power since the election of President Mohammad Khatami in 1997 --
to address popular grievances relating to jobs, housing, transport
and, above all, the growing class divide. In leafy north Tehran,
reformers were talking about human rights and democracy, while in
dusty south Tehran, the poor were struggling to hold onto jobs in an
economy in which unemployment was officially 15 percent and probably
twice that. For the reformers, the victory brought home how out of
touch with ordinary Iranians many of them had become.
''That was our chief mistake,'' Amir Hossein Barmaki, a middle-class
Tehrani who now works for the United Nations in the city, told me.
''The reformers -- Khatami and Rafsanjani -- came to power after the
war and they did nothing for the veterans. These boys from the poor
districts came home, having saved the country, and we did nothing for
them. There were some who are dying of Saddam's poison gas attacks
who didn't even get a pension.''
''No,'' he went on. ''There was worse. None of us actually went to
the war. All the middle class went abroad or stayed in university. We
sent the poor instead. We could even buy our way out of military
service. It is our shame.''
On the nights after Ahmadinejad's victory, the atmosphere among many
of the liberal Iranians I talked with was reminiscent of another
group of intellectuals: the Russian thinkers of the 1860's,
Western-educated men and women who had to discover, painfully, just
how out of touch their reformist ideas were with the poor and
burdened of their own society. Barmaki told me mournfully, ''We
reformers have lost five years.''
The political task ahead for the liberal thinkers of Iran is to find
a program that links human rights and democracy to the poor's
economic grievances.
[III]
I had been invited to lecture on human rights and democracy, but
Ahmadinejad's unexpected victory changed the agenda of my talks.
Suddenly the question was no longer, What do democracy and human
rights mean in an Islamic society? but, Can democracy and human
rights make any headway at all in a society deeply divided between
rich and poor, included and excluded, educated and uneducated? The
reformers had promoted human rights and democracy as a panacea for
Iran's poor, and what had been the result? The slums of Tehran voted
for a man who advocated stricter discipline for women, tougher
theocratic rule and state control of the economy.
I was invited not by the mullah-dominated universities but by the
Cultural Research Bureau, an independent center in Tehran that
publishes books and runs its own gift shop, gallery and lecture hall.
My Iranian host, Ramin Jahanbegloo, works in a tiny shared office at
the bureau, inviting foreign guests and building up a small circle of
free-minded students whom he lectures on European thought. He and I
had never met, but he has published a book of conversations he had as
a student with Isaiah Berlin, the Oxford philosopher of liberalism,
and I have written a biography of Berlin. We are Berliners.
Berlin himself visited Tehran in the late 1970's, during the dying
years of the shah's regime. He gave a lecture -- ''On the Rise of
Cultural Pluralism'' -- in front of the empress, who, as Berlin later
recounted, fidgeted irritably and then made a sign to a courtier to
get Berlin to cut it short. In midlecture, Berlin sat down, he told a
friend, ''as if stung by several wasps.'' All in all it was not a
happy visit. The shah's Iran, he decided, was the last czarist regime
on earth. Propped up by the Americans and kept in power by a hated
secret police, the shah launched a White Revolution in the 1960's, a
grandiose modernization program that alienated mullahs, merchants and
students alike. Eventually, street demonstrations forced him to
abdicate, and he fled into exile in 1979. After that came the Shiite
revolution, led by Ayatollah Khomeini. Since then, hundreds of
thousands of Iranians have gone into exile, and the liberal
intelligentsia that remains is both cut off from the mass of the
Iranian population and isolated from the Western universities from
which it draws its inspiration.
Jahanbegloo says he thinks of himself as a bridge between Iran and
those universities. He invites a steady stream of philosophers like
Richard Rorty from Stanford and Agnes Heller from the New School in
New York to give talks to students. He sees some signs that their
ideas are finding a toehold in Tehran. Three decades ago, the
intellectuels du jour were Michel Foucault and fellow radical
theorists. They arrived in Tehran proclaiming their solidarity with a
revolution that actively despised them while persecuting its own
freethinkers. Now the pendulum in Tehran has swung toward pragmatic
liberals like Berlin.
Upon arrival, I was immediately plunged into the kinds of discussions
about democracy and freedom that took place in Prague, Warsaw and
Budapest in the 1980's. On my first day, young journalists at a
reform-minded newspaper called Shargh quizzed me about the difference
between ''maximal'' and ''minimal'' democracy. Maximal democracy
means elections plus rule of law, bills of rights and checks and
balances. That is decades away in Iran. Minimal democracy is what
they already have: guided rule by the mullahs that may deliver the
country straight to tyranny under Ahmadinejad.
It became apparent that what I should have been teaching during my
visit was the history of the Protestant Reformation. It's not just
that Islam badly needs a Reformation. It's also that Iranians need to
know how the Reformation and the bloody religious wars that followed
it taught the West to put God in his place. Democracy arises, I told
the students, not just to enthrone the people but also to separate
religion and politics, establishing rules of tolerance that allow all
religions to enjoy freedom and creating a political system in which
religious and secular arguments compete on equal ground.
Many young Iranians I talked to were so hostile to clerical rule that
I found myself cautioning them against going too far in the other
direction. Many seemed in favor of a secular republicanism in which
religion was excluded from politics altogether, as it was in Turkey
during the rule of that country's modernizing dictator, Mustafa Kemal
Ataturk. As Isaiah Berlin warned, however, if you bend the twig too
far, it will snap back in your face. In Turkey, the reaction against
the extremes of Ataturk's secularism has brought an Islamic
government, though admittedly a moderate one, to power. Secularism, I
argued, doesn't mean crushing religion, it just means creating a
neutral space in which arguments between religious and secular people
are settled by evidence, not dogma.
''Like in the United States?'' a bright female student asked me with
a coy smile. In the United States, I said, God is never out of the
public sphere. The furor over the end of Terri Schiavo's life and the
Bush administration's restrictions on federal financing for stem cell
research, among other things, make that obvious. From their vantage
point inside a theocracy, young Iranians long for ''a wall of
separation'' between religion and government, as Thomas Jefferson
called it, and they told me they found it puzzling, even
disappointing, that religion and politics are not actually separate
in the United States. I tried to explain that keeping God in his
place in a democracy is work that never ends.
Democracy in Iran also means working free of what one student called
''the culture of dictatorship,'' a floating web of patriarchal
controls over private life. All of the young people I talked to were
under 30, invariably were living at home till marriage and were
chafing under restrictions on their personal lives. For young women,
living free means the right to choose whom you marry and how much
hair to display around your hijab; it means leaving to get an M.B.A.
in Australia and then coming back and running a business. For one
young man, struggling to find how he might buy his way out of
compulsory military service, it means the freedom, he confessed in a
whisper, to be gay. Homosexuality is a crime in Iran, and seemingly
the only time when conversations do become furtive, with anxious
looks over shoulders, is when homosexuality is the topic.
The hostility toward homosexuality is not just a reflex of a deeply
traditional family culture. The Shiite regime has waged a 26-year war
on pleasures both homosexual and heterosexual. In Persian culture,
however, the taste for pleasure runs deep. Just think of the
music-making, dancing and the costumed beauty of the men and women in
classical Persian miniatures. During the revolution, many of these
Persian treasures were hacked off the walls of mosques and palaces by
Shiite zealots.
Thankfully, Persian pleasure remains stubbornly alive. When I flew
south from Tehran to Isfahan, the astounding capital of the Safavid
shahs of the 17th century, I spent one night wandering along the
exquisitely lighted vaulted bridges, watching men, not necessarily
gay, stroll hand in hand, singing to each other and dancing beneath
the arches, while families picnicked on the grass by the banks of the
river and men and women passed a water pipe around. Though it cannot
be much comfort to those who have to live, here and now, under public
and private tyrannies, I came away from a night in Isfahan believing
that Persian pleasure, in the long run, would outlast Shiite
puritanism.
[IV]
Like all revolutionary regimes, the Iranian state seems to have
reproduced the ugliness of the regime it overthrew. The shah had a
secret police -- Savak -- and the mullahs have one, too. One day in
Tehran, on a street corner, I passed a small student demonstration
linked to the elections and watched as a sweaty secret-police
officer, with a gun in his waistband, tried to muscle a demonstrator
away into a car. Other demonstrators started punching the officer,
and he had to call for reinforcements. While he did so, the seized
student wriggled free and disappeared into the crowd.
In a more genuinely fearful police state, he would have gone quietly.
On the other hand, when this regime wants to crush the opposition, it
does so with unflinching ruthlessness. Some religious minorities --
like the Armenian Christians -- are not persecuted, but others, like
the Bahais -- a schismatic sect of Islam -- have been barred from the
universities, and their leaders have been arrested, tortured and, in
some cases, killed. Iranian human rights lawyers told me that they
defend as many political prisoners as they can, but there are
hundreds more held incommunicado. Some go into the prisons and never
emerge alive. In June 2003, Zahra Kazemi, an Iranian holding a
Canadian passport, was taking photographs outside the notorious Evin
prison in Tehran when she was arrested and dragged inside. Three
weeks later, the authorities announced that she had died under
interrogation, and soon after that, evidence came out indicating that
she had been tortured and raped. The Canadian government is demanding
that those responsible be punished or dismissed, but a case in an
Iranian court seems to be going nowhere.
Shirin Ebadi, the lawyer handling the Kazemi case and the regime's
most visible opponent, is a heroic figure, a physically tiny dynamo,
bursting with scorn for the regime and quick to shed her hijab in
private houses as a sign of her independence. She walks a careful
line, distancing herself from the Bush administration's criticism of
the presidential elections, but remaining equally dismissive of the
regime's claims that its guided democracy remains a democracy
nonetheless. Having done time for political offenses herself, she
knows the insides of the prisons where her clients now languish. The
outgoing president, the supposed reformer Khatami, notably failed to
lend Ebadi political cover and support when she came back from Oslo
with the Nobel Peace Prize, the first ever Nobel given to an Iranian.
When I asked her whether the prize and the recognition it brought
protect her, she replied with a quizzical arch of an eyebrow: ''No,
the Nobel does not protect me at all.''
[V]
At Shahid Beheshti University, I gave a seminar on human rights to a
class composed mostly of young women in full-length black robes and
head coverings. When I went up to shake their hands before the
session started, they pulled their hands away. Such contact between
the sexes is frowned upon. But in class, they were anything but
docile. In often fluent English, they asked what I thought about
Islamic Shariah law and its punishments, which can include stoning
women to death for adultery. The challenge, I argued, is not
understanding why these are wrong but prevailing politically against
the religious authorities who believe that their own power depends on
enforcing these penalties. The students replied that they needed help
from Western intellectuals like me to get rid of Islamic punishments.
I replied that while outside pressure can help, Western human rights
advocacy can often have counterproductive results. In Nigeria, for
example, an international letter-writing campaign organized by human
rights advocates did not persuade an Islamic governor in northern
Nigeria to halt the flogging of a teenage girl for having sex (she
says she was raped) -- and the campaign might even have persuaded him
to proceed, if reports are to be believed. On the other hand, a group
of female Islamic lawyers worked within the Shariah system to defend
another Nigerian woman who had been sentenced to stoning for
adultery, securing her acquittal on a technicality (which drew
criticism from some Western human rights advocates).
The women in the class were not happy with my suggestion that they
should reform Shariah from within. ''There should be one law for
everybody, not two systems, one of Islamic law and the other of
secular law,'' one student argued. I agree, I said, but it's not
obvious how you are going to get there in Iran. The students found
this too defeatist. ''We are very glad that you come to our class,
professor,'' one said to me, ''but you are too nice to the Shariah
law. It must be abolished. It cannot be changed.''
One professor observing these exchanges was a middle-aged man in the
light brown robes and white turban that designate a religious
scholar. Having listened carefully, with his long legs stretched out
beneath the desk, he asked me -- in fluent English -- why I thought
human rights were universal. I gave the answer I use in my class at
Harvard -- that if I were to go up to him, right now, and smack him
across the face, anywhere in the world the act would count as an
injustice and an insult. Human rights law codifies our agreement
about stopping these intuitively obvious injustices.
But why, he pressed further, would an injustice against him also be
perceived by me as an injustice? Because, I replied, human beings are
not closed compartments. We can imagine what it would be like to be
at the receiving end of the very blows we strike.
''You are an intuitionist,'' he said with a smile. I countered that
the human capacity to understand the pain of others is a fact, not an
intuition. ''But you need something stronger than this,'' he said. We
continued for a while, agreeably disagreeing, but as he gathered up
his papers to depart, he was smiling like someone who thought he had
just won an argument. As far as he was concerned, beneath his belief
in human rights lies the bedrock of the Koran, while beneath mine
lies nothing but hopeful instincts.
[VI]
One day, I paid a call on Saeed Semnanian, the chancellor of one of
Tehran's most conservative universities. We sat in his spartan
office, while female engineering students walked to and fro in the
gardens outside his window. I began with compliments about the
achievements of the revolution. Female literacy has risen to 70
percent (though male literacy is still higher, at 84 percent), while
income per head has doubled since the end of the war with Iraq. But,
I went on, everyone I talked to in Tehran told me the revolution has
congealed into a corrupt, repressive system of privileges that
exploits Islamic orthodoxy to remain in power.
''Whom do you talk to?'' he asked me with a level stare.
''Intellectuals, writers, journalists.''
''You are trying to take the temperature of the revolution, but all
your thermometers are wrong,'' he responded.
All this complaining, he implied, is what you would expect from
discontented liberals. The achievement that matters, he said, is that
Iran is independent. In the presidential elections, all the
candidates were pure Iranian. In the shah's time, nothing was pure
Iranian. Everything was decided in the American or the British
Embassy.
He seemed faintly amused by my failure to understand his country. For
him, the history of Iran is the history of attempts to subvert its
independence. As far as he is concerned, it might be yesterday, and
not in 1953, that Kermit Roosevelt and the C.I.A. organized the coup
that overthrew Mohammed Mossadegh, the prime minister who
nationalized the Iranian oil fields. The seizure of the American
Embassy and the hostage drama were, as Semnanian saw it, an
exquisitely drawn out revenge for the C.I.A.-inspired coup, just as
the regime's current drive for nuclear weapons is a search for an
ultimate guarantee of its freedom from foreign interference.
Iranian democrats contend that if Iran were a democracy, its nuclear
weapons would not threaten anyone. What makes Iranian weapons
dangerous, they argue, is that the regime is a theocracy with
connections to Hamas and Hezbollah. A democratic Iran that broke with
terrorism would be easier to live with, even if it possessed a
nuclear bomb. As Shirin Ebadi told me, ''Who cares about France's
force de frappe?''
American neoconservatives also tend to argue that democracy will make
Iran peaceful and pro-American. This might be wishful thinking. Fear
of encirclement by the United States means that the regime's drive
for weapons has widespread popular support. If a genuine Iranian
democracy were as nationalistic as most new democracies usually are,
a democratic Iran might well remain a bellicose opponent of the
United States and Israel.
In any event, America has almost no capacity to promote democracy
inside Iran, and some capacity to do harm to Iranian democrats. Every
Iranian I met wanted to spend time in the United States -- and wished
there were more scholarships to take them to America -- but nearly
every one of them laughed when I mentioned the recent Congressional
appropriation of $3 million to support democratic opposition groups
inside and outside the country. Iranian democrats look on American
good intentions with incredulity. It would be fatal for any of them
to accept American dollars. ''Do they want to get us all arrested as
spies?'' one said to me.
Hence the paradox: the Middle Eastern Muslim society with the most
pro-American democrats will strenuously resist any American attempt
to promote democracy inside it. It is easy to understand why. ''We
fought for our independence,'' Semnanian told me. ''You think when
our people fought to drive out the invaders from Iraq for seven
years, we were fighting only Saddam? We were fighting the U.S.A.,
Britain, the whole world. We saved our country. And now we are
free.''
[VII]
The night before I left Tehran, I had a private conversation about
Ahmadinejad's political program with one of the new president's
advisers, A. Asgarkhani, a genial, long-haired professor in his 60's.
When Asgarkhani, who holds a Western doctorate, first began
predicting victory for his candidate a month ago, nobody believed
him. Even a week before the runoff, nobody took him seriously. Now it
had happened.
The good thing about Ahmadinejad's victory, Asgarkhani said, is that
it will end the paralysis of the regime, the division between the
reformers and the religious guardians who control the political
system. All power will finally be in one set of hands. So the
president can do something.
But won't that be bad for human rights? I asked.
Maybe at first, he replied, but then Ahmadinejad will bring human
rights and democracy -- here he gestured with his hands -- ''from the
top down.''
And how is Ahmadinejad going to change the economy? ''If he listens
to me,'' Asgarkhani said, ''he is going to go with
'techno-nationalism.' ''
Techno-nationalism, import substitution, new growth theory -- all the
catch phrases of Western development economics tumbled out of
Asgarkhani's mouth, but they still sounded like the Islamic Marxism
that has passed for economic theory in Iran since the revolution:
don't depend on foreigners; keep the economy in state hands,
otherwise foreign capitalists will get control of it; restrain the
financial sector, because a free financial sector will cause the
economy to melt down.
With oil at about $60 a barrel as I write, there is little likelihood
that the regime will be forced to open up and reform the economy. But
unless it does, there won't be much democracy or progress for the
poor. One human rights truth, universally acknowledged, is that oil
is an obstacle to democracy in every developing society. When a
government can get what it needs out of oil derricks and ceases to
derive its revenue from taxes, it loses any incentive to respond to
the people. Theocracy in Iran is built on oil and will endure as long
as the oil price holds up.
One young female Iranian economics major had told me wearily that she
wondered why she bothered to study macroeconomics at all, since, in
Iran, all economic decisions are made politically. The incoming
president has promised the desperately poor the better life the
revolution was supposed to deliver. What happens if all that the poor
get are programs and policies like Asgarkhani's voodoo economics?
Then all that will be left is the iron fist.
When I said this to another young Iranian woman and told her that
when Ahmadinejad fails the poor, the only recourse left will be
further repression, she said, determinedly: ''No, he cannot turn back
the clock. He cannot send us backward.'' I hoped she was right, but I
noticed that she made a small involuntary gesture. She pulled her
hijab down and covered her hair entirely. For the first time, she
looked uncertain and concerned.
URL: http://www.nytimes.com
GRAPHIC: Photos: Young Iranian men pass the time outside a mall in
Tehran. There is much speculation that under President-elect Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad, a conservative former mayor of Tehran, recent freedoms
will be curtailed.
Shirin Ebadi, a human rights lawyer, says her 2003 Nobel Peace Prize
does not make her feel safe in Iran.
Young Iranian women find creative ways to adhere to hijab laws.
(Photographs by Lynsey Addario/Corbis, for The New York Times)