Chador and Toothpaste with Imam Reza

By Nassim Mobasher

North-eastern Iran, the city of Mashhad, the province of Khorasan which shares a border with Afghanistan, is where I am headed.

A twelve-hour train ride from the capital, and I arrive at Mashhad at 4am. The hotel I stay at is a 20-minute walk from the city’s main attraction: the shrine of the 8th Shia Imam, Imam Reza. This city hosts 20 million international pilgrims visiting the shrine year-round. It’s not hard to spot South Asians, Arabs (a new wave of Iraqis), and Africans walking in the bazaars that surround the shrine.

Many of the shop owners are Afghani refugees. They speak Farsi with an Afghani accent and have a distinguishable humility about them. Iranian locals provide Afghanis with generous handings of the racist treatment--we Iranians are known for our hospitality, all the travel books will tell you so. The government has also been sending Afghani refugees back to their country (‘the democracy that America built’) by the busloads, indifferent to the fact that many have spent decades building their lives here, right next to Imam Reza. One major problem (not the government’s) is the Iranian women who have married Afghani men. These women are no longer considered ‘Iranian’ under the law, and are being deported along with their husbands.

Imam Reza was not of Iranian ethnicity either; he was an Arab, a refugee on Iranian soil. Consistency dictates that the government implement the law to all, apply its racism toward all non-Iranians, and deport Imam Reza as well. But of course, the Imam is dead, as dead as Zahra Kazemi, and the dead get exempt from being deported, be they Afghani, Arab, or Canadian.

Cantaloupe, which is most peculiar in shape and color but tastes like it was picked from Eden is found here in Mashhad. Saffron, a spice that costs about two dollars per gram, is also native to this province. Throughout the bazaars, I come across many beggars: lots of women sitting on sidewalks offer to read my palm for a few coins. A little boy begs me to buy some toothpaste from him. I pickup a red box of toothpaste, which reads “Nassim” in big, white letters. The rest of the writing on the box says I am made of “0.76% Sodium Monofluorophosphate” and I prevent tooth decay and leave one “feeling refreshed, with a nassim-like [translation: breezy] smile.” A valuable discovery: a toothpaste brand that bears the same name as me.

Mashhad’s ‘Russian bazaars’ host a range of international merchants selling their goods. They are usually women, mostly from Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Ukraine and so on. I buy a pair of jeans from one of these ladies who is a Tajik. After handing her the cash, she takes the bills and rubs them all over her other goods, whispering what sounds like a prayer. I ask what she’s doing and her husband explains that she’s blessing her goods with the money so that the rest will also sell. One can appreciate superstition. Sometimes.

This Iranian city is far more diverse than Tehran. Imam Reza’s shrine makes Mashhad a worthwhile stop for Shia Muslims from across the world.
My first attempt to enter the shrine-grounds is a failed mission. “Why no socks!” says the female inspector at the entrance, pointing at my closed-toe sandals. She goes through my purse and takes out a camera. “You can’t take this in, you have to take it to the keepings section, fill out the paper-work and leave it there.” This is because back in '94, someone blew up a bomb inside the shrine and killed nearly a hundred people, so security has been hiked since then.
The inspector does a full body-check on me. “Alright dear, go get yourself a chador and some socks and then we will let you in.” At least she’s polite about it.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? It’s in line with all the Islamic laws of this country, why do I need a chador?” I say in objection. I know, I know. This is not an argument worth having.

“Yes dear, but inside holy places, you need to honor our Imam by covering yourself extra,” says the lady, patiently, because I’m a four-year old who doesn’t yet get the basic principles.

“Yes, but the Imam is dead and buried. How am I honoring him more by wearing something I don’t normally wear around men who are alive? Are you asking me to be a hypocrite?” I repeat: this is not an argument worth having!
“If you are not going to honor the Imam, then you cannot enter!” She says, like the hostess of that really annoying TV show, Goodbye!

Fair enough. Who says my logic is more logical than hers? I must be the orientalist doing the sacrilegious, my faculty of reason unable to appreciate the unreasonable or ‘the sacred.’ So I try again the next day, with socks and a chador. No camera in my purse, and no weapons attached to my body, as she checks for them. I may enter.

The shrine courtyard covers an area of a few hundred meters, covered completely in black and white marble stone. The azure sky makes a magnificent roof, with no bricks providing us a cover from the wrath or mercy of the Heavens. The area is still being expanded with dome-shaped openings that are covered in hand-painted mosaic art beautifying every inch of them. Large fountains appear every few meters, and I count nearly 600 red Persian rugs covering one section and about 350 rugs covering another section.
Symmetry of design: from the one-inch hand-painted mosaic designs to the architecture itself, the symmetry is very apparent. It makes me feel like I’m inside a logical argument. A rationality with no escape.

The chador makes mobility an issue, ‘but we must honor the Imam,’ awkwardly moving around, trapped inside ‘a camping tent.’ [1]
After a bit of walking, I reach near the middle, and prepare to walk into the mausoleum inside. People are making ritual ablution at the fountain outside. The smell of rose water fills the area--the essence has been added to the fountains. Above my head, the dome and minarets are made of pure gold. Inside, I must take off my shoes and give them to the shoe-keepers who give me back a shelf-number as a receipt. Absolute purity must be observed from this point on. A young boy is also giving his shoes to shoe-keeping. I look at his socks, which boast more filth on them than the soles of his shoes. Absolute purity.

I’m walking inside a vast space, with the most beautiful Persian rugs covering its grounds and intricately painted pillars holding-up a ceiling that is fully covered in mirrors. Tiny mirrors cut in diamonds, squares and triangles, all reflecting light, sparkling. Mirrors imposing self-reflection: forcing us to look at ourselves even when we try to look away. I am inside a symmetrical, reflective, logical argument.

The name of this city, Mashhad, is a word that means ‘the place where a martyr has been buried.’ Imam Reza is that martyr, for he was killed by a Caliph of the Abbasid dynasty, Ma’mun.

The Alavi Shias, a minority that posed as a constant opposition to the ruling authority of the Muslim Empire, had ‘Imams’ or spiritual leaders who were each murdered for their politics.

Ma’mun killed his own brother and took up the throne in 813 A.D., settling in Marv, a city north of Mashhad. A major threat to his authority were the Alavi Shias, a group that had been oppressed, tortured and murdered for nearly two centuries. Their uprisings had a great deal of support from the general masses. To strengthen his government and secure his power, Ma’mun sent out an invite to the leader of the opposition: Imam Reza.

Imam Reza was an intellectual, a historian and philosopher, who lived in Medina and accepted the invitation and made the journey from Medina to Marv, in northeastern Iran. Ma’mun planned on giving Reza his place as Caliph of the Muslim Empire and making himself the vice-caliph. If Reza accepted the position, Ma’mun’s authority would gain legitimacy among the Alavi Shias, for their own leader would hold the official title of ‘Caliph.’ But real power would still belong to Ma’mun as the vice-caliph. Ma’mun figured that Reza would not reject the offer for it would make him very unpopular among his following, having rejected a chance to save the oppressed Alavi Shias.

Upon his arrival in the city of Marv, Ma’mun received Reza royally. Ma’mun then announced his selfless and sacrificial intent of dethroning himself and declared that Reza take his place as Caliph. Reza refused and for months, Ma’mun insisted and pressured him into accepting the position of successor.

Reza’s rejection of such offers and overall refusal to accept political office not only brought into question the legitimacy of the Caliph system, it also made clear his position about the roles of religious scholars and intellectuals, or ‘the powerless wielders of power’ as the contemporary Dr. Abdolkarim Soroush refers to them. Challenging a system, modifying and changing it can only be done from the bottom up. Holding political office entails that we legitimize and justify our own authority and consequently, justify the system. Of course, Soroush’s views on Islamic secularism have forced this political philosopher into exile, banned from teaching classes within Iran. Who knows what the Islamic Republic would have done to Imam Reza if he were alive today.

Twelve hundred years ago, Ma’mun finally gave up trying to manipulate his way into legitimized authority and murdered Imam Reza by forcing him to eat poisoned grapes. Once Reza died, his corpse was brought from Marv to Mashhad and he was buried right here. His many followers attended his funeral. Oppressors and fascists take note: killing the leader of the opposition does not annihilate the opposition itself.

Back on the shrine grounds, those who staff this shrine hold a rainbow-colored dusting feather, and use it to point instructions with. A man, holding his rainbow, looks at all the women very carefully and occasionally stops one of them and instructs that she push back all her hair strands into the chador. They have put a man in charge of ensuring wisps of our sexuality do not express themselves!

I’m stepping down some marble stairs and nearing a crowded area where the actual shrine is. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving and the smell of sweaty perfume, and I can see the shrine-box that is made of gold and stands in the spot where the Imam is buried.

I am no longer walking; the crowd is carrying me. My chador has fallen and corners of it have gotten stuck somewhere (oh the dishonor!). The goal of this shoving match is to try and get to the zari or the shrine-box, and touch it, and then make a wish.

Big in Iranian culture is the concept of getting things done through Connections. We use Connections to get employment, and use Connections to get a bank-loan. Connections can talk to your professors to boost up your grades, and Connections can find you your future spouse. Stuck in bureaucracy? Connections will get you out in no time! Connections are people who know people who are relatives of people who know people who are neighbours of people who know people that are really, really important. It’s no wonder that ‘connections’ have also managed to find their way into Iranian religious culture. A pilgrimage to Imam Reza’s shrine is like networking with God, making good with those people He liked best. Coming all the way here to Mashhad, shoving our way past other pilgrims so that we can get to touch the shrine-box and then asking Imam Reza’s sprit to ask God to direct a bit of His mercy our way. Because no one will ever pay attention to our needs, we need Connections to talk to the Important People.

Alright, so I am the orientalist, trying to reason my way through ‘the sacred’ or what looks like insanity to me. Mr. Counterargument pops up on my shoulder and makes a case for the pilgrims, who are here for the love and respect of Imam Reza. It’s hard to breathe, and a little girl in the crowd is getting trampled. I’m somehow not feelin’ the love and respect that has swelled the hearts of these pilgrims.

But in fairness, the socially conscious are present as well, and not everyone is shoving. Some pilgrims donate money to the poor by slipping it through the square openings of the shrine-box. Thousands and thousands of bills are collected weekly which all go to the Rezavi Foundation. This Foundation pays for the never-ending expansion of the opulent shrine grounds. The Rezavi Foundation also has factories that ‘employ the needy’ and produce anything from fruitcakes to tomato paste. I suppose the hundreds of handicapped beggars, children selling oral-care products, and palm-readers I came across in the bazaars don’t qualify as ‘needy.’ ‘It is money well spent,’ says Mr. Counterargument, so we agree to disagree and smile diplomatically.

Perhaps I’m not sure which arguments are worth having anymore. I’m not sure what this argument is, the one that I am inside of: reflective, symmetrical, with no escape. After all, I’m toothpaste here, the breezy kind. Without a chador, I am the embodiment of dishonor. And if I get married to a non-Iranian, I cease to possess my Iranian ethnicity, and this government can deport me. But if I get killed while trying to take a photograph, I am no longer a Canadian. And I can be buried here.

Buried here.

[1] In Farsi, the word ‘chador’ is both in reference to the’ black veil’ as well as a ‘camping tent.’

Nassim Mobasher is a Canadian political science student. She recently returned after spending a year in Iran.