Tehran, IRAN, July 13, 2009

I first  worked in Iran back in 1974 on a movie project, later teaching in the National Theatre. I didn't leave until the revolution was well under way in November of 1978. I had a unique point of view being one of the very few Americans who worked inside the Shah's government. And during those years I never knew or communicated with any of my countrymen as they were inside their gated, Americanized communities. My friends and co-workers were from all parts of the city, both upper class, diplomats, artists, actors, and ordinary workers and craftsmen, plus all their families. The hospitality of all these Iranians was enormous and heartfelt.

 

There is so much concern and conflict about the current situation of 2009 that I am compelled to write about what I have seen. This is my own personal experience and memory. I hope my friends will not worry about me as much.

 

 I remember, there was a line across the city; an east-west street named Shah-Reza (now named Enghelab). In 1978-9 the population of Tehran was just a little over 3 million. Now it is over 12 million; a great sprawling metropolis, ribboned and banded with expressways, autobahns, and a high-speed, underground metro that expands daily. But the line across the city still divides it into two quasi classes, two distinct philosophies about religion, how to live, how to relate to the outside world. What happened back then is intensely relevant today.        ( I will return to the present  time in my next posting.)

 

 In 1978 the line of Shah-Reza Street  was a very clear, hard division: the North, wealthy, privileged, self-indulgent, beautiful homes, the best apparel from London and Paris, Nightclubs and extravagant western-style restaurants, and parties. Education in the best schools in London and America. And don't forget the 30,000 Americans and their massive embassy.  The city stopped when the black limousines carried the Shah or his Empress through the streets from their grand palaces high on the hill. 

 

Below the line, south of Shah-Reza Street was a different world. Simple homes, millions of hard-working merchants, manufacturers, workers, and the multitude of servants and service personnel who made life so comfortable for the elite above the line.  No one would, or dared, to speak against the King. Women were forbidden to wear their chador at work or in school. Information was totally controlled by state media. The US supported Shah of Iran pushed them too far, demanded too much, and ruled by fear and intimidation with the US-trained Savak as his enforcer. Protests and demonstrations were put down with vicious force and bloody results. The voices of the Islamic clergy called for resistance to the corrupt and decadent influences of America and the West. Too long the Shah had repressed the traditional beliefs and practices of Islam. There was an Imam, exiled in France, whose voice stirred the hopes of millions.

 

And as I learned later, on the other side of the Atlantic, the American intelligence services decided that the Shah had become too independent with the petroleum industry. He wanted more profits for his nation. The opposition would be allowed to continue and to be encouraged.

 

Also in the south of the line, (or in exile) there were long-silent intellectuals, scientists, teachers, and military who began to exert  pressure and influence on events. I remember when one of my project managers finally said, "Shah must go!" In the village where I lived, they were smashing and burning their television sets in the street. A movement had begun that gathered momentum each day.

 

In spite of the extreme crackdown, the demonstrations continued. In some cases, risking their lives, high school girls donned black chadors and marched the boulevards calling for the end to the regime.  Power was cut daily, streets blocked. A curfew was enforced with military tanks at the road blocks. The banks and government buildings were burned, the fancy shops and restaurants were smashed and burned, the foreign hotels were broken and closed. The airline offices were burned. Piece by piece the facade of Western civilization was stripped away.  The hated, US-supported government,  their officials and their families were forced to leave. Finally, the Shah left Iran,  and his royal court and government ceased to exist. The military retired to their barracks.

 

For a while unidentified mobs ruled the streets. I watched them break down the front of the Imperial Hotel and burn the portraits of the King out in the street. Faceless men always started the violent attacks getting others to join, then they would fade away, perhaps to instigate destruction down the street. Those days were very frightening. I stayed out of sight in the city with friends until we could arrange a ticket on one of the last flights out on the last airline to function which was Air France.

 

A huge number of those people living above Shah-Reza Street  quietly fled to Europe and America taking as much of their wealth as they could carry (Their abandoned houses still are untouched). Those who stayed, changed their clothes, perhaps added some religion to their daily life, and pledged loyalty to the new Islamic Republic. This Revolution had epic proportions and was to have long-lasting consequences.

 

On a special flight from Air France, Grand Ayatollah Khomeini arrived into the utter chaos of revolution and began the transformation of a nation.

 

I was facing culture shock arriving back in Manhattan. I had missed more than half of the "70's!" More will be posted soon.

 

[Your comments are welcome]