Visiting the Villages of Qom
Qom is a province as well as a city. Set in Iran’s central plateau, the province of Qom boasts more than 250 villages within four counties and an elevation that rises to 3000 meters (9000+ feet). On Monday our friend English Mohammad called. “You have been wanting to see more villages, haven’t you?” he queried. “Let’s go today.” Off we went -- he, friend Mahmoud and Driver Mohammad (who has a superb grasp of Iranian history).
The air was brown with dust as we headed south to the village of Kahak. The earth was set in tones of basic beige as we rode past large hen houses and and small factories. Up ahead the road was being crossed by goats and sheep. An older man was in their midst on a tired looking donkey. No dogs were in evidence to help out. “My father taught me how to herd,” said the man humbly. “Now I have had hard struggles in my life and must do this work again. Please excuse me. If I don’t watch the animals they will be run over.” He placed his hand over his heart in a respectful good-bye and retreated on his donkey.
Seven hours, 200 kilometers and twelve villages later, my heart was full of images of traditional Iran. Imamzadehs are the defining feature in Qom province, at the heart of spiritual practice for the Shia. Shia Muslims differ from their Sunni brothers and sisters in a couple of major ways. One is their love and respect for their own “twelve infallible imams” (and hence their name “Twelver Shia”). Shia believe that Imams- Muslim leaders- must be members of the family of the Prophet Mohammad, and wise spiritual leaders, able to interpret the Quran and shariat, as well as giving political leadership. The twelve infallible Shia Imams (beginning with Ali, the Prophet Mohammad's son-in-law) are considered “infallible”, without error or sin. Hundreds of the Twelve Imans descendents ("the household of the Prophet") are buried in imamzadehs (shrines which serve as sites for pilgrimage and prayers) in Qom Province. The Imams and their family members are experienced as sources of intercession before God and able to give spiritual guidance to both the living and the dead. Very often cemeteries are adjacent to shrines.
We went into three imamzadehs on our ride, the first one in the lovely village of Kahak. “I remember this place,” said Mahmoud, who is the fourth of six brothers. “When I was a child, my mom would come here every week for prayer.” The pyramid shaped dome of the shrine is reminiscent of the Safavid period, with beautiful turquoise tiles. People inside were gently touching the grill work around the burial place and offering up their prayers.
We stopped for lunch at the “Blue Ship Restaurant” which offers takhts (wooden platforms with pillows to recline against) inside and out. We choose outside under a canopy and ordered lunch. Nearby, six businessmen had finished their meal and were passing around a large water pipe with mint scented tobacco wafting out. Our driver went inside to get tea and to order our meals. He pointed to our group and said to the waiter, “we are there, with that woman who is a stranger here.” “Well,” said the young waiter, “actually she is not a stranger. She and her husband have been here several times with a professor friend of theirs.” We ate and chatted and enjoyed the day. One of the businessmen wandered over with a question for me, with English Mohammad and Mahmoud serving as translators. “I know,” he began diplomatically, “that people express themselves differently all around the world. We have been watching your conversation and we notice that you often nod your head up and down vigorously (nodding one’s head up, once, in Iran means “no”, by the way) and gesturing dramatically with your hands. If it is not impolite, we would like you to explain the meaning of this.” “Well,” I said, “when I nod my head I am trying to communicate that I am listening intently and with interest. When I gesture with my hands, I am emphasizing my words. It is not impolite to do this in the west.” “That,” said the man, “is quite interesting. I will tell my friends.” Hand over his heart, he wished us a happy trip.
Off we went again, down the road. We passed a family of four on a motorcycle. Springs of water became more abundant and orchards of fruit trees appeared with small villages clustered nearby. Cherries are grown here, apricots, peaches, hazelnuts and walnuts. Qanats (small canals) run down the roadside, sending precious water to irrigate in the right directions. Another lovely Imamzadeh appeared—this one with little guest rooms where pilgrims and their families can spend the night (for $1.). We kept driving up hill and stopped for tea and coffee at the source of a spring. Our elevation had climbed to 5500+ feet and the air was cool, clean, moist. Spreading out a blanket by the running water, our driver pulled out a thermos so that we cold mix our hot drinks. Walnut trees hung overhead. An old man rode by on a donkey, holding long shovels across the animal’s back. A lark and a goldfinch flew by. Birdsong and running water bubbled around us.
Want to see one more village? Sure! We headed to Bidaqan, the most remote of the day’s villages. The landscape went steadily up, through rocks and boulders. I couldn’t decide if the scenery was more reminiscent of Death Valley or Jordan near the Dead Sea. A young herder sat on a hillside, his chin resting on his knees. To his left stood several dozen black goats, standing shoulder to shoulder like a chorus line, peering at us with their funny horizontal pupils. We got out to chat. “I can’t talk too much right now,” called down the young man. “I have been up working since 4 am (it was now 6:30 pm) and I am dead tired. Also, I smell like my goats right now and besides that I am shy.” The goats made agreeable noises in his direction as he spoke. A big, blond dog to his right looked off toward the horizon, bored with both humans and goats. There was a movement behind us that caught the goatherd’s attention and he leaped to his feet. “Stay right here,” he said, moving quickly away. “One of my dogs could be a danger to you; he is very protective of me.” Fifty yards away a black bear like head peered up, then an enormous mastiff got to his feet. The herder rubbed his back with his staff and spoke soothingly to him. We waved good-bye and drove off.
Imamzadeh Esmail was perhaps the loveliest shrine of all. It sits at the end of a 10 mile valley. The little shrine was likely built in the 1300s, the tiles on its pyramid shaped dome a vibrant turquoise. Inside tiles have imagines of three Mongol horsemen on them. (It was in the 1200s that Ghengis Khan paid Persia a memorable visit). The inner entrance way had beautiful Kufic (pre Arabic) writing. A man (an engineer we met later) was on his knees praying. This little holy place was full of the tranquility of centuries of prayer.
Outside three large dogs were on the hillside, surveying the sunset. I was so glad to see dogs that I went over to talk with them, which worried my companions. One was a black and white sheep dog, one a spotted mutt with close cropped ears, the third a large blond animal. They wagged their tails appreciatively. The village of Bidaqan (which has the highest elevation in Qom province) used to stand around this shrine, before the newer village was moved down the hillside several miles. Part of the old hammam (bath house) still stands. “The other houses,” said the caretaker, “we had to bulldoze. They were falling down and full of snakes.” The tile on the beautiful prayer tower was being renewed. The call to prayer sounded. Darkness fell and foxes began to emerge. The dogs barked with enthusiasm.
We wound our way back toward the big city of Qom, down the long gravel road, through the small village, back to the main road. On the ridge top we could see small clusters of lights in every direction, villages tucked into the hills and stream beds. The stars overhead were starkly clear. A rabbit skittered across the road. All was quiet.
The air was brown with dust as we headed south to the village of Kahak. The earth was set in tones of basic beige as we rode past large hen houses and and small factories. Up ahead the road was being crossed by goats and sheep. An older man was in their midst on a tired looking donkey. No dogs were in evidence to help out. “My father taught me how to herd,” said the man humbly. “Now I have had hard struggles in my life and must do this work again. Please excuse me. If I don’t watch the animals they will be run over.” He placed his hand over his heart in a respectful good-bye and retreated on his donkey.
Seven hours, 200 kilometers and twelve villages later, my heart was full of images of traditional Iran. Imamzadehs are the defining feature in Qom province, at the heart of spiritual practice for the Shia. Shia Muslims differ from their Sunni brothers and sisters in a couple of major ways. One is their love and respect for their own “twelve infallible imams” (and hence their name “Twelver Shia”). Shia believe that Imams- Muslim leaders- must be members of the family of the Prophet Mohammad, and wise spiritual leaders, able to interpret the Quran and shariat, as well as giving political leadership. The twelve infallible Shia Imams (beginning with Ali, the Prophet Mohammad's son-in-law) are considered “infallible”, without error or sin. Hundreds of the Twelve Imans descendents ("the household of the Prophet") are buried in imamzadehs (shrines which serve as sites for pilgrimage and prayers) in Qom Province. The Imams and their family members are experienced as sources of intercession before God and able to give spiritual guidance to both the living and the dead. Very often cemeteries are adjacent to shrines.
We went into three imamzadehs on our ride, the first one in the lovely village of Kahak. “I remember this place,” said Mahmoud, who is the fourth of six brothers. “When I was a child, my mom would come here every week for prayer.” The pyramid shaped dome of the shrine is reminiscent of the Safavid period, with beautiful turquoise tiles. People inside were gently touching the grill work around the burial place and offering up their prayers.
We stopped for lunch at the “Blue Ship Restaurant” which offers takhts (wooden platforms with pillows to recline against) inside and out. We choose outside under a canopy and ordered lunch. Nearby, six businessmen had finished their meal and were passing around a large water pipe with mint scented tobacco wafting out. Our driver went inside to get tea and to order our meals. He pointed to our group and said to the waiter, “we are there, with that woman who is a stranger here.” “Well,” said the young waiter, “actually she is not a stranger. She and her husband have been here several times with a professor friend of theirs.” We ate and chatted and enjoyed the day. One of the businessmen wandered over with a question for me, with English Mohammad and Mahmoud serving as translators. “I know,” he began diplomatically, “that people express themselves differently all around the world. We have been watching your conversation and we notice that you often nod your head up and down vigorously (nodding one’s head up, once, in Iran means “no”, by the way) and gesturing dramatically with your hands. If it is not impolite, we would like you to explain the meaning of this.” “Well,” I said, “when I nod my head I am trying to communicate that I am listening intently and with interest. When I gesture with my hands, I am emphasizing my words. It is not impolite to do this in the west.” “That,” said the man, “is quite interesting. I will tell my friends.” Hand over his heart, he wished us a happy trip.
Off we went again, down the road. We passed a family of four on a motorcycle. Springs of water became more abundant and orchards of fruit trees appeared with small villages clustered nearby. Cherries are grown here, apricots, peaches, hazelnuts and walnuts. Qanats (small canals) run down the roadside, sending precious water to irrigate in the right directions. Another lovely Imamzadeh appeared—this one with little guest rooms where pilgrims and their families can spend the night (for $1.). We kept driving up hill and stopped for tea and coffee at the source of a spring. Our elevation had climbed to 5500+ feet and the air was cool, clean, moist. Spreading out a blanket by the running water, our driver pulled out a thermos so that we cold mix our hot drinks. Walnut trees hung overhead. An old man rode by on a donkey, holding long shovels across the animal’s back. A lark and a goldfinch flew by. Birdsong and running water bubbled around us.
Want to see one more village? Sure! We headed to Bidaqan, the most remote of the day’s villages. The landscape went steadily up, through rocks and boulders. I couldn’t decide if the scenery was more reminiscent of Death Valley or Jordan near the Dead Sea. A young herder sat on a hillside, his chin resting on his knees. To his left stood several dozen black goats, standing shoulder to shoulder like a chorus line, peering at us with their funny horizontal pupils. We got out to chat. “I can’t talk too much right now,” called down the young man. “I have been up working since 4 am (it was now 6:30 pm) and I am dead tired. Also, I smell like my goats right now and besides that I am shy.” The goats made agreeable noises in his direction as he spoke. A big, blond dog to his right looked off toward the horizon, bored with both humans and goats. There was a movement behind us that caught the goatherd’s attention and he leaped to his feet. “Stay right here,” he said, moving quickly away. “One of my dogs could be a danger to you; he is very protective of me.” Fifty yards away a black bear like head peered up, then an enormous mastiff got to his feet. The herder rubbed his back with his staff and spoke soothingly to him. We waved good-bye and drove off.
Imamzadeh Esmail was perhaps the loveliest shrine of all. It sits at the end of a 10 mile valley. The little shrine was likely built in the 1300s, the tiles on its pyramid shaped dome a vibrant turquoise. Inside tiles have imagines of three Mongol horsemen on them. (It was in the 1200s that Ghengis Khan paid Persia a memorable visit). The inner entrance way had beautiful Kufic (pre Arabic) writing. A man (an engineer we met later) was on his knees praying. This little holy place was full of the tranquility of centuries of prayer.
Outside three large dogs were on the hillside, surveying the sunset. I was so glad to see dogs that I went over to talk with them, which worried my companions. One was a black and white sheep dog, one a spotted mutt with close cropped ears, the third a large blond animal. They wagged their tails appreciatively. The village of Bidaqan (which has the highest elevation in Qom province) used to stand around this shrine, before the newer village was moved down the hillside several miles. Part of the old hammam (bath house) still stands. “The other houses,” said the caretaker, “we had to bulldoze. They were falling down and full of snakes.” The tile on the beautiful prayer tower was being renewed. The call to prayer sounded. Darkness fell and foxes began to emerge. The dogs barked with enthusiasm.
We wound our way back toward the big city of Qom, down the long gravel road, through the small village, back to the main road. On the ridge top we could see small clusters of lights in every direction, villages tucked into the hills and stream beds. The stars overhead were starkly clear. A rabbit skittered across the road. All was quiet.
posted by Quakers in Qom at 3:41 AM
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