Mustafa El-Labbad contemplates the lifestyle of a father and son in Tehran I make my way through the saffron-scented back alleys of Tehran's bazaar. I had arranged to spend the day with a carpet merchant, Faridon, and his son, Hussein. Faridon is sitting at an ancient desk, partially hidden from view by stacks of luxury carpets. On the wall behind him is a picture of Imam Ali (the Prophet Mohamed's cousin and son-in-law, and the most revered figure for Shias) as imagined by an Iranian artist. Superb tapestries adorn the other walls. A European family is admiring two carpets made in the Iranian city of Kashan. Hussein, 22, is tending to them in fluent English. Tea arrives in small cups, with sugar lumps on the side. You place the sugar lump in your mouth and then start sipping the tea, I have been told. Faridon is talking about presidential elections and their significance for Iran, but he casts the occasional glance at his son to make sure things are alright. Faridon is just over 50. He wears a dark suit, no necktie, with a carefully trimmed beard. At one point, the Europeans arrive at his desk to conclude the purchase. Faridon communicates with them in English laced with Persian. On a hand calculator, he converts the payment into dollars and inspects the dollar bills carefully before accepting them. As soon as the customers leave, Hussein joins us for tea. "I noticed that you've been talking about tomorrow's elections," Hussein says. "I was in a mind not to vote, but I decided to give it a shot and vote for Mustafa Moin (the reformist candidate). Khatami has let us down and failed to deliver on his promises. Moin, after all, is better than the conservatives." Faridon disagrees with his son. "What have the reformists done but talk and confuse the people? I'll vote for Hashemi Rafsanjani," the pragmatic conservative, "for he is one of the imam's men and one of the historic leaders of the revolution. He knows about state affairs more than the rest of the candidates." A look of annoyance comes over Hussein's face. He excuses himself and leaves, perhaps for a smoke near the shop. In Iran, it is considered rude to smoke in front of one's father. A home-made lunch is delivered in cylindrical tubes with four compartments each. We retire to an adjoining dining room in the back. A shop assistant lays the table with an embroidered table cloth and sets down the plates. We're going to have saffron rice with pistachio, wild berries, and chicken. A traditional drink is served with the meal: milk mixed with mint and carbonated water. Hussein, has long hair and a goatee and is in jeans and a designer shirt. In his left hand is a mobile phone equipped with a camera. He's never without it. Following the sunset prayer, Faridon takes me to a Zurkhana, which is the Iranian version of a gym. There, you can work out with weights to the sound of tambourines, and shirtless. Faridon comes out of the changing rooms and goes down a few steps into a pit at the middle of the establishment's main hall. Around the hall are pictures of Imam Ali in a green bandana. As soon as Faridon is in the pit, a man shouts a greeting to Imam Ali and everyone stands up. Faridon takes hold of a thick metal chain holding several heavy metal balls and the exercise begins. Faridon swings the chain in the air, keeping beat with the tambourines and a man singing to the glory of Imam Ali. "O, Father of Hassan. O, Lion of God." Zurkhana is the pre-Islamic version of an Iranian gym and has survived unchanged except for the introduction of Shia symbolism. It is just under 500 years ago that Persia adopted the Shia doctrine as its official creed. Now it is almost a brand of Persian patriotism. It takes ten minutes or so for the workout session to conclude. The music stops and Faridon puts down the chain. The singer starts again, this time with poems by Iranian poet Al-Shirazi. The songs are about life and death, love and the agony of separation. The rhythm gets gradually faster. The Zurkhana attendants hand thick metal sticks to the customers. The singer cries out, "O, Hussein," in memory of the third Shia imam, who perished in battle in Karbala 1,400 years ago. The sadness of this memory brings tears to the eyes of Shia to this day. The customers go into another routine. They shake the sticks in their right hand in a jabbing movement, while beating on their bare chests with the left hand. The rhythm accelerates as the men warm up and then fades out as the session draws to an end. The singer starts again, this time with poetry by Omar Khayyam. The men rest. More sessions take place, with different shapes of weights, and different music. At night, it is Hussein's turn to show me around. I meet him in northern Tehran, in a prosperous neighbourhood. He is driving a French-made automobile and listening to a tape by Fattana, a US-based Iranian singer. Her songs sound more Western than Iranian. This particular brand of singing is officially banned in Iran, but the government has not been enforcing the ban since reformist Khatami was elected. We're now in Khayaban Ghandi, a verdant district with fancy homes and many embassies. Fersheta, Hussein's girlfriend is meeting us. Her mandatory headscarf covers as little as possible of her hair and she's dressed in jeans and a mid-length coat. We're going to a party at the flat of one of Hussein's friends. No partying outside, for all public places in Iran close by midnight. We park at the garage of a high rise building and take the lift to the 11th floor. The door opens and it is practically a disco inside, a place that could have been in Berlin, Cairo, or Beirut. There are no headscarves here, and not many taboos. After the party, Hussein drives me to my hotel in central Iran. I cannot help but think of the contrast between the free lifestyle behind closed doors and the dire public façade of Iran. On the buildings downtown are murals, several floors high, glorifying the martyrs of the revolution. One painting is of a red tulip, the symbol for martyrdom in revolutionary Iran.
